✨Women✨

Step.

Step.

Step.

Don’t stop. Keep moving.

Blood drips from the arm that dangles uselessly at Eivor’s side, leaving a trail of gleaming crimson droplets behind her. It doesn’t matter. There are none left living to follow her. Her sword arm is unharmed, but she can feel her head beginning to swim.

Breathe, she reminds herself, don’t stop. Don’t fall.

She imagines your face, your hands, your voice in her ear, urging her on.

One leg drags slightly behind her, a long gash in her outer thigh slowing her movement. The man who had made the wound was dead, an axe driven into his forehead the moment after he’d done it.

Another step.

Another.

Another.

Don’t fall.

Don’t fail her.

The path begins to look more familiar- Ravensthorpe is close. You are close.

Gods, her bones ache. She could drop here, lie down in the moss and just let go. It would be easy. It would be peaceful.

She digs her nails into her palms, her bloodied knuckles splitting again painfully. She won’t fall. She won’t leave you alone, wondering what had happened to her.

Don’t. Stop.

Keep. Moving.

Get. Back. To. Her.

Step.

Step.

Step.

She passes the edge of the settlement, dragging herself to the longhouse like some curséd revenant.

She sees you, at last, running from the longhouse, and her knees hit the dirt. Your scream sounds like home.

When you reach her, she slumps into your arms, smearing gore down your dress. You shout frantically for help as she reaches up to touch your face, her fingers rough against your cheek, and sticky with blood.

She slips into unconsciousness, unable to hold on any longer.

But she’s home.

Being the wife of Eivor Varinsdottir included a lot of things.

It included being constantly showered in gifts from her raids, weaving intricate plaits into her straw blonde hair each morning, gladly indulging in her offers to join her when she bathes, and longing for her in a cold bed when she was off making alliances.

One of the best parts of your duty, though, were partaking in the feasts.

Being one of the (if not the) best drengr's in the Raven Clan, right hand to Sigurd, meant that your wife was expected to make merry at every celebration. You were included in this in association.

And making merry you were.

Usually, Eivor was the one being wrangled into drinking contests, dousing her horn in mead, and mumbling compliments into your ear as you guided her inebriated form to bed in the wee hours of morning.

However, during tonight's Yule feast, Eivor was in busy discussions with Randvi and Sigurd. She had been dealing with business in Snotinghamscire for the past month, something about choosing a new jarl for their clan. She'd wanted more opinions before making her decision (and she had been eager to return home to you).

Thus, you assumed her place in the festivities tonight.

The hall was alight with raucous laughter and the mouthwatering scent of savory meats and stews that had taken all day to broil. The braziers and hearths cast the wooden longhouse in warm flickering oranges and yellows. It made the shadows dance across smiling faces and the tapestries that adorned the walls.

Then, there was you.

Giggling at something Gunnar said from across the table. You were half-slumped onto the table, your cup of wine in your loosely curled fingers. Whoever had made the delicious concoction certainly knew what they were doing. It warmed your belly; tasting of delicious fruits and spices that complimented the earthy tone beneath.

Your face was warm and smile bright, eyes glassy from drink. Making your friendly rounds with everyone in the clan was certainly easier when the mead loosened your shoulders and tongue.

You'd danced with many a vikingr, laughed at terrible jokes, and even attempted to make Dag smile. Gunnar had saved you from falling on your face. Now, he was talking your ear off about his recent marriage.

One of his quips made you snort into your wine as you let the ambrosial drink slip down your throat.

"Someone's having a good time it seems." The voice comes from behind you, gravelly but carrying a fondness you were all too used to.

You set your cup down too quickly, almost knocking it over (Gunnar saves it from total disaster). Nearly falling off the bench, you scramble up to launch yourself into Eivor's arms.

"Eivor!" You nearly shout with glee.

Her arms are around your waist instantly, to hold you up and pull you closer. You bury your face into the fur cloak about her shoulders. It smells of campfire, snow, and the woodsy scent that always seemed to cling to your wife's skin.

You can feel more than hear her huff of amusement. A kiss is pressed into your hair.

"Having fun without me, hm?" She muses.

"You took too long." The pout is audible in your voice.

She hums. A callused palm rubs over the dip of your spine soothingly.

"Trust me, I would rather be out here with you than stuck in that stuffy room with Sigurd."

Her teasing makes you laugh.

"She did a fine job at making up for your absence, wolf-kissed!" Gunnar calls, tipsy himself. "Almost drained the entire cask of wine, she did!"

You pay little head to his words. You're too busy feeling up Eivor's toned back through her tunic under her cloak.

"Is that so?" Eivor muses.

A warm hand gently tips your chin up. Blue eyes, pale like ice, quickly scan your features. Her hair is a tad mussed from being stuck in her intricate braid all day, little blonde wisps tucked behind her ears. Her scar pulls at one of her pink lips as she smirks. You want to kiss it.

You're so distracted by the urge that you don't notice the reason for her smile.

Gods, are you a sight.

Eyes glassy with dilated pupils, leaning all your weight onto your drengr, face warm and expression so open and earnest that your thoughts can clearly be read on your face. That only happens when you're well and truly drunk; something Eivor has only seen a few times before.

"I think…" A thumb brushes across your cheek bone. "It's time for us to get to bed."

A pout immediately overtakes your plush lips.

"But it's only just started-"

"Dawn is peaking over the horizon, beloved."

You cast your eyes about.

Surely enough, pink-fingered dawn is stretching her arms across the fresh snowfall outside the longhouse windows. Many party goers are slumped over tables or asleep on the floor. It looks like you and Gunnar were the only ones left awake. When did that happen?

Eivor bites back a smile at your dazed expression.

Your stomach swoop as your legs are swept out from under you. Eivor cradles you easily in her strong arms. Your hands curl into her jerkin as you bury your face into the crook of her neck. You press little loving kisses along the scarring there. Usually, you wouldn't be so brazen in public… that's how Eivor knows you're truly a goner.

"If you'll excuse us, Gunnar, I best get my wife to bed."

Gunnar waves her off. The man wobbles as he stands from the bench and he staggers away… no doubt to find his own wife.

As Eivor maneuvers around snoring drunkards on the floor, you let your eyes slip shut.

"Did you have fun?" She husks quietly.

"Mhm." You tilt your head back against her shoulder as you begin to recount your night. "Danced a lot… talked a lot. Drank a lot. I even almost beat Petra in arm wrestling."

"Did you?" Amusement bleeds into her voice.

"This close." You mumble against her. You make a pinching gesture, your fingers practically touching.

"I'd have liked to see that."

She shoulders open the door to your shared room in the longhouse. The soft thud of the wood behind you ensures your privacy. The plentiful furs of bear and elk on the bed look all too inviting.

Eivor gingerly sits you on the edge of the bed. You lean back on your hands as she begin to strip off your boots.

"How were your talks with our jarl and his wife?" You muse, watching your wife through half-lidded eyes.

She sighs. The slope of her shoulders and flutter of her pale lashes give away just how tired she truly is. It makes you frown slightly. You plan to keep her in bed for the next week at minimum, she works too hard.

"Long. Arduous. Tiring." She rises from her knelt position, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. Her lips are ever so slightly chapped but you hum happily anyhow. "I'd have much preferred to spend the night with you instead."

"I'd have liked that too." Your words slur together as you sigh. Eivor begins to work your woolen overdress over your head, you raise your arms for her. "I missed you."

"I missed you too, my love." She undresses you meticulously until your left in your shift. Strong hands guide you back to lay down. Downy furs are tucked around you.

You settle into the comfort with ease. A dreamy smile spreads across your lips as you stretch. Never once do your eyes stray from your wife as she begins to undress for bed herself.

"Take off all your clothes," You demand simply. "I'd like to be between your thighs."

Eivor laughs, warm and rough, with a shake of her head. The sound makes your tummy warm. Now left in a simple tunic and breeches she's all too enticing. How dare she keep her sculpted muscles from your view.

"I would love to, wife, but I'm not sure you've the energy or mind for it."

The furs lift as she slides into bed beside you. You huff at her words but allow yourself to be pulled into her warm body. You reach your fingers to gently undo her braid, something she knows you love doing. One strong hand stays between your shoulder blades, the other slipping under your shift to rest at your waist.

You tuck your face against her shoulder, letting your eyes slip shut. Arms settled about your wife, absently carding your fingers through her wavy hair, finally home and safe, you're content.

"Tomorrow?" You venture to ask, voice groggy with half-consciousness.

She hums her agreement, pressing a smile against your hair.

She hadn’t even realized her hands were clenched together, eyes fixed on where she’d just seen you.

“You ok, kid?” Dana Evans asked as she stepped up beside her, sharp-eyed and steady like she always was. Even after all the chaos at the Pitt, Dana could tell when someone was off. “Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Her voice, practical, no-nonsense, just what every resident needed after a long shift. It pulled her out of that daze. And somehow… that made it sting even more.

"Yeah, fine.. I'm fine."

The Pittsburgh General ER wasn’t far from your apartment, close enough that your morning commute was more coffee and half-listening to the radio than a slog through traffic. After years of med school, late nights, and endless exams, you’d landed a job.

And then you walked in.

The world seemed to collide in front of you. Her face—bright, expectant, entirely unaware—made your chest tighten in ways you hadn’t prepared for. Your heart clenched, emotions twisting and sparking like static, and for a moment, you froze.

You had no idea she’d be here, working here. Every instinct screamed at you, overwhelming in an already overstimulating space. So you spun on your heel, forcing yourself another way. Your heart raced in anger, feeling frustrated seeing her. Feeling enraged, why would she be that happy to see you. Not after what happened.

Senior Year, 2019

You and Mel King shared a class, and from the start, a quiet friendship formed.

You helped each other study for the smaller quizes, pored over assignments together, spent long nights in dorm rooms or the campus library. Sometimes, it wasn’t about school at all. Sitting on a bench late at night, leaning against the stairwell in a quiet building, talking about your life, her sister, where you both wanted to go after you graduated..

When finals rolled around, the late nights and endless problems consumed you. You stayed up helping her, sharing notes, quizzing each other until your brain felt fried. But it wasn’t just academics that kept you close, it was her presence. The way she leaned into explanations, the way her laughter made your chest tighten, the subtle brush of her hand over yours. You told yourself it was just friendship. Just studying.

It all ended when the finals seasons ended.

Because you failed.

Failed to the point of having to retake the classes.

She passed—easily, brilliantly.

It was all you heard from her, a single text, before the line went radio silent. You two didn't have to be friends after studying together, but it felt she was genuinely interested.

Every memory replayed in your mind like a cruel loop. Her awkward laughter across the table in the library, the way she leaned closer when something was complicated, the quiet late-night study sessions that had felt like they meant something more.

The contrast of your life full of her to the silence that now fills the air sits heavy in your chest, impossible to ignore. Slowly, the questions began to creep in, unwelcome but persistent. The reason you tried to come up with turned into cruel overthinking. How had it happened? You studied the same material, spent the same hours preparing. How did she walk away brilliant while you were left starting over?

Your mind turned it over again and again, searching for something that made sense. At your lowest moments, darker thoughts slipped in—maybe she had focused on the right material while letting you spend your time on the wrong things. Maybe you had only learned the parts that helped her pass.

You hated thinking that way. Hated the way suspicion crept into memories that had once felt warm.

But the silence made it worse. Each day that passed with silence, each text left unanswered.

The first few nights were the hardest. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, the reality settled in piece by piece. You would have to do it all again. Retake the classes. Relearn the material. And you would be doing it alone.

Each quiet night gave your mind too much space. You dissected every interaction, replayed every conversation, every shared study session, every lingering glance. The what-ifs piled up until they blurred together, and slowly, almost without you noticing, the bitterness took root.

At some point, the questions stopped being questions. Your initial hurt, fresh and barren has contorted into anger, resentment almost. Your mind settled on an answer instead.

She must have done it on purpose.

The thought slid into place quietly, turning every memory on its head. All those nights studying, all the time you spent explaining things while she listened, maybe it had never been equal. Maybe she had known exactly what she was doing. And you had been too trusting to see it.

Each time you passed by, she lifted a hand in a small wave, only for it to go unnoticed by you. After a moment she would lower it again, the gesture shrinking back into something awkward as uncertainty crept onto her face.

She still greeted you in the mornings, offering the same warm smile she always had. A quiet “morning” here, a hopeful glance there.

Every time, she was met with silence.

You never returned the smile. Never slowed down. Never even looked her way. Your chest was too full of old hurt, old hurt had hardened into pure anger. About a month had flown by and you kept up the facade, ignoring her truly. You stuck to your trainer at first, but once you were allowed alone, you took each case that set you far away from her.

You glance up at the board, fingers resting lightly on the stethoscope hanging around your neck as you scan the list of incoming patients.

Dr. Robby steps up beside you, arms already crossed as he looks over the screen.

He doesn’t even have to ask.

“I’ll take the broken arm in—”

“I’d like you to take the road rash instead.”

You follow his gaze toward the room assignment and immediately spot that familiar fuckass braid.

Your jaw tightens.

“Looks like she’s already got it,” you mutter, nodding toward the room. “I can go to—”

Dr. Robinavitch says your name, stopping you mid-sentence. He tilts his head slightly toward the hallway. “Can we talk for a moment?”

His tone is calm, but the tension in his jaw makes it clear this isn’t optional. You nod once and follow him toward a quieter corner of the ER, far enough from the nurses’ station that the constant noise dulls into background hum.

He turns to face you.

“You need to cut it out,” he says plainly.

Your brows knit together.

“It’s obvious,” he continues, voice low but firm. “It’s unprofessional, and it’s starting to disrupt the team. Fix it. I don't care what you do, but fix whatever is going on. I don't want or need people here on this staff who'll treat others this way, okay...? Especially, not her."

The words land heavier than you expected. He's blunt, you've been told so by the others. Says it how it is, but damn.

He raises his eyebrows, awaiting an answer and you give a brainless nod, "I'll go to case road rash..."

God, it was everything terrible. Working alongside her.

She talked the whole time. Rambling, really. Filling the space with easy commentary while the patient sat stiff in the chair, eyes wide and fixed on the ceiling as she carefully wiped the blood away and began picking small stones out of his leg.

Her hands were steady. Gentle, even. Like she’d done this a thousand times before.

“You’re gonna feel a little pressure here,” she said softly to the patient, her voice calm in that effortless way that made people listen. You stood beside her, passing gauze when she asked, trying to focus on the procedure instead of the sound of her voice.

But she kept talking.

Not just to the patient—sometimes to you, too. Little observations, quiet jokes meant to ease the tension. Like the years between you hadn’t happened at all. Like you weren’t standing there with your chest tight and your patience worn thin. She sounded comfortable, natural. Like this was exactly where she belonged.

You do respond—but only when you have to.

Short answers. Curt. Just enough to keep things professional.

You can feel the weight of Robby’s eyes through the glass of the room, watching the interaction unfold, and that alone keeps you from snapping completely. So you force it. You nod when necessary, pass the gauze when she asks, murmur the occasional yeah or right.

You even manage to mask a smile once or twice.

The whole interaction feels fabricated, like you’re playing a version of yourself that doesn’t actually exist.

Mel keeps talking, steady hands working as she wipes away the blood and picks the small stones from the patient’s leg. Eventually she finishes, wrapping the bandage snug around his calf.

Just as she ties it off, she turns toward you with a small smile, but you’re already gone. The patient shifts awkwardly on the bed, looking between the empty space you’d been standing in and Mel.

“So… when can I go home?”

Mel blinks, a little thrown off.

“Um… yeah. We’ll, uh…”

You peel the gloves from your hands with a tired sigh, snapping them off and tossing them into the trash. You barely have a second to breathe before Santos appears around the corner, practically sing-songing your name. She’s already posted against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with a look that means she’s been waiting to corner you.

“So,” she starts slowly, tilting her head, “you and Mel…?”

You cut her off immediately.

“So nothing. Drop it… please,” you say, already turning slightly away.

You cut her off before she can finish, pulling your locker open and reaching inside.

“Nothing,” you say flatly.

Santos doesn’t buy it. She stays there, arms still crossed, waiting. You grab what you need and shut the locker.

“We studied together all the time,” you say, not looking at her. “Shared notes, studied for the same exams. I spent half that semester helping her get through the material.”

You pause, jaw tightening.

“Then finals came. She passed. I didn’t.”

Santos shifts slightly but stays quiet.

Santos shifts slightly but stays quiet.

“That’s why I’m a year behind her.”

She huffs, "or you’re just stupid.”

You shoot her a glare. Instead of backing off, Santos lifts her hands in surrender, the teasing grin still hanging on her face.

“Hey, hey—relax. I'm teasing.”

She tilts her head, thinking it over.

“Mel?” she says slowly, her brows knitting together. “Sweet, awkward Mel?”

Her brows knit together.

“That’s… not really the vibe I get from her. Being resourceful enough to use someone like that? Kind of diabolical.”

You roll your eyes, turning away to shove something back into your locker. Santos watches you for another second before the corner of her mouth curls again.

“Huh,” she says. Then she gestures vaguely toward you. “So what does that make you?”

A beat passes as she considers it.

"Grudge."

You look up sharply. “Excuse me?”

Santos is already pushing off the wall, that same amused smirk tugging at her mouth.

“See ya, Grudge.”

It’s becoming obvious to everyone in the ER.

The break room fills with quiet speculation, pieces of gossip stitched together as people try to figure out the story between the two of you. No one knows the full picture, but everyone has noticed the tension.

Mel had tried, at first. The bright greetings in the morning. The small waves when you passed. The easy friendliness she offered like nothing had changed.

But that excitement had faded into something quieter now. Something hesitant. Confused. A little hurt. In her mind, the explanation had always been simple. People drift after med school. Life moves on. She had messaged you back then, tried to keep in touch, but when no response came she assumed that was that. Friends sometimes fade in and out of each other’s lives.

She had no idea there was anything deeper than that.

Now she sits at the computer typing up a report, her fingers moving automatically across the keyboard as you pass behind her. Her eyes lift without thinking, following you as you walk by. You don’t look at her.

It doesn’t go unnoticed.

A few feet away, Dr. Robby stands talking with Dana, but his attention drifts the moment he catches Mel watching you walk past. He sighs, rubbing a hand across his forehead.

Mel’s expression—those quiet, wounded puppy eyes—and your cold, deliberate distance have been grinding on his patience for days.

Dana notices too. She huffs, lightly shoving his shoulder.

“Give it time,” she says. “They’ll work it out.”

“No,” Robby mutters, shaking his head. “No, I’m not going to. This needs to stop now."

His voice carries just enough. He calls both of your names. You stop mid-step, shoulders stiffening, and Mel’s gaze snaps away from you.

Robby gestures toward the incoming trauma bay just as the ER doors burst open and a stretcher is wheeled inside. The EMT launches straight into the report as you and Mel fall into step beside the gurney, moving automatically into place.

Male, mid-thirties. Motorcycle accident. Conscious but disoriented. You help guide the stretcher into an open room, grabbing the rails as the EMTs maneuver it beside the bed.

“On three,” someone says.

You and Mel lift together with the others, transferring the patient carefully onto the mattress as the EMT continues explaining the injuries.

“Thirty-four-year-old male,” the EMT says, stepping back. “Motorcycle collision. Thrown from the bike. Helmet cracked but stayed on. Complaining of chest pain and left leg pain. Vitals were stable in transport but he’s getting more confused.”

Robby moves to the side of the bed immediately, already assessing.

“Alright,” he says calmly. “Let’s get a quick look. What are we seeing?”

Mel leans slightly closer to the patient, eyes scanning the injuries.

“Looks like—”

“Possible rib fractures,” you cut in, already reaching for gauze to press against the abrasion on the patient’s shoulder. “Breathing’s shallow.”

It’s a strange sense of satisfaction, being the one to answer first. Especially when the questions drift into topics the two of you had once studied side by side. For a moment, it feels like something small but meaningful—like reclaiming ground you’d lost. Like proving to yourself and those in the room, if only in passing, that you hadn’t been the weak link after all..

Mel’s mouth closes. Robby glances between the two of you but continues.

“Any obvious deformities?”

Mel shifts toward the patient’s leg.

“The left—”

“Left leg,” you say again, already lifting the sheet slightly. “Swelling near the tibia.”

Mel exhales quietly through her nose. Robby’s eyes flick up again.

“Okay,” he says. “Mel, what do you think we should do for imaging?”

She opens her mouth.

“X-ray on the leg and chest,” you answer, adjusting the blood pressure cuff as the machine begins to inflate.

Robby responds almost immediately. Arms crossed, head tilted.

“Are you Mel, doctor? Because I'm pretty sure I said Mel."

You only let out a small groan under your breath, like the correction is more annoying than anything, and keep moving. Checking the IV line, adjusting the monitor leads. Mel steps in again anyway, steady voice cutting through the moment.

“Chest X-ray and tib-fib X-ray,” she says, repeating it calmly.

The patient groans as you shift his leg slightly and you focus back on him instead of the tension building behind you. Vitals stabilize. The bleeding is controlled. Orders are placed. Within minutes the room settles into the quieter rhythm that comes after the initial rush.

You step away first. Peeling off your gloves, you drop them in the trash and push through the door before anyone can stop you.

Behind you, Robby follows almost immediately.

Mel lingers only a moment longer with the patient before stepping out as well, trailing a few paces behind the two of you.

“Doctor," he starts.

You keep walking.

“Hey.”

His voice sharpens. Your name. You stop.

When you turn, he’s already gesturing for you to come back toward him, motioning you a few steps down the hallway away from the room.

Over his shoulder you can see Mel stepping out of the room, the door swinging shut behind her. She slows when she notices the two of you standing there.

Her eyes flick between you and Robby.

“I’ve already talked to you about this,” he says quietly, but entirely firm. “This shouldn’t have gotten to a second conversation like we're having right now.”

Your jaw tightens, hands clenching at your side before you start to bring one up to point at her.

“Dr. Robby. You don’t understand, she—”

“I don’t give a shit,” he cuts in immediately.

The words are low but sharp enough that they stop you cold.

“You come here, you do your work, and you leave,” he continues, voice firm. “You don’t point fingers, and you don’t drag your baggage in here and ruin the ER.”

Your jaw clenches harder.

“I’m getting a breath of air.”

You don’t wait for a response. You spin on your heel and start toward the exit, the doors sliding open as you push through them and step outside, leaving the noise of the ER behind you.

The door stays open a second longer before it swings shut again. You’re barely two steps away from the entrance when it opens once more. Dana steps out, already fishing a cigarette from the pack in her pocket.

She pauses when she notices you standing there.

“What’re you doing out here, kid?” she asks, slipping the cigarette between her lips. “You smoke too?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “No, I’m just… taking a moment.”

Dana hums in understanding, leaning against the wall as she lights it.

“Hey, I get you,” she says after the first drag. “After being here long enough, you start learning when you need to step away for a minute.”

Smoke curls into the cool air between you. For a moment neither of you says anything. Then Dana glances sideways at you.

“So,” she says, voice quieter now. “What’s really going on, kid?”

Your shoulders stiffen. Dana taps the ash from her cigarette.

“Because whatever that is between you and Mel,” she adds, nodding back toward the doors, “it’s loud enough the whole floor can hear it.”

You groan, "we went to med school together. She passed, I didn't."

"So are you mad she did and you didn't?"

No... that's not really the main reason. "Yes."

Dana watches you for a second after that answer. Not buying it. She takes another slow drag from the cigarette, eyes narrowing slightly as she studies your face.

“Yeah,” she says after a moment. “That sounded real convincing.”

You sigh, rubbing a hand over your forehead. Dana flicks ash to the pavement.

“So try again,” she says. “What actually happened?”

Your shoulders tense.

“We went to med school together,” you say finally. “Senior year. We studied together all the time.”

Dana nods once for you to keep going.

“She passed. I didn’t.”

“And?”

You hesitate. Because that’s the part that sounds ridiculous out loud.

“She told me she passed,” you continue, staring at the pavement instead of Dana. “And then she just… disappeared. No calls. No texts. Nothing.”

Dana tilts her head slightly.

“So you think she ditched you after finals.”

You shrug stiffly.

“What else was I supposed to think?”

Dana exhales smoke through her nose, unimpressed.

“Kid, people lose touch after school all the time.”

“That’s not what this was.”

She raises an eyebrow. You shake your head, frustration rising again.

“We studied the same material. Same nights. Same practice exams. And somehow she walks out of that test fine and I fail bad enough to retake the whole thing.”

Dana’s gaze sharpens a little.

“And that means she sabotaged you?”

You shrug, bitterness twisting in your chest. But it’s more than that. You’d felt something between you two. Something subtle, almost electric. Those late-night study sessions, the quiet jokes, the way she leaned in when you explained something, it felt real.

And then she passed, and you didn’t. And it hit you like a gut punch: maybe she’d used that closeness to get what she needed, to pass, while you were left behind. That shift, the one you’d convinced yourself was friendship, suddenly felt hollow, manipulated.

“It means something didn’t add up,” you admit, jaw tight, shoulders stiff. "That she had other intentions."

Dana taps her cigarette against the wall beside her, the ash falling to the pavement.

“Kid,” she says finally, her voice quieter now, serious, almost gentle. “Mel’s been looking at you like a kicked puppy since you walked in that building.”

She nods toward the ER doors again.

“You sure you’re not fighting a war she doesn’t even know exists?”

You stare at her for a beat before finally starting back toward the doors. As the two of you step inside, Dana casts a glance toward Dr. Robby—one of those sly, triumphant looks that makes it clear she feels like she just won some small battle. Robby just rolls his eyes, shaking his head slightly. A raspy, amused cackle escapes her.

Trinity Santos had been up to something. Head propped on her hand, she’d been watching the two of you all shift long enough to know this tension had gone on way too long. Your sharp, cold walks past Mel. Mel’s quiet, confused glances. The whole floor had been buzzing about it, but no one was doing anything.

Santos had decided there was only one way to fix it. And if nobody else would step in, she’d have to.

She caught you first, stepping up with a sly grin.

“Hey, Grudge” she said casually. “Can you help me find something in the med closet?”

The closet no one checks often, perfectly chosen. You glance at her, suspicion flickering, but nod. “Sure.”

Then she caught Mel’s attention. Same line, same grin.

“Can you come help me find something in the med closet?”

Mel had already been walked inside, Santos waving her off with a casual, “I just need to grab something—give me a minute.” She hadn’t thought much of it, sitting down on a box in the room as she waits.

Then Santos appeared beside you, same grin, same line. You stepped in, following her, and as soon as you were inside, she quietly stepped back and, without a word, locked the door.

You were scanning the shelves, rifling through supplies, completely unaware of Mel standing just a few feet away—or of Santos lingering outside, smirking.

The click of the lock echoes in the small room. You freeze.

“Santos…?”

Nothing.

You rush to the door, yanking at the handle. Locked.

“Santos!” you call again, louder this time.

Still nothing. It’s like she’s vanished, disappeared into thin air. Meanwhile, outside, Santos walks back toward the main area, that teasing smile still on her face. Dr. Robby notices her and frowns.

“Have you seen them? Either of them?” he asks, suspicion clear in his tone.

Santos shrugs, casual as ever.

“They’re probably with patients. Far away from each other,” she says with a little smirk, hiding perfectly the fact that she knows exactly what’s going on.

You let out a long, frustrated sigh, pressing your forehead against the cold door. You stop tugging at the handle, realizing it’s pointless. Locked. Completely.

Then you hear footsteps behind you.

“Oh, hey.”

Your heart drops.

You twist, and there’s Mel, standing there with that unmistakable tilt of her head—curious, cautious, unaware of the tension coiled inside you.

“Santos asked me if I’d help her find something… what brings you here?” she asks, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“Nothing,” you mutter, voice tight. “Just looking for an item.”

Mel nods slowly, eyes dropping to your hand resting lazily on the door handle.

“Is the door okay?” she asks, a slight frown knitting her brows.

“No… no,” you admit, jaw tight. “It’s locked.”

Her gaze lifts, meeting yours, and for a second, the tension in the room feels almost unbearable. You can feel the weight of your old hurt mixing with the frustration of the moment.

The room falls quiet.

You lean back against the wall, letting your shoulders sag. Mel hesitates, then slides down across from you, settling onto the floor. After a long moment, she breaks the silence.

“So… what did you do this past year?” Her voice is soft, tentative, almost careful, like she’s testing the waters.

You shrug, staring at your hands resting in your lap.

“School,” you mutter. Short. Flat. Nothing more.

Mel nods slowly, chewing the inside of her cheek. Another pause stretches between you, the quiet of the med closet filling the space in a way that’s almost… intimate, if you ignore the tension.

Neither of you speaks for a while, the only sounds the distant hum of the ER beyond the locked door and the faint shuffle of your own breathing.

Your answer then truly settles in Mels mind...

Mel blinks at you, brow furrowing.

“School?” she repeats, voice unsure. “Like… extra classes? Or…?”

You snap your head up, irritation cutting through the quiet.

“Why are you acting like you don’t know?” you ask, tone sharper than intended.

You feel heat rise in your chest, and your hands curl into fists in your lap.

“What…?” Mel echoes, her eyes wide, confused at the edge in your voice.

You grit your teeth, letting your frustration spill. “You messaged me once that you passed. And I heard nothing after that!”

Mel flinches at your words, and you can see the hurt flicker across her face.

“I… I did message you after,” she stammers, voice small, “I—”

You throw your hands up, exasperation breaking through. “God, you’re such a manipulator. I don’t know how you do it so well!”

Her mouth opens, but she doesn’t speak at first. Confusion, hurt, and disbelief mix on her face.

“Finals,” you continue, your voice tightening, almost like you’re explaining to yourself. “The test… I failed. You passed. And then… never contacted me again. Yeah… great friend you are.”

Mel sits back a little, looking down, silent for a second as if trying to gather herself.

“What…?” she finally whispers, voice barely audible.

“My phone broke,” she admits quickly, voice quivering. “I had to get a new one… I messaged you many times… I… I didn’t know you failed…”

“Then… if you messaged me like you said, where did they go?” you demand, voice tight, chest still burning from the old frustration.

Mel fumbles slightly, eyes widening, then quickly grabs her phone from her pocket.

“Wait—let me show you,” she says, her hands shaking just a little as she scrolls through her messages. “I… I—”

You lean back against the wall, arms crossed, glaring at the screen like it holds all the answers to a year’s worth of misunderstandings.

She hesitates for a second, then tilts the phone toward you. “See? I tried. I messaged you right after finals, and again when I got my new phone…”

You lean forward slightly, squinting at the screen, the knot in your chest loosening just a fraction.

Then you stop, staring at the phone, and blurt out, “Oh, you dork. That’s not my number.”

Mel freezes. “What…?”

“You put a 9 where the 6 goes,” you say, voice tight with disbelief and a flicker of exasperated humor.

Her eyes go wide, and she gasps softly, realization dawning. “Wait… what? Oh… I… I didn’t know…”

The tension in the room shifts just slightly, a mixture of relief, disbelief, and the absurdity of it all settling over you both.

You let out a soft laugh, the sound almost foreign in the quiet of the closet.

Mel looks at you, wide-eyed, caught somewhere between confusion and relief.

“I… wow,” she whispers, shaking her head, a small, nervous smile tugging at her lips. “I can’t believe… all this time…”

You rub the back of your neck, exhaling slowly. “All this time… for a mistyped number.”

She swallows, looking down at her hands, then back up at you. The weight of the misunderstanding, the hurt, the tension—it all suddenly feels smaller, though the awkwardness still hums between you.

You both slump against opposite walls of the cramped closet, the quiet stretching between you. You lean back against the shelves while she presses herself lightly against the opposite wall. The air is thick with unspoken words, tension, and relief all tangled together.

After a long pause, she murmurs, almost to herself, “Was it just me then…?”

You don’t answer right away. You just wait, listening, letting her voice fill the silence.

“I… I thought you’d just moved on,” she continues, her tone hesitant, small. “And I kept thinking… that I might've read things wrong between us."

The vulnerability in her voice hits you like a weight. Your chest tightens. “It wasn’t just you,” you finally reply, voice low but steady. “It wasn’t one-sided.”

Another long silence falls. You both just look at each other, really look. The quiet hum of the ER outside fades away. You notice the subtle strength in her arms, the curve of her neck, the way her lips press together, unknowing.

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears. The tension, the hurt, the months of miscommunication. All of it boils down to this moment. Slowly, deliberately, you crawl across the floor toward her, eyes never leaving hers.

When you’re close enough, your hand finds her jaw, fingers pressing gently but insistently as you tilt your head and lean in.

Her lips meet yours, and it’s messy. Urgent, hungry, full of months of tension and misunderstanding. Your free hand brushes against her hair, trying to steady the whirlwind, but she doesn’t let you take control for long.

As the kiss deepens, she shifts, guiding both of your movements. You find yourself sitting back against the shelf, her body sliding in front of you, pressing close, pressing harder. She kisses you with a mix of tenderness and command, letting you get swept away in the sensation.

Small gasps escape both of you, filling the cramped closet with the sound of something that’s been held in too long finally breaking free. Her hands travel along your shoulders, your arms winding around her waist, both of you lost in the messy, desperate heat of the moment.

As your bodies press closer, the confined space of the closet becomes a world of its own, filled with the sounds of your ragged breaths and the rustle of fabric. Mel's fingers trace the curve of your neck, her touch igniting sparks that race down your spine. Her glasses fog up, a testament to the heat building between you, as she kisses along your jawline, her breath hot on your skin.

Your hands roam over her back, feeling the muscles tense and release with each movement. She shifts, her knee nudging your legs apart, and you comply, a soft moan escaping your lips as she settles between your thighs. Her fingers trail down your chest, tracing the V-neck of your scrubs, before dipping lower, seeking the hem.

You arch into her touch as her hand slips under your clothes, her fingers skimming over your stomach, leaving a trail of goosebumps. She pauses at the waistband of your scrub pants, her gaze flicking up to meet yours, seeking permission. You nod, your breath hitching in anticipation.

Her hand slides lower, slipping under the elastic of your panties, her fingers finding your center. She strokes you, her touch gentle yet firm, exploring your folds, learning your responses. You gasp, your hips bucking slightly, as she finds your clit, rubbing circles that send jolts of pleasure through you.

Your fingers dig into her shoulders, your body tensing as she continues her ministrations. She leans in, her lips capturing yours in a fierce, demanding kiss, swallowing your moans. Her fingers slide lower, teasing your entrance, before moving back up to your clit, rubbing with increasing pressure.

The world narrows down to the sensation of her touch, the sound of your ragged breaths echoing in the small space. She slides your panties to the side, her fingers slipping inside you, filling you, stretching you. You cry out, your body clenching around her, as she begins to move, her fingers pumping in and out, her thumb rubbing your clit in time.

Your body tenses, your muscles coiling tight as the pleasure builds. She feels it, her movements becoming more insistent, her touch more urgent. She kisses you again, her tongue sliding against yours, her breath coming in short gasps.

"Feel good?" she whispers against your lips, her voice ragged, her fingers moving faster, pushing you closer to the edge. "Come for me..."

Your body obeys her command, your orgasm crashing over you in waves. You cry out, your body convulsing, your fingers digging into her arms as you ride out the pleasure. She slows her movements, her touch gentling, drawing out your orgasm until you're left boneless and breathless in her arms.

She pulls back, her glasses askew, her hair disheveled, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips. You reach up, gently pushing her glasses back into place, your fingers brushing against her cheek. She leans into your touch, her eyes never leaving yours.

The world outside the closet fades away, leaving just the two of you wrapped up in each other, hearts racing, breaths coming in uneven pants.

She pulls back just slightly, resting her forehead against yours, lips brushing yours one more, soft peck after the messy, urgent kiss. Air hitches between you as you both try to catch your breath.

“Can… we start over?” she murmurs, voice shaky but hopeful.

You nod, the knot of old hurt finally loosening as a small smile tugs at your lips.

Her grin deepens, mischief flickering in her eyes despite the heaviness of the moment. “Also… you can stop putting your name at the top of every employee chart,” she teases, brushing a hand along your chest. “We’re not in med school anymore—you don’t have to be so competitive with me all the time.”

You laugh softly, the tension finally breaking. The small closet feels lighter now, the knot of months-old hurt unraveling between you two. For a few minutes, it’s just normal—just quiet, easy breathing and the faint hum of the ER beyond the door.

Then you hear footsteps approaching.

Before anyone reaches the door, you both scramble a little, straightening up, trying to look like nothing ever happened.

Dr. Garcia arrives first, pulling on the handle only to find it locked. She frowns, muttering under her breath, and finally pushes it open, stepping inside. Relief washes over you both as she looks around, sees nothing out of the ordinary, and leaves, satisfied.

“Uh…” she starts, pausing mid-step, eyes flicking between you two.

You mutter a single word, voice low but full of mock exasperation, “Santos.”

Without another glance, you push past her, heading to find Trinity, ready to give her the exact combination of gratitude—and slight threat—that she deserves for orchestrating all of this.

So I sneak out to the garden to see you

We keep quiet, 'cause we're dead if they knew

So close your eyes

Escape this town for a little while, oh oh

In the bustling midst of London’s social season, Queen Charlotte's daughter, Princess y/n, found herself at the centre of attention. Raised amidst the pomp and protocol of high society, she was no stranger to the expectations placed upon her. Attending debutante events was simply another facet of her role as the queen's daughter—a duty performed with grace and an impeccably polished facade.

It was at one such event, a gathering of debutantes adorned in their finest, where y/n first noticed her. Eloise Bridgerton, amidst the sea of hopefuls vying for attention, stood out not just for her striking beauty but for an air of defiance that seemed to hover around her like an invisible shield. Eloise, with her quick wit and sharp tongue, had garnered a reputation as the most outspoken and unconventional of the Bridgerton siblings—a title she wore proudly, much to her mother Violet's simultaneous exasperation and admiration.

From across the room, y/n observed as Eloise engaged in animated conversation with other debutantes. There was a sparkle in her eye and a hint of mischief in her smile that drew y/n's attention irresistibly. Eloise's laughter, free and unbridled, cut through the polite chatter of the event like a breath of fresh air in a stuffy room. For a moment, y/n found herself captivated, her gaze lingering longer than was strictly polite.

Meanwhile, Eloise, amidst the whirl of introductions and compliments, couldn't help but notice the queen's daughter. Elegant and composed, y/n exuded a quiet confidence that commanded attention without demanding it. Unlike the other debutantes who fluttered around Eloise, y/n stood apart, observing with an intensity that hinted at a keen intellect beneath her composed exterior.

Their eyes met briefly across the room—a fleeting moment charged with unspoken curiosity and intrigue. It was a simple exchange, unnoticed by the swirling crowd around them but leaving an indelible impression on both Eloise and y/n. In that brief encounter, something stirred, a silent recognition that hinted at possibilities yet unexplored.

The grand presentation at the Palace was a spectacle to behold. The ballroom was adorned with glittering chandeliers and opulent decorations, filled with the crème de la crème of London society. Eloise stood in line, fidgeting with her gloves as she prepared to be introduced. Her mother gave her a reassuring smile.

“Stand tall, Eloise,” Violet whispered. “This is your moment.”

As Eloise stepped forward, she caught a clearer sight of Princess Y/N, standing beside her mother. Their eyes met once again across the room, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. Y/N’s gaze was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the intimidating grandeur of the palace. Eloise felt an inexplicable pull towards her, something she couldn’t quite understand.

Just as Eloise was about to be presented, the attention of the room shifted abruptly. The queens guards charging through the doors, whispers of “Lady Whistledown '' spread like wildfire, next thing you know, the queen is declaring she's seen enough and everyone is dismissed and Eloise found herself relieved of the spotlight as gossip overtook the ceremony. The mysterious writer had once again stolen the show, and Eloise couldn’t help but feel a sense of gratitude for the diversion.

'Cause you were Romeo, I was a scarlet letter

And my daddy said, "Stay away from Juliet"

But you were everything to me

I was beggin' you, "Please don't go, " and I said

The opulent ballroom of Lady Danbury's estate shimmered with the flicker of candlelight and the murmur of polite conversation. Eloise Bridgerton, dressed in an exquisite gown of deep emerald silk that Lady Danbury had insisted upon, moved gracefully amidst the crowd, her gaze sweeping over the assembly of London's elite.

The event was a dazzling affair, attended by the highest echelons of society, each guest meticulously adorned in their finest attire. Yet amidst the glittering array of guests, Eloise's eyes sought out a familiar figure—Princess y/n, who stood with Queen Charlotte, radiating an air of quiet elegance that set her apart from the throng of debutantes.

Eloise couldn't deny the flutter of anticipation in her chest as she made her way towards y/n, navigating the maze of guests with practiced ease. Her heart raced with a mixture of nerves and excitement, unsure of how their conversation at Queen Charlotte's debutante event would influence their interaction tonight.

Meanwhile, y/n observed the revelry with a regal composure, her gaze occasionally drifting towards Eloise amidst the swirl of dancers and the lilting strains of the orchestra. The princess was acutely aware of the scrutiny she faced as Queen Charlotte’s daughter—the expectations of duty and decorum that shadowed her every move. Yet amidst the splendour of the ballroom, y/n found herself drawn to Eloise’s spirited presence and unguarded authenticity. 

Violet Bridgerton, determined to secure another diamond among her brood, guided Eloise through the throng of guests towards the queen and y/n. Eloise, begrudgingly adorned in an elegant gown befitting her station, maintained a facade of polite disinterest as Violet introduced her to the queen and her daughter.

"Your Majestys, may I present my daughter, Eloise Bridgerton," Violet announced with practised grace.

Y/n, acknowledging the introduction with a nod, offered a polite smile that barely concealed her curiosity. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Bridgerton," she greeted eloquently, her voice carrying a warmth that belied her royal stature.

Eloise, though outwardly composed, felt a rush of nerves mingled with an unexpected flutter of excitement. She had anticipated the formality of the introduction, yet y/n's presence seemed to alter the air around her, making her acutely aware of every gesture and fleeting expression.

"Likewise, Your Highness," Eloise replied with a hint of her trademark wit, a small smirk playing at the corner of her lips. "Though I must admit, I am more accustomed to lively debates than royal audiences."

Y/n's smile widened subtly, a glint of amusement in her eyes. "I look forward to those debates, Miss Bridgerton," she replied in kind, a gentle challenge underlying her words.

The exchange, though brief, left an impression on both women. For Eloise, accustomed to the constraints of societal expectations, y/n represented a refreshing departure—an enigma wrapped in regal poise and quiet strength. And for y/n, intrigued by Eloise's spirited demeanor and quick intellect, the encounter ignited a curiosity that lingered long after the ball had ended.

Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone

I'll be waiting, all there's left to do is run

You'll be the prince and I'll be the princess

It's a love story, baby, just say, "Yes"

As the evening progressed, Eloise and y/n’s paths collided again near the elaborate dessert table adorned with crystal bowls of sugared fruits and delicate pastries. Eloise, emboldened by Lady Danbury’s encouraging nod from across the room, approached y/n with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, nerves tingling beneath her skin.

“Your Highness,” Eloise greeted warmly, her voice betraying a hint of nervousness despite her best efforts to appear composed.

y/n turned towards Eloise with a gracious smile, her eyes alight with genuine interest. “Miss Bridgerton,” y/n replied with a nod of acknowledgment, noting the subtle tension in Eloise’s stance.

Their conversation flowed with the ease of familiarity yet tinged with the underlying currents of unspoken desire and mutual intrigue. They exchanged pleasantries about the music, the decorations, and the latest society gossip, each word carrying a weight of unspoken meaning that hung between them like an invisible thread.

Eloise, ever the conversationalist, couldn’t resist steering the discussion towards a topic that had intrigued her since their first meeting. “Your Highness, I must admit, I found your observations on the latest literary sensation quite captivating,” she remarked, her tone light yet tinged with curiosity.

y/n chuckled softly, appreciating Eloise’s intellect and the genuine interest she showed in their previous conversation. “Ah, but Miss Bridgerton, I fear my views on literature may not always align with conventional wisdom,” y/n replied with a playful glint in her eyes.

Eloise leaned in slightly, her gaze locking with y/n’s in a moment of shared understanding. “Isn’t that the beauty of literature, Your Highness? It allows us to explore different perspectives and challenge our own beliefs,” she countered, her voice laced with a mixture of admiration and genuine curiosity.

Their banter continued late into the night, punctuated by shared laughter and stolen glances that hinted at a connection deeper than mere friendship. For Eloise, y/n represented a kindred spirit—a beacon of hope amidst the rigid expectations of London society. She found herself drawn to y/n’s quiet strength and unwavering authenticity, traits that resonated deeply with Eloise’s own aspirations and struggles.

In those stolen moments between dances, y/n found herself captivated by Eloise’s infectious enthusiasm and fierce determination. She admired Eloise’s courage to challenge societal norms and speak her mind, qualities that set her apart from the polished facades of London’s debutantes.

As the evening drew to a close, Eloise reluctantly bid y/n farewell with a promise to meet again soon. Their parting left y/n with a lingering warmth in her heart—a feeling that defied the constraints of duty and hinted at the possibility of something more.

Romeo, save me, they're tryna tell me how to feel

This love is difficult, but it's real

Don't be afraid, we'll make it out of this mess

It's a love story, baby, just say, "Yes"

Eloise and y/n found themselves entangled in a web of conflicting emotions and societal expectations. Despite the undeniable chemistry that sparked between them at Lady Danbury's grand ball, both struggled to come to terms with their growing attraction.

In the days that followed the ball, Eloise couldn't shake the memory of y/n's enchanting smile and the way her eyes lit up with intelligence and charm. She found herself stealing glances at y/n across crowded ballrooms, each stolen glance fueling a mix of excitement and apprehension.

Meanwhile, y/n wrestled with her own tumultuous emotions. As Queen Charlotte's daughter, she was keenly aware of the scrutiny her actions faced. The prospect of scandal and disgrace haunted her thoughts, casting a shadow over her budding friendship with Eloise.

Their paths crossed again at another glittering social event, where Violet Bridgerton, ever the matchmaker, introduced Eloise to y/n in hopes of sparking a connection. Eloise's heart raced as she exchanged pleasantries with y/n, their conversation laced with a subtle undercurrent of tension and curiosity.

Later that evening, as they found themselves alone in a quiet corner of the ballroom, y/n couldn't help but voice her uncertainties. "Miss Bridgerton, do you ever feel... conflicted?" she asked tentatively, her voice betraying a hint of vulnerability.

Eloise hesitated, her mind racing with unspoken thoughts. "I... I suppose I do," she admitted softly, her gaze searching y/n's face for any sign of understanding. "This world we live in—it's so... unforgiving."

y/n nodded in silent agreement, her fingers nervously toying with the fabric of her gown. "Sometimes I wonder if... if we're meant to feel this way," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Eloise reached out, her touch gentle yet reassuring. "I don't have all the answers, Princess," she admitted, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "But I know that when I'm with you, everything feels... different."

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Lady Danbury, who swept y/n away to greet other guests. Eloise watched as Lady Danbury whisked y/n away, her heart sinking with each step that carried them farther apart. Alone in the bustling ballroom, she found herself drawn to a quiet alcove, seeking refuge from the swirl of conversations and glittering chandeliers.

Leaning against a draped curtain, Eloise closed her eyes and let out a quiet sigh. Thoughts of y/n consumed her mind, their unfinished conversation lingering like an unspoken promise in the air.

She traced the intricate pattern of her gown absentmindedly, her thoughts drifting back to y/n's earnest question. Do you ever feel... conflicted? And back to her own comment before the conversation ended, when I'm with you, everything feels... different. How would y/n have responded to that? Did she feel the same way, or was Eloise's heart leading her down a path fraught with uncertainty?

The memory of y/n's smile flickered in her mind—the way it lit up the room, reaching out to Eloise like a beacon in the darkness of societal expectations. They had danced around the edges of something profound, something that could alter the course of their lives forever.

Lost in her reverie, Eloise was startled by the sound of approaching footsteps. She turned to find Benedict Bridgerton, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity. "Sister, are you all right?" he asked gently, his voice breaking through her thoughts.

Eloise managed a faint smile, though her heart still raced with unanswered questions. "I'm fine, Benedict," she replied, her voice tinged with a hint of melancholy. "Just... lost in thought."

Benedict studied her for a moment, his gaze searching. "Is it about the Princess?" he ventured cautiously, knowing his sister well enough to sense when something weighed heavily on her mind.

Eloise nodded slowly, unable to suppress a sigh. "Yes," she admitted quietly. "We were... talking. About feelings, I suppose."

Benedict arched an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Feelings?" he echoed, prompting Eloise to elaborate.

"I told her... how I feel when I'm with her," Eloise confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "But then Lady Danbury interrupted us, and I never got to find out how she feels."

Understanding dawned in Benedict's eyes as he took in Eloise's words. He reached out, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Eloise, you know what they say about the young Princess," he said gently. "She's smart, perceptive. She'll understand."

Eloise managed a weak smile, grateful for her brother's reassurance. "I hope so," she murmured, her thoughts still lingering on y/n's last words to her.

As the ballroom bustled around them, Benedict offered his arm to Eloise. "Shall we join the others?" he suggested, his tone lightening with an attempt to lift her spirits.

Eloise nodded, drawing a deep breath to steady herself. "Yes, let's," she agreed, linking her arm with Benedict's. Together, they returned to the lively gathering, though Eloise's thoughts remained with y/n—wondering, hoping, and silently yearning for their next conversation.

I got tired of waiting

Wondering' if you were ever comin' around

My faith in you was fading

When I met you on the outskirts of town, and I said

Days passed after the interrupted conversation at Lady Danbury's ball, each one stretching with anticipation and uncertainty for Eloise. She found herself eagerly attending every social event in hopes of catching another glimpse of y/n, her heart skipping a beat whenever their paths crossed across the crowded rooms.

It was at a smaller, more intimate gathering hosted by the Featheringtons that Eloise finally saw y/n again. The evening was alive with music and laughter, the air fragrant with the scent of gardenias and the promise of summer.

Eloise stood near the refreshment table, feigning interest in the punch bowl as she discreetly watched y/n across the room. y/n was engaged in conversation with Dowager Violet Bridgerton, their laughter mingling with the tinkling of crystal glasses.

Summoning her courage, Eloise took a deep breath and approached them. "Excuse me, Mama,  may I steal the Princess away for a moment?" she asked politely, her voice betraying none of the nervousness fluttering in her chest.

Violets eyes flickered mischievously as she glanced knowingly between Eloise and y/n. "Of course, Eloise," she replied with a knowing smile. "Take her—though I warn you, Her Royal Highness has been entertaining us all evening with her wit."

Eloise felt a rush of relief and gratitude towards her mother as y/n turned towards her, her expression lighting up with surprise and delight. "Miss Bridgerton," y/n greeted warmly, setting down her glass to face her fully. "I didn't expect to see you here tonight."

Eloise swallowed nervously, suddenly feeling the weight of her confession at Lady Danbury's ball. But still she continued to escort the Princess through the crowd until they were outside in the garden, under the nights sky, completely alone.

 "I wanted to apologise for our conversation being cut short," she began earnestly, meeting y/n's gaze with sincerity. "I... I meant what I said. About how I feel when I'm with you."

y/n's smile softened, her eyes holding a hint of something that made Eloise's heart skip a beat. "Miss Bridgerton,,," y/n replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper amidst the lively chatter around them. "I've been thinking about that conversation too."

Relief flooded through Eloise as she took a step closer to y/n, their proximity sparking a warmth that spread through her veins. "Really?" she asked, unable to contain the hope in her voice.

y/n nodded, her expression gentle yet filled with a quiet intensity that mirrored Eloise's own feelings. "Yes, really," she confirmed, her hand reaching out to gently touch Eloise's arm. "I didn't get to answer then, but... I feel something too."

Eloise's heart soared at y/n's words, her fears and uncertainties momentarily forgotten in the rush of emotions. "I'm glad," she murmured softly, her gaze locked with y/n's. "I wasn't sure how you'd feel, or... if we could even..."

Before she could finish, y/n leaned in closer, her lips brushing against Eloise's cheek in a tender gesture that sent a shiver down Eloise's spine. "I want to find out," y/n whispered, her breath warm against Eloise's ear. "If we could be something more."

Eloise's breath caught in her throat as she gazed into y/n's eyes, seeing her own hopes reflected back at her. Without hesitation, she reached up to cup y/n's cheek, her thumb caressing the soft skin beneath her touch. "I want that too, Your Highness" Eloise admitted softly, her voice filled with newfound courage and longing.

Y/N smilied, her eyes lighting up. “Please, call me Y/N. Titles are so tiresome, don’t you think?”

Eloise laughed softly. “Very much so. I find this entire season tiresome.”

In that stolen moment amidst the music and the soft glow of candlelight, Eloise and y/n leaned closer together, their lips meeting in a gentle kiss that spoke volumes of unspoken promises and the beginning of a love that dared to defy convention.

As they pulled away, breathless and smiling, Eloise felt a weight lift from her shoulders. Here, in the embrace of y/n's presence, she found not only acceptance but also the beginning of a journey she never dared to imagine—a journey of love, bravery, and the courage to be true to oneself.

They walked together in the garden, the conversation flowing easily. Eloise was captivated by Y/N’s intelligence and wit, and Y/N found Eloise’s rebellious spirit refreshing. As days turned into weeks, their friendship deepened, but so did the confusion. Can this go on forever?

Romeo, save me, I've been feeling so alone

I keep waiting for you, but you never come

Is this in my head? I don't know what to think

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden glow over the gardens of Bridgerton House. Eloise and y/n sat side by side on the swings, their feet lightly touching the ground, pushing back and forth in a gentle rhythm. The air was filled with the scent of blooming roses and the distant hum of London’s bustle, now just a distant murmur.

"I never imagined finding such peace in the heart of London," y/n remarked softly, her voice barely above a whisper as she swayed back and forth. Her eyes wandered over the garden, where vibrant blooms danced in the gentle breeze, their colours vivid against the backdrop of the setting sun.

Eloise, her legs stretched out in front of her, kicked lightly against the earth to keep the swing moving. "It's my favourite place to escape," she said, a small smile playing on her lips as she glanced at y/n. "Thank you for visiting me here."

Y/n turned to Eloise, her gaze filled with an unspoken tenderness. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else," she replied, her voice filled with sincerity. She reached out, her hand finding Eloise’s, their fingers intertwining effortlessly. The simple touch sent a jolt of warmth through them, grounding them in their shared moment.

A comfortable silence settled over them, the only sounds the creak of the swings and the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze. Eloise closed her eyes for a moment, savouring the serenity of the garden and the presence of y/n beside her.

"Do you ever wonder what the future holds for us?" y/n asked softly, her voice filled with curiosity as she turned to Eloise, who was still lost in the quiet of the moment.

Eloise opened her eyes, her gaze drifting towards the horizon where the sun was painting the sky in hues of pink and gold. "I used to worry about it," she admitted, her fingers absently tracing patterns on y/n’s palm. "But now... I like to think that as long as we're together, we can face anything."

Y/n's smile was gentle, her eyes reflecting the twilight’s colours as she leaned her head against Eloise’s shoulder. "I believe that too," she murmured, her voice steady with a quiet confidence. "We'll navigate this world together, Eloise."

In the tranquil embrace of Bridgerton House's garden, surrounded by the beauty of nature and the blossoming love between them, Eloise and y/n found solace in each other’s company. The swings moved back and forth, a gentle testament to their growing bond, anchoring them in a love that defied expectations and embraced the courage to live authentically.

He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring

And said, "Marry me, Juliet

You'll never have to be alone

One afternoon in the opulent drawing room of the palace, y/n sat with Eloise, their conversation light and filled with quiet laughter. The warmth of the fire crackled in the background, casting flickering shadows on the richly adorned walls. Y/n leaned close to Eloise, sharing a private moment, both girls peppering kisses over each other's faces, enjoying the feeling of being in each other's embraces. 

Unbeknownst to them, Queen Charlotte had returned earlier than expected, her steps muffled by the thick carpet. She paused in the doorway, her sharp eyes catching the intimate exchange between y/n and Eloise. For a moment, she simply observed, her mind racing with the implications.

"Miss Bridgerton!" Queen Charlotte's voice cut through the air, startling both young women. Eloise turned pale, her heart sinking as she realised they had been caught. Y/n sat frozen, her eyes wide with apprehension.

"Mother," y/n stammered, attempting to gather her thoughts. "I can explain—"

Queen Charlotte held up a hand, her expression unreadable. "There is no need for explanations, my dear. It seems the situation has clarified itself." She stepped further into the room, her gaze shifting between y/n and Eloise.

Eloise stood, her nerves taut with uncertainty. "Your Majesty, please understand—"

"I understand more than you might realise," Queen Charlotte interrupted gently, her tone softening slightly. She approached Eloise, studying her with a discerning eye. "Miss Bridgerton, do you care for my daughter?"

Eloise swallowed hard, meeting Queen Charlotte's gaze squarely. "Yes, Your Majesty," she admitted, her voice steady despite her nerves.

"And you, y/n?" Queen Charlotte turned to her daughter, her expression softening. "How do you feel about Miss Bridgerton?"

Eloise hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath. "Mother, I... I care for Eloise deeply. More than I ever thought possible."

Queen Charlotte nodded, her features reflecting a mix of concern and contemplation. "Love comes in many forms," she said finally, her voice carrying wisdom earned through years of navigating societal expectations. "It is clear to me that your feelings are genuine."

Eloise blinked back tears, overwhelmed by her mother's unexpected understanding. Y/n reached out, gently squeezing Eloise's hand in silent support.

“But regardless, you both are participating in acts only those who are married should be. I will not accept a scandal.”

"Mama, what should we do? We can’t imagine life apart!" y/n asked, her voice tinged with hope and apprehension.

Queen Charlotte smiled softly, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "Perhaps it is time we consider a different kind of arrangement," she mused, her mind already formulating a plan. "One that will allow you both to live authentically, without the confines of societal scandals, the only right choice in these conditions." She paused (dramatic effect no?)

“Marriage.”

And so, in that serene drawing room of the palace, a new chapter began for y/n and Eloise—a chapter marked by acceptance, love, and the courage to challenge tradition.

I love you and that's all I really know

I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress

It's a love story, baby, just say, "Yes"

In the warm, inviting drawing room of Bridgerton House, Eloise nervously clasped y/n's hand. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the walls, adding an air of solemnity to the moment. Around them, the Bridgertons—Anthony, Benedict, Colin, Daphne, and the younger siblings—gathered, curiosity etched on their faces.

Eloise took a deep breath, her heart racing with a mix of excitement and apprehension. "I... We have something to share," she began, her voice steady despite the butterflies in her stomach.

Anthony, ever the observant eldest brother, arched an eyebrow. "Go on, Eloise. What is it?"

Eloise glanced at y/n, drawing strength from their presence. "y/n and I... We've decided to take a step forward together. We're engaged."

There was a collective gasp of surprise from her family. Daphne's eyes widened, her hand instinctively reaching for Benedict's. Benedict leaned back in his chair, a grin spreading across his face. Colin adjusted himself, trying to process the unexpected news.

With the initial shock beginning to subside, the Bridgertons exchanged bewildered glances, each processing the news in their own way.

"Wait, you two are... engaged?" Colin asked, his voice filled with surprise.

Daphne, recovering from her initial shock, spoke gently. "But... how? I mean, are you even allowed to... marry?"

Eloise smiled, a touch of defiance in her eyes. "Yes, Daphne. Queen Charlotte herself has given us her blessing."

Colin, adjusting to the news, nodded thoughtfully. "I see. It's certainly unconventional, but if Her Majesty approves..."

Anthony, ever the pragmatist, chimed in. "Well, then. It seems we are in uncharted territory, but as long as you're both certain..."

Eloise and y/n exchanged a glance, their bond palpable. "We are," y/n affirmed softly.

"Eloise, are you certain about this?" Francesca asked, her voice tinged with concern.

Eloise nodded, her gaze unwavering. "Yes, Francesca. I've never been more certain about anything in my life."

Benedict, always the voice of reason, spoke up next. "Well, this is quite unexpected, but if it's what makes you both happy..."

Hyacinth interjected, unable to contain her excitement. "Eloise, this is incredible news! I didn't think you'd ever settle down."

Anthony, who had been silently observing, finally spoke. "Eloise, Princess Y/N, if this is your decision, then you have my support. Always."

Eloise squeezed y/n's hand tighter, feeling a wave of relief wash over her. "Thank you, Anthony."

As the evening wore on, the atmosphere shifted from confusion to acceptance. The Bridgertons, while initially taken aback, found themselves embracing Eloise and y/n's decision. It was a moment that marked not only a new chapter in Eloise's life but also a testament to the changing times—a time when love was beginning to transcend boundaries and expectations.

Outside, the bustling city of London continued its rhythmic pulse, unaware of the quiet revolution unfolding within the walls of Bridgerton House—a revolution led by two hearts brave enough to defy convention and choose love, in all its unexpected forms.

'Cause we were both young when I first saw you

Eloise stood by the window of their home, gazing out at the bustling streets of London. It had been nearly a year since their marriage, and the city seemed to hum with a different energy. Change was in the air, and she couldn't help but feel a sense of pride in what she and y/n had accomplished together.

The early morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. Beside her, y/n stirred in their sleep, their features softened in the gentle dawn. Eloise smiled fondly, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from y/n's face. They had been through so much together—the secret glances, the stolen kisses, the fear of discovery—and yet, here they were, stronger than ever.

Their marriage had sparked conversations across London society. Some viewed it with curiosity, others with disdain, but Eloise and y/n had found unexpected allies among their peers. Lady Danbury, always a force to be reckoned with, had become a staunch supporter, using her influence to deflect any lingering whispers of scandal.

As Eloise reflected on their journey, she couldn't help but marvel at how far they had come. They had faced challenges and uncertainties, but through it all, their love had remained steadfast. They had created a sanctuary within their home, where they could be themselves without fear of judgement or reprisal.

Outside, the city continued to wake up to a new day. Carriages rumbled past, merchants called out their wares, and London life carried on its bustling rhythm. Eloise turned back to y/n, watching as they stirred awake, their eyes fluttering open to meet hers.

"Good morning," y/n murmured, their voice still laced with sleep.

"Good morning," Eloise replied, leaning in to press a soft kiss to y/n's lips. They shared a quiet moment together, the warmth of their embrace speaking volumes where words fell short.

"I never imagined we'd be here," y/n whispered, their fingers tracing patterns on Eloise's cheek.

"Neither did I," Eloise admitted, her heart swelling with emotion. "But I wouldn't change a thing."

They lay entwined in each other's arms, basking in the simple joy of being together. Outside, the city continued its daily hustle, but in their sanctuary, time seemed to stand still.

In the weeks and months that followed, Eloise and y/n continued to navigate their newfound roles as partners in life and advocates for change. They attended social events hand in hand, their presence a quiet yet powerful statement of love and acceptance. Through their actions, they hoped to pave the way for others who dared to love outside of society's conventions.

Occasionally, they would steal moments alone, away from the prying eyes of society, to remind themselves of the bond they shared. Whether it was a quiet evening at home or a stolen kiss in a secluded corner of a ballroom, every moment together reaffirmed their commitment to each other.

Their love story became a beacon of hope for those who yearned for acceptance and understanding. Slowly but surely, attitudes began to shift. Families whispered their support in drawing rooms, friends offered quiet encouragement over tea, and London society found itself grappling with the idea that love knew no boundaries.

As the years passed, Eloise and y/n's love story continued to unfold, weaving itself into the fabric of London's history. They faced challenges and triumphs together, building a life filled with laughter, companionship, and unwavering devotion.

Eloise often found herself marvelling at the resilience of y/n, their strength and determination a constant source of inspiration. Together, they navigated the complexities of societal expectations and personal desires, forging a path that defied tradition and embraced love in its purest form.

And so, in the quiet moments before dawn, as the city stirred awake outside their window, Eloise held y/n close, knowing that their love had not only changed their lives but had also left an indelible mark on the world around them.

I did not plan the lyrics around an epilogue and ran out HAHA oopsie

“He’s sweet,” she’d promised. “Total gentleman. You’ll love him.”

Love him.

You already hated the idea.

As an omega, blind dates were… complicated. Some alphas came with assumptions baked in—the need to protect, to claim, to dominate, even when you didn’t invite it. You weren’t looking for that. Not tonight. You wanted someone who would see you. Someone who would choose you because you were you—not because their instincts told them to.

You approached the hostess stand and gave your name. A polite nod directed you toward the back of the restaurant.

Only—

The man sitting at your table wasn’t alone.

Across from him sat a woman. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Jaw strong, posture effortless. Alpha scent rich, grounding, even from several feet away. Clean cedarwood and something faintly citrus that didn’t announce itself but lingered in the air.

Your chest stuttered.

She was devastating.

And very clearly, not your date.

“Um… hi,” you stammered. “Is this table for Daniel?”

The man blinked. “Yeah?”

The alpha’s eyes lifted. And when they met yours, something shifted. Recognition. Surprise. Heat.

“Oh,” she said, voice low and warm. “You’re not who I was expecting.”

You frowned. “I think there’s been a mistake.”

Daniel checked his phone. “Wait… my blind date’s name is Melissa.”

The woman’s brow quirked. “Mine’s Y/N.”

All three of you froze.

Then it clicked.

The hostess had mixed up the reservations.

You glanced at Daniel. “Uh… you want to switch?”

Her gaze held yours. Steady. Curious. A subtle smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Not at all,” she said.

She stood and brushed lightly against your back as you passed. Just enough to guide, not claim.

And somehow, that made your omega instincts flare.

---

Fifteen minutes later, you were sitting across from her instead of Daniel.

The universe had clearly decided to throw you into chaos.

“I’m Melissa,” she said finally, offering her hand. “Mel.”

Her grip was firm, grounding. Gentle, but unmistakably alpha.

“Y/N,” you said.

Her smile was easy, self-assured. “So. Blind date?”

“Unfortunately.”

She laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine. “Mine too. Sister insisted. Said I need to settle down.”

You snorted. “Mine said I need to stop being picky.”

Mel leaned back, arms casually on the table. Her gaze didn’t wander. She didn’t need to impress you; she just watched. Studied. Not in a possessive way, not in a testing way—just… interest.

“I’m guessing Daniel isn’t your type?” she asked slowly.

You gestured subtly toward the other table. “No offense to him… but no.”

Mel’s mouth twitched. “Good.”

Your heartbeat stuttered. “Good?”

“Because he’s definitely not mine,” she said casually.

The air shifted. Not tense. Not heavy. Charged.

Dinner with Daniel would’ve been polite. Stiff. Forgettable.

Dinner with Mel was laughter spilling too loud for the restaurant, playful arguments with the waiter over dessert portions, and teasing questions about your work.

She leaned forward, chin resting on her knuckles, elbows on the table, eyes never leaving yours. “So… you hate it when alphas assume omegas need protection all the time?”

You blinked. “Yeah… it’s exhausting.”

She nodded. “Agreed. Everyone deserves to feel safe. But that doesn’t mean they can’t handle themselves.”

Your chest warmed at the normalcy in her words. “Refreshingly normal,” you murmured.

“I try,” she said simply, smirk tugging at her lips.

When the server accidentally brushed your chair while setting a plate down, Mel’s hand shot out instinctively, steadying you at your waist.

You froze for the smallest moment—aware of the heat pooling low in your chest.

Immediately, her hand softened, retreating just enough. “Sorry. Reflex,” she said, unconcerned, not flustered.

It was the gentlest, most alpha gesture you’d ever received: protective, but not claiming.

You relaxed. You liked that.

---

Halfway through dessert, your phone buzzed.

A text from your friend.

Well??? Is he cute???

You glanced at Mel, who was busy teasing the waiter about whether cheesecake counted as “light.” You typed back:

Wrong person. Right night.

Mel caught your eyes and smiled knowingly. “Good news?”

“Very,” you whispered.

She leaned forward slightly, voice low. “So… this was technically a mistake.”

“Technically.”

She tilted her head, studying you, curiosity flickering in her gaze. “Do you want it to stay that way?”

Your pulse spiked. You reached across the table, intertwining your fingers with hers. Warm, steady, deliberate. “No,” you said softly.

The softest, almost imperceptible smile crossed her face. “Good,” she murmured.

---

After paying, she insisted on walking you out. The night air was cool and smelled faintly of rain. City lights reflected in her eyes, making them glow with subtle amber flecks.

She stopped just a step away, close enough for the heat radiating from her to brush against you—but not close enough to trap you.

“I’d like to see you again,” she said softly.

“I’d like that too,” you admitted, heart thudding.

A pause, then her voice dropped just slightly, teasing and warm. “Can I kiss you?”

Your breath hitched. “Yes.”

Her hand cupped your cheek slowly, deliberately, giving you space to pull back if you wanted. When her lips met yours, it was careful. Warm. Full of promise—but not possession.

When she broke the kiss, her forehead rested lightly against yours.

“Worst blind date ever,” she murmured.

“Best mistake I’ve ever made,” you whispered back.

As she intertwined her fingers with yours again, you realized something: sometimes, the universe doesn’t get it right.

Sometimes, it gets it perfectly right.

---

Fifteen minutes later, she suggested coffee at a nearby late-night café. You both laughed at the absurdity of leaving a fancy restaurant for neon-lit coffee, but her presence made it feel natural.

Sitting across from each other with warm mugs in hand, conversation flowed effortlessly. Stories, laughter, shared frustrations about alpha expectations, the quiet pride of small accomplishments at work.

Every glance, every subtle touch of her hand brushing against yours as she reached for her cup, sent pulses of warmth down your arms. Your omega instincts hummed in a low, contented resonance—not needy, not desperate, but aware.

Mel leaned back in her chair, eyes catching yours. “You know,” she said, soft smile tugging at her lips, “I think I’ve been waiting for a night like this.”

“Me too,” you admitted.

Her thumb brushed lightly against the back of your hand, the smallest contact, yet it reverberated through your chest like a grounding anchor. “Then let’s not waste it,” she whispered.

And for the first time in a long time, you realized that wrong tables and mistaken reservations might just be fate nudging you exactly where you needed to be.

You loved thrift stores.

You loved the quiet treasure-hunt energy. The slow wandering. The way everything inside had once belonged to someone else and was now waiting for a second life.

You tugged your oversized sweater sleeves over your hands and grabbed a cart, exhaling slowly.

Today wasn’t about buying something specific.

It was about feeling.

Grounded. Cozy. Distracted.

And then the air shifted.

Subtle.

Warm. Clean. Steady.

Alpha.

Your breath caught before you could stop it.

It wasn’t overpowering — no aggressive wave of dominance, no sharp spike of territorial scent. Just something grounded and centered, like cedarwood warmed by sun.

You swallowed and forced yourself not to look immediately.

You were not going to be obvious.

You turned toward a rack of flannels, pretending you weren’t hyperaware of the tall figure on the other side.

“Excuse me,” a soft voice said.

You looked up.

And nearly forgot how to breathe.

Melissa “Mel” King stood there holding a worn leather jacket, one hand tucked casually into her jeans pocket. Her dark hair was pulled back loosely, a few strands falling across her forehead like she’d run her hand through it on the way in.

She looked relaxed. Effortlessly so.

Her brown eyes met yours.

Warm. Curious. Kind.

“Oh — sorry,” you said quickly, stepping back — and promptly bumping into a rack of scarves.

It wobbled dangerously.

Mel caught it without hesitation.

Strong hands. Steady grip. Controlled movement.

“You’re good,” she murmured, voice low but gentle. “Didn’t mean to crowd you.”

Her scent shifted slightly when she moved closer — still steady, but warmer now. A little brighter.

You nodded, cheeks warming. “I have terrible spatial awareness.”

A faint smile touched her mouth. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Why was that flustering?

You grabbed the nearest flannel just to give your hands something to do.

Mel glanced at it. “That one’s a good find.”

“You think?” you asked.

“Vintage cut,” she said, stepping closer — but not too close. “Real cotton. It’ll soften even more with wear.”

Your heart did something embarrassingly hopeful.

“You thrift a lot?” you asked.

“Whenever I can,” she replied. “There’s something about giving things a second life.”

Her voice softened on that last part.

You felt it land somewhere deeper than it should have.

“You looking for anything specific?” she asked.

You shook your head. “Just treasure hunting.”

Her smile widened slightly. “Mind if I join?”

Your omega instincts perked instantly, practically leaning forward.

You kept your tone steady.

“Sure.”

---

Treasure #1

You found it first.

A ridiculously oversized university hoodie in the softest faded blue. The cuffs were worn thin. The fabric perfectly broken in.

You held it up triumphantly.

Mel’s expression changed immediately.

Something warm flickered in her eyes.

“That’s dangerous,” she said.

“Dangerous?” you laughed.

She stepped closer, lowering her voice slightly — not possessive, just quieter.

“You put that on, and you’re never taking it off.”

You grinned and slipped it over your head anyway.

It swallowed you whole.

The sleeves hung past your fingers. The hem brushed your thighs.

You felt cozy instantly.

Mel visibly swallowed.

Your scent shifted — pleased, warm, comforted.

Her shoulders straightened subtly. Not in dominance.

In restraint.

“It suits you,” she said gently.

The way she said it made your pulse jump.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Her gaze lingered a second too long — then she deliberately looked at the rack instead.

You noticed that too.

She was careful.

And that made something inside you soften.

---

Treasure #2

Mel discovered an old vinyl record tucked behind a stack of cookbooks.

“You have a record player?” you asked.

“Yeah,” she replied. “Found it broken at a yard sale. Fixed it up.”

Of course she did.

“You fix things?”

“When I can.”

You tilted your head. “You don’t even know if that record works.”

She shrugged lightly. “Some things are worth the risk.”

Her eyes flicked toward you again.

Your breath hitched.

You looked down quickly, pretending to inspect a chipped ceramic mug.

Your omega instincts were hyperaware now — not overwhelmed, not pressured.

Just aware.

Mel wasn’t pushing.

She was observing. Adjusting. Letting you set the pace.

That kind of control — the kind that chose restraint — was dangerously attractive.

---

The Blanket

You both reached for the same woven blanket in the home section.

Your fingers brushed.

It was like static — not painful, but sharp.

Both of you froze.

Mel pulled her hand back first. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine—”

You both laughed softly.

The tension shifted from startled to charged.

“You can have it,” she offered.

You shook your head. “You grabbed it first.”

She studied you for a moment.

Not assessing ownership.

Assessing comfort.

“How about,” she said slowly, “we split the cost… and whoever needs it more that day gets it?”

Your omega brain short-circuited.

“That’s… very domestic of you.”

A blush crept up her neck immediately.

“I didn’t mean— I just—”

You smiled, softer now. “I don’t mind if you did.”

Silence settled between you again.

Not awkward.

Intentional.

Mel’s voice lowered.

“There’s a coffee shop down the street,” she said. “We could compare finds. Proper treasure evaluation.”

You pretended to consider it.

“Is that an official process?”

“Very serious. Requires caffeine.”

You nodded solemnly. “Then we have no choice.”

Her grin returned — more confident now.

“Good.”

---

Checkout

The cashier scanned your items — hoodie, flannel, a stack of old paperbacks, the shared blanket.

“Together?” they asked.

You and Mel looked at each other.

She didn’t answer immediately.

She waited.

The choice was yours.

Your chest warmed at that.

You nodded.

“Together,” she said softly.

Her hand brushed yours when she passed her card over.

This time it wasn’t accidental.

And she didn’t pull away immediately.

---

The Walk

Outside, the afternoon sun filtered down gently.

Mel adjusted the bags on her arm. Without asking, she shifted one of yours onto her shoulder too.

“You don’t have to—” you started.

“I know,” she said easily. “I want to.”

Your omega melted a little.

The walk to the coffee shop was slow.

Comfortable.

She asked about your favorite thrift find ever. You told her about the time you found a leather-bound copy of a childhood favorite book for two dollars.

She listened like it mattered.

Really listened.

When you got animated, she smiled at you like you were the most interesting thing in the world.

It did something dangerous to your heart.

---

Coffee & Confessions

The coffee shop was small and warm, sunlight catching dust motes in the air.

You slid into a booth across from her.

“So,” she said, folding her hands on the table. “Treasure evaluation.”

You pulled the hoodie sleeves over your hands again. “Ten out of ten comfort.”

She nodded seriously. “Strong structural integrity. Excellent color choice.”

You laughed.

“And the record?” you asked.

“Unknown quality. High emotional value.”

You tilted your head. “Sentimental alpha?”

She smiled faintly. “Maybe.”

A pause.

Then she asked, quieter, “Can I be honest?”

Your pulse quickened. “Okay.”

“When I walked in,” she said, “I wasn’t expecting to find anything.”

Her eyes held yours steadily now.

“But then you were there.”

Your breath caught.

“And?”

“And I don’t believe in coincidence much,” she continued. “But this feels like one.”

Your omega instincts flared warm and bright — not overwhelmed.

Chosen.

Not claimed.

Chosen.

You swallowed. “You don’t even know me.”

She leaned back slightly, giving you space.

“I know you like second chances,” she said softly. “You light up over worn-in fabric. You get excited about hidden treasures. And you look like you belong in that hoodie.”

Your heart thudded.

“That’s not knowing me,” you whispered.

“It’s a start.”

Silence lingered again.

Then she added gently, “I’d like to know the rest. If you’d let me.”

No pressure.

No assumption.

Just invitation.

You reached across the table this time.

Your fingers brushed hers.

Intentional.

“You can start with coffee,” you said quietly.

Her hand turned, fingers curling lightly around yours.

“Deal.”

---

Outside Again

When you stepped back onto the sidewalk, the air felt different.

Softer.

Fuller.

Mel adjusted the shared blanket in the bag.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I usually thrift alone.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” She glanced at you. “But I think I just found my favorite thing here.”

Your breath hitched.

“Oh?”

She looked at you fully now.

“You.”

Your omega instincts practically melted into the pavement.

You stepped closer without thinking.

“Well,” you said softly, “good thing I’m not secondhand.”

Her answering grin was warm and certain.

“No,” she murmured. “You’re one of a kind.”

And as you walked down the sidewalk together — shared bags brushing, fingers occasionally grazing, a shared blanket waiting for whichever of you needed it first — you realized something.

Some things don’t need fixing.

Some things don’t need restoring.

Some things are found exactly when they’re meant to be.

And sometimes?

The best treasures aren’t on the shelf.

They’re standing right across from you, waiting to be chosen.

TAGLIST:

Your leg bounces against the tiled floor and you sigh, grabbing your phone to scroll through your camera roll until your girlfriend shows up.

As you’re deleting all your unnecessary screenshots, you come across a candid picture you took of Mel. Your face heats up as you remember that night.

You were both exhausted after a 10 hour shift, but Mel had insisted on preparing dinner for you and Becca. You offered to pay for takeout but Mel had rolled her sleeves up and chopped up some vegetables, saying her usual spiel about daily nutrients and getting enough fiber. You had smiled and came up behind her to press a kiss to her cheek, but you accidentally startled her and the knife slipped.

You helped her clean up the cut and finish dinner, but when you two went to bed later that night, and Mel’s hand started snaking down your sleep shorts, she suddenly stilled.

Mel had to pass on using her bandaged fingers to make you cum, so she went down on you instead. She mouthed over your cunt so eagerly her glasses fogged up. Her tongue dragged over your slit again and again until you whined and tugged on her braid, and she relented - using her other hand to spread your folds open while she pressed a kiss inside.

You squirm at the memory, suddenly sweating. A familiar heat pools in your stomach and you feel a faint dampness collecting in your panties.

The door to the break room swings open and you flinch, scrambling to make yourself busy. You hastily gather the playing cards into a stack and fumble with fitting them back in the box.

“I guess you haven’t been busy?” Mel asks as she settles down in the seat across from you.

“No, not really.” You answer, avoiding her gaze as you try to blink away the thoughts of her mouth on yours.

You bite your lip in frustration as the cards slip out of your grasp and spill all over the table. Mel holds out her hand, unbothered. You place the empty box in her palm and help her stack the cards in one pile. She eases them into the box and closes the top, giving you a smile. You can tell she’s tired by the way she massages her neck, so you keep to yourself and give her the time to take a breather.

Mel hesitates for a few seconds, watching you as you fidget absentmindedly with the stethoscope around your neck.

“ I, um, have a surprise for you. Do you want to see it? I don’t think we’re getting any more patients any time soon.”

You look up at her. Mel’s cheeks are a rosy pink. She stares at you sheepishly and you grin.

“Sure.”

You follow Mel across the emergency department to the lockers. Your footsteps echo through the hallway and you can hear the steady beeps and gentle snoring coming from each room.

Mel punches in the code for your locker and swings the door open before unlocking her own. You set the deck of cards in your backpack as she rummages through her belongings and shoves something in her pocket.

Once she’s ready, she shuts her locker and leads you to the bathroom. Mel stops just outside the door and glances around the hallway.

“Ellis is doing her rounds. I’m sure it’ll be fine if we step off for a few minutes.” you reassure her.

Mel blinks. “Oh. Yeah. Sounds good.” Her gaze flits across the department again before she pushes the bathroom door open.

You trail after her. “What do you want to eat after we get out? I’m thinking we could stop by Eatn’ Park. My treat.” You offer as Mel starts washing her hands at the sink. You stare at her long fingers and swallow.

“You sure? I mean, I’m okay with that. You just seem pretty tired.” Mel says. She dries her hands off with a paper towel and tosses it into the trash can.

“ Oh no, I’m fine. I’m surprisingly not tired. Must be that tea you made for me before we clocked in.”

“Yeah?” Mel responds, pushing a stall door open.

You nod and lean against the wall, ready to wait for her while she uses the restroom.

Mel meets your gaze and tilts her head towards the stall. “C’mere.”

You furrow your eyebrows but listen, joining her inside the small space. Your back presses against the door as she locks it shut. Mel’s knees awkwardly insert in between yours.

“So… the surprise..?” you ask as you wrap your arms around Mel’s waist.

Mel doesn’t say anything. Instead, she shuffles closer and kisses you.

You immediately reciprocate, your hands automatically tightening around her hips as you pull her towards you. Mel tugs your bottom lip in between her teeth and you sigh in response. She pushes her tongue into your mouth right as she nudges your legs open to settle her thigh in between yours.

You stifle a moan as you begin to grind on her leg. The sound of fabric brushing fabric echoes throughout the empty bathroom. Your heart beats in your ears.

Mel pulls away to brush some hair out of her face and your lips chase after hers. You dip your head down to suck at that sweet spot on her neck and she groans. Your cotton panties are slick, the arousal easing the friction between your cunt and Mel’s scrubs.

Mel starts to untie your scrub bottoms and reality hits you. You nip at her neck in retaliation.

“We can’t. Need to get back to work.” you breathe into her ear. Despite the ache in your stomach and the way Mel’s quiet whines make your hips jolt across her thigh, you know that you both have a responsibility to your patients.

“I’ll make it quick, promise.” Mel begs desperately. She pulls away to look in your eyes and you immediately give in.

You know better than to let Mel make you orgasm even once because of how insatiable she is. Some nights she’ll bring you to a high over and over until you’re seeing stars and the bedsheets are wet with devotion. But you don’t doubt Mel. You trust her and know very well how she can make you cum in an embarrassing amount of time.

“Okay. Just one.” you nod.

Mel grins and kisses you again in gratitude. She must really be exhausted. She only gets like this when she wants to relax, and nothing makes her feel better than seeing you go dumb on pleasure because of her.

You hear Mel take her hand out of her pocket, another layer of fabric rustling spinning through your ears.

Mel dips her fingers down your stomach and your head falls onto her shoulder. Your breaths hit her collarbone, quick and shallow as her rough fingertips gently prod at your clit over your panties. Mel bites her lip when she feels how wet you are.

She starts drawing circles over your clit and you slowly let go of your haste to indulge in pleasure. Just as your mind starts to go fuzzy, Mel removes her fingers and replaces them with something else. You faintly register that Mel is holding something in her palm when you feel a firm pressure against your cunt and hear a barely audible click.

You feel the buzzing before you hear the soft hum of the vibrator Mel presses against your pussy. You let out a choked groan at the unexpected sensation and keen into Mel’s shoulder. She shushes you gently and runs a hand down your side as she returns to making circles around your clit.

You tremble against Mel, already feeling that knot form in your belly. Mel angles the vibe until it’s adjusted enough and the shaft hovers over your slit. Mel uses her knee to open your thighs wider and spread open your folds. She presses the shaft into your cunt, your panties a thin layer preventing it from dipping inside any further.

You whine and dig your nails into Mel’s hips. She moans in response, rambling under her breath about how pretty you look right now.

You’re so wet the vibe starts to glide across your cunt. Your hips grind automatically against the toy.

Mel leans down to press a kiss to your head and you break - climaxing so hard your knees almost give out. As you recover, Mel bumps the vibrations up by another level and you squeal.

“Just one more - please - just one-“ Mel pleads, pushing the shaft deeper until your cunt sucks it in and it touches your g-spot.

You moan so loudly Mel presses you against the stall door and covers your mouth. She watches your fucked out expression with furrowed eyebrows and her chest heaves.

You don’t last long until your orgasm approaches a second time and you’re arching into Mel’s chest, gripping onto any part of her you can reach. Mel turns down the vibration level and pulls the part away from your clit. She thrusts the shaft in and out of your cunt until you finish riding out your high and the sound of your slick-soaked panties echoes through the bathroom.

Mel pulls the vibe out of your bottoms and you can see it clearly for the first time. It’s a light pink. You think you painted your nails the same shade a few weeks ago.

“Hell of a surprise.” you weakly laugh as you glance up at Mel’s face. She looks wrecked, her cheeks and ears blushing pink.

She brings the vibe to her mouth and sucks your arousal off the silicone, keeping eye contact with you the entire time.

You press your thighs together as you watch. The wet gusset of your panties digs into your clit and you swallow.

“I wanted to try something new. Did you like it?” Mel asks earnestly after popping the vibe out of her mouth. She stares at you like she’s asking you about breakfast and not how she just made you cum twice in a few minutes.

“God, yes. That was insane.” you groan.

You bend over to grab some toilet paper and start cleaning yourself up.

“Oh, here -“ Mel reaches in her pocket again and pulls out a pair of your cotton underwear.

You blink at her before shaking your head with a smile. “Thank you.”

Mel helps you step out of your bottoms to change. She takes your old panties and shoves them in her pocket without a word. You raise an eyebrow at the action but don’t say anything either.

You two step out of the stall to fix yourselves up. Mel washes the vibe with cold water and wraps it up in a paper towel before putting it back in her pocket. She washes her hands as you retie your hair back into a ponytail.

Your knees still feel weak as you follow Mel to the lockers. You nervously glance around the hallway as she puts your underwear and the vibe into her bag with an unbothered expression.

She closes her locker shut and turns to you with a smile. “How would you feel about trying a strap next time?”

It didn’t take you long to realize you were in love with Dr. Melissa King. The second you saw her you were drawn to her, intrigued and bewitched all at once. You wanted to know her, to see her, you wanted *her.* You got close very quickly, bonding with her over your shared neurodivergence. You did see her, truthfully. You saw what bothered her and learned how to help her. You wouldn’t touch her when she was overstimulated, a fact you thought was so minor but Mel noticed. She always noticed.

She saw everything you did for her, how much you cared, how you always went out of your way to talk to her when no one else would. Mel saw it all, which is why she fell in love with you too. Even though you knew from the start, it took a long time for Mel to see it too…with a lot of help from Dr. Mohan.

You and Mel were best friends, you both knew it, hell everyone knew it. This is why it took Mel so long to realize, because she couldn’t decipher the difference between platonic and romantic love. Mel always knew she loved being around you, spending time with you, you’re the only person she lets touch her. Mel just thought you were best friends, until one particular incident sent everything in motion.

“Fuck me.” You groan quietly to yourself, staring ahead at Mel on the other side of the nurse’s station. She was standing in front of Langdon, staring up at him with those glittering brown eyes. You saw the twinkle in her eye, the way she smiled and laughed. You were drowning in your own jealousy, only pulling yourself up for air when Dennis shows up beside you.

“Let me guess-” He starts, resting against the counter next to you. “Staring at the lovebirds?” You scoff and glare at him.

“They are not in love.” You hiss.

“But that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

“Whatever, Denny.” You sigh and look back at the two ‘lovebirds.’

“Why do you torture yourself like this?” He asks, voice losing its teasing edge.

“I could ask you the same goddamn thing.” You spit, finally spinning to face him and ignoring the happy couple ahead.

“Excuse me?” His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.

“Your obsession with Dr. Robby.” Dennis quickly shushes you and scowls.

“It is not an obsession.”

“Whatever you say, Denny. Stop criticizing me for something you do all the time, okay?” You give him a fake forced smile before walking away, lab results in hand. Mel stops you in your tracks as you try to walk past, looking at you with those same sparkling eyes. You have to remind yourself that this gaze isn’t reserved for you, she doesn’t see you that way.

“Hey! I was looking for you.” She says happily.

“Me? Why?” You can’t help but smile, tilting your head to the side as you admire her.

“I was talking to Dr. Langdon and-” You make some sort of audible sound because Mel stops and eyes you. “Is everything okay?”

“Yup. Fine.” You nod once, looking down at the chart in your hand. “I have a patient to see, excuse me.” You say with a lowered voice, swiftly pushing past her and toward your patient’s room. Mel furrows her brows and glances over at Whitaker as he walks over.

“Is she okay?” Mel asks him, glancing back as she watches you storm off.

“She’s never okay.” Dennis huffs out a laugh, looking up at the patient board.

“Seriously?” Mel asks, looking back at him with wide eyes.

“I mean…I was joking but, kind of yeah.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal and it makes Mel irrationally angry. Does no one care about your well-being?

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She has a general hatred for the world, the universe. Never stops complaining about how unfair it is to her. I don’t know, she’s always angry about something.” Dennis sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He’s had to deal with far too many of your rants and vents.

“I’ve never seen her angry.” Mel says, brows furrowed.

“That’s because you’re like the only good thing in her life. Can’t really get mad at the sun for shining down on you and brightening your day.” Mel’s lips twitch into a smile.

“She…she thinks of me as sunshine?” Dennis whips his head to look at her, eyes wide with fear. He’s afraid he’s said too much.

“Uh…yeah.” He swallows.

“So…she isn’t mad at me?”

“Please, she couldn’t be mad at you if she tried.” Mel smiles again and Dennis has to quickly excuse himself before he says anything else. Mel wasn’t so upset after this interaction, now realizing you weren’t angry with her. She doesn’t think she could handle you being upset with her, couldn’t bear the sight of you scowling at her the way you do others.

The point is, Mel was relieved and had gotten some peace of mind back. That is…until she ran into you again.

You were at the nurse’s station, sat at a computer as you catch up on some charting. She walked over so silently and stealthily, you didn’t have time to bolt. She suddenly showed up next to you, rolling over in her stool.

“Hi.”

“Jesus fuck-” You hiss, looking over and feeling that same jealousy and anger from before build up in your chest. You didn’t mean to be rude, you were trying really hard to do the exact opposite. So far, you weren’t very successful. “What are you doing here?”

“I didn’t get to talk to you earlier since you had a patient. I thought we could talk now while you chart.” Mel smiles.

“Mm, talk about what?” You ask, not looking away from the keyboard as you type.

“The same thing from earlier. I was working on a trauma patient with Dr. Langdon-” Your heart lurches at the mention of his name, visions of her staring up at him with that goofy smile clouding your mind. You shake it off, telling yourself to get over it. You tune back into the conversation, listening to what else she’s saying. “-I mean, it was so awesome! I’ve never seen anything like it, he really is just incredible.” Mel sighs, making you flinch. “He’s an amazing doctor and-”

“Look, Mel.” You stand abruptly, stool rolling out from under you. “I should really check on the patients in triage. I’ll see you later.” You’re already walking away before you finish speaking. Mel frowns, a strange and all-consuming sadness eating away at her stomach. She bites the inside of her cheek as she looks around, slowly lowering her gaze back down to her hands in her lap.

Mel tried to remind herself that you weren’t mad at her in particular, you were probably just having a bad day. Her suspicions were confirmed when she saw you at the nurse’s station, Langdon leaning over the counter beside you and mumbling something. You keep nodding frantically before saying ‘okay’ in a raised voice. Mel’s brows furrow when she sees how angry you look. You shout ‘okay’ again, and she can hear you grit it out through a clenched jaw.

“I’m sorry if-” Langdon tries but you start screaming.

“For fuck’s sake, Langdon! I told you I get it, how many times do I have to say it again before you actually fucking hear me?!” You shout, ignoring everyone’s eyes landing on you. Langdon looks around nervously, trying to laugh it off.

“Okay…I really am s-”

“Oh, sorry!” You scoff. “You’re sorry.” You say it in such a mocking tone. “Fucking douche.” You mutter to yourself, scrambling for your charts for a patient.

“Hey.” He tries to grab you and you yank your arm back, staring him down with dark eyes.

“Do me a favor and leave me the hell alone! Got it?!” He nods slowly and you storm off, pushing past people crowding around with angry grumbles. Mel watches you walk off, if this were a cartoon she’s sure you’d have a trail of smoke following after you.

So yeah, Mel was pretty sure today was just a bad day. She was finally reassured but somehow it once again managed to all come crumbling down. She found you outside after your shift, leaning against the wall with a blunt between your lips.

“You know that’s bad for you.” Mel says softly, smiling as she walks over. You glance at her and give her a small forced smile.

“So I’ve heard. At least it isn’t nicotine, so…it’ll be a slower death.” You huff. Mel watches you with a concerned look, shaking her head before talking again.

“Is everything okay? You’ve been-”

“Bitchy?” You finish, laughing when Mel’s mouth hangs open in response.

“I wasn’t going to word it like that…”

“I’m fine, Mel.” You say, putting out your blunt before walking off, trying to get to your car.

“A-Are you sure? Because you know if anything’s wrong you can always come to me! I’ll always-” She’s running after you now, trying to catch up.

“I said I’m fine.” You say, whipping around to face her again. You both stop in your tracks, staring at the other. “Jesus, is everyone deaf today?” You sigh, running a hand through your hair. Mel hadn’t noticed it before, now pulled down from its claw clip. It’s longer than she thought, cascading down and past your shoulders in beautiful brown waves. She watches it blow with the wind, she can’t help but think you look so beautiful like this.

“I’m sorry-”

“Yeah, apparently everyone is sorry today. Look, Mel, I said I’m fine. Please just…leave it alone.” You try to turn again and her hand reaches out, grabbing your wrist. You flinch away as if she’d burned you, looking down at it with teary eyes.

“I’m sorry, I just-” She stutters out, her voice breaking.

“Mel!” You yell, looking at her with a similar look you’d given Langdon. Mel swears she feels something crack in her chest. “I told you to fucking leave me alone! Respect that and go away!” You yell, not really thinking clearly. You see the look on her face, can practically see the moment her heart breaks. “I’m…” You pause, voice and expression softening. “I’m really fine.” You swallow. “I’ll be back to normal tomorrow just…give me a little time.” Mel nods slowly, now avoiding your eyes.

You nod and sigh, finally making it to your car and locking yourself inside. Mel stands there for a while after you leave, just frozen in place as the cold wind bites her skin. Her hand reaches up and rests over her chest, like she’s trying to remind herself it’s still there and not on the ground in a million pieces. She wipes away a few tears before finally making her way home for the night.

You don’t show up for work the next day.

Mel’s is a funk the entire day, walking around on autopilot and seeming like a robot version of herself. Mohan notices, she always does, her empathy is endless. She finally gets Mel alone and they sit in the break room. She waits for Mel to speak first, just sitting there to let her know she’s there for her.

“Y/n isn’t here.” She finally whispers, staring down at the table in front of her.

“I noticed.”

“She…she said she’d be here.”

“Yeah.”

“She…she was angry with me but she said she’d be back to normal today. She said she just needed time I-” Mel’s voice cracks. “I don’t know what I did.” The tears flow freely now. Mohan watches with a frown, eyes softening at the sight. She knew you were angry and she also knew the real reason, but of course she’s sworn to secrecy. She has to do her best to help the both of you without revealing the others secrets.

“You didn’t do anything. She snapped at Langdon too, and she even yelled at Dennis.” She rests a hand on the table in front of Mel, a quiet reminder that she’s here to support her. “Did she say why she was upset?”

“No…I really thought she would, she tells me everything. She just said to leave her alone and give her time. She kept saying she was ‘fine’ but I know that isn’t true because when things are actually fine she says it’s ‘okay.’ She only says she’s ‘fine’ when something’s wrong but she won’t admit it or talk about it.” Mel rambles and Mohan smiles at the fact that she knows you so well. “But she always admits it to me…I know I did something.”

“You didn’t.”

“You don’t know that.” Mohan swallows the words threatening to spill past her lips. She promised. She just needs to find a way to solve things while still being ambiguous.

“Can I ask why it’s upsetting you so much?” She deflects.

“Because…she’s my best friend.” Mel’s voice softens with the words, her head shaking a bit.

“Are you sure?” Mohan asks gently. Mel finally looks up at her, brows furrowed.

“Of course…we tell each other everything and-”

“I mean-” Mohan cuts her off. “Are you sure you’re just best friends?” Mel shakes her head and frowns.

“I told you it isn’t like that.”

“Because you don’t feel it or because you’re worried she doesn’t?” Her voice is so quiet, so gentle, like she’s coaxing an animal out of its den.

“Samira.” Mel begs.

“Melissa.” She replies back, breathing out a laugh. “You know that anything you say to me is confidential. No one else will know what you say to me in this room. Now please, answer the question honestly instead of deflecting.”

“I don’t know.” Mel whispers. “I can’t…I can’t tell.”

“Alright.” Mohan leans forward in her chair, arms resting on the table. “Can I ask you a series of questions to try and help figure it out?” Mel freezes but eventually nods, hesitantly. “The first ones are easy, they can often be confused as normal platonic feelings unless you’re looking closely.” Mel nods again. “Do you like spending time with her?”

“Of course.”

“Do you miss her when she’s gone?”

“Obviously.” Mel huffs out a nervous laugh, lacing her hands together.

“Do you think about her when she’s gone, even if she’s just in a different room?” Mel nods slowly. “A lot?” Another nod. “Do you like being close to her? Hugging her or letting her hug you?”

“Yeah…I usually don’t but…I don’t know, I like it when she does. It feels different.”

“Good different?”

“Great different.” Mel nods with a small smile, thinking about you hugging her when she had a meltdown.

“Okay, I have a sneaking suspicion but let’s move on to the next round of questions to be sure.” Mel nods and takes a deep breath. “Do you go out of your way to find her? Seek her out?” A nod. “How do you usually feel when you finally find her? Finally get to spend time with her?”

“Like…” She takes another deep breath, sighing loudly as she squeezes her hands together. “Like everything’s okay. It can be the worst day ever but when I see her, when I get to talk to her it’s like it fixes everything. Even after the Pitt Fest incident…” She pauses. “I never thought I’d get over it…but then I met her outside after our shift and she pulled me close, she hugged me while I cried. By the time I finally pulled away I felt so…so light.” She can’t hide the smile forming on her face at the memory. “I felt like all my problems and worries just washed away.” She meets Mohan’s eyes again and watches her nod back with a grin.

“Good, good.” She smiles. “You’re doing great.” Mel sighs and smiles with a nod. “How do you feel when she touches you? Hugs you, rests a hand on your arm or holds your hand?”

“The same way…mostly. I like when she touches me.” Mel shrugs. “It feels nice, like…like little tingles running throughout my body. I feel light and heavy at the same time, I feel like I could fly but also like I’m secured to the ground. I feel stable and…and happy.” She smiles again, her lips pulling into a wide grin. “My palms also get really sweaty, does that happen a lot?”

“Yes, it does.” Mohan answers to which Mel nods with a sigh of relief. “I’m pretty sure I have my answer but…is it okay if I ask you one more question?” She asks, watching Mel wince. “You don’t have to.”

“No…it’s okay.” She shakes her head.

“This one is the biggest one…the most important when trying to decipher romantic or platonic feelings.” Mel nods slowly, once again looking down at her hands in her lap. “Do you…think about kissing her?” She can see Mel’s breath hitch, her eyes widening.

“Like…o-on the lips or-”

“Anywhere.” Mel is quiet for a long time before she finally speaks up again.

“Sometimes…I think so. I-I think I used to think about it more often but I…I tried to bury it, I think?” She looks up and watches Mohan nod her head encouragingly. “I tried to ignore it and it was working but…now that you bring it up I’m-I’m reminded of all the times I have…imagined it.” Mel swallows.

“Do you ever imagine something…more?” Mohan asks hesitantly.

“Like…sexual?” Mel asks, nearly choking on the words.

“Yeah.” Mel is deathly silent, barely even breathing properly.

“I never really noticed.” She finally answers.

“Well…I have my diagnosis.” Mohan says, leaning back in her chair as she crosses her arms over her chest.

“Really? What is it?” Mel looks up at her eagerly, hands coming up to rest on the table as she leans forward.

“Based on your answers alone, and your reactions to the questions…” She pauses as Mel nods frantically. “I’d say you’re in love with her.” She whispers and Mel’s face falls. She shakes her head and frowns, breathing heavier.

“No…I-we’re just friends.” She insists.

“Mel…I know it’s hard to admit or deal with but-” She sighs. “Friends don’t want to kiss each other.”

“Are you sure?” Her voice cracks.

“Very.” Mel buries her face in her hands. “Look…I could still be wrong. Just…do me a favor.” She doesn’t wait for Mel to respond. “Whenever she comes back I want you to focus on those feelings, don’t push them away or bury them. Eventually you’ll just…know.” She stands up and Mel glances up.

“Just know?”

“Yeah.” Mohan laughs. “I know it sounds so cheesy but it’s true.” She shrugs. “At some point you look at them and it all falls into place. You see them and can’t help but think, ‘I’m so in love with you.’ That’s what you should be on the lookout for, okay?” She pats Mel’s shoulder once before leaving the breakroom.

The following weeks are spent analyzing your every move, unburying every thought and feeling that comes up. You come back to work the day after her talk with Mohan, apologizing to her profusely and telling her you were just having a rough time. Of course she forgave you without a second thought, she could never be mad at you. You went back to your usual best friend status, laughing and standing dangerously close to each other.

There were a total of three things that happened, three things that were the key moments before her eventual realization. The first:

It was something so simple, so mundane and basic. It’s something you do all the time, something everyone does and yet…her heart skipped a beat.

“Jesus, my head is killing me.” You groan, pulling at the scrunchie in your hair. You finally pull it out and slide it on your wrist, reaching up to fluff out your hair. It’s curled and poofy from being in a low bun, and it flows down your back so beautifully. She can smell your shampoo when you brush through your hair, the scent overtaking her senses. Mel freezes for a while, unable to focus on anything else. She’s been entranced by your smell and your beauty.

“Mel? You okay?” You finally ask, waving a hand in front of her face. Mel panics and shakes her head, eyes wide.

“Yes! Yeah, yeah I’m great.” She nods all too quickly before looking down at the papers in her hands. Something so simple that she would have usually ignored or overlooked…now turning her legs into jelly. The second:

“Hey!” You scream, running over to where a man is gripping Mel’s arm. His grip loosens but he doesn’t pull away, still holding onto her. “Let her go.” You finally walk up, wrapping your own hand around his wrist as you pull at it.

“Mind your business.” He spits out, leaning close.

“She is my fucking business.” You hiss back, eyeing him with a look that could kill. Mel somehow forgets all about the hand gripping her arm, too focused on your evil gaze. Too focused on how angry you are, how protective you look…and over her of all people.

“Tell her to stop fucking around and get my labs back!” He grips Mel’s arm tighter and pulls her into him.

“Enough!” You dig your nails into his skin, making him hiss and his grip loosen yet again. “You will let her go or so help me god, you won’t need those labs at all, because I will be sending you out of here in a goddamn body bag.” You say through gritted teeth. The man finally lets her go just as Ahmad shows up, taking the man with him outside. “Mel.” Your voice softens so much, it’s sickeningly sweet…and it’s directed at her.

“Yeah.” She manages to breathe out.

“You okay, hon?” You ask, voice thick like honey. You look down at her arm and hold onto it so gently, like she’s made of glass. “You have a pretty bad bruise.” You say, eyes alight with anger. “Fucking asshole.” You hiss.

“I’m fine.” Mel sighs, still watching you and not at all concerned with the pain in her arm. “Perfect.” She laughs. The third:

“Come on, come on! Let’s go!” Someone’s shouting, rolling a patient into a trauma room. There are people shouting diagnoses and heart rate levels. You’re focused on helping roll the gurney into the room, you tune out all their words. Mel’s standing across from you, helping you and the others switch the girl onto a bed.

“Her heart stopped.” Someone gasps, making you whip your head to look at the monitor.

“No.” You hiss, nudging someone else to the side as you get closer. “I’m not losing her.” You say, mostly to yourself. You hold your hands over her chest, starting compressions at the perfect rhythm despite your eagerness. “Come on baby.” You whisper.

Mel watches in awe. Her eyes scan up from your hands, to your arms, your chest that’s pushed together by your crossed arms, your neck, your face, your hair slowly coming undone and framing your face so perfectly. She thinks for a moment that her own heart has stopped, her breath catching. You don’t stop the compressions, keeping her stable while they prepare to shock her.

“Come on, hon, you got it.” You whisper to the girl. “Be strong, come on.” You sigh, the air blowing the strands of hair in front of your face. You pull away and they shock her, her heart rate steadying once more. You sigh loudly, shaking your head as you swallow. “There you go.” You smile, looking up at Mel and finding her eyes already on you. You give her that proud smile, your head tilting to the side as your gaze melts her into a puddle.

‘I love you so much.’

Mel’s eyes widen, mouth hanging open before she manages to exit the room. She lingers outside the door, panting as she tries to calm herself back down.

‘I’m in love with her.’ Mel thinks, her head shaking as the sounds around her seem to go quiet.

“Mel.” She can hear your voice, your sweet voice dragging her back to reality before she falls too deep. “Mel!” Her eyes fly open and land on yours, your hands resting on her arms as you hold her steady. “You okay? What’s wrong?” You look so worried…so concerned for her.

‘I fucking love you.’ Shit.

Mel follows you blindly as you lead her to an empty room, shutting the door behind you and not bothering to flick on the lights.

“Mel…what’s going on? Come on, baby, talk to me.” You plead, helping her sit in a chair. She lets out an involuntary whimper at the name.

“Just…overwhelmed.” She manages to choke out, still desperately trying to catch her breath.

“What can I do? Anything, just say the word and it’s yours.” You whisper, kneeling in front of her as you meet her eyes. The words are bubbling up in her chest, creeping up her throat as they try to slip past her lips. “Come on.” You whisper. You look so worried…god, your eyes are teary and your hands are shaking against her legs as you hold her.

“I love you.” She finally whispers, the words spilling from her so easily…way too easily. Your eyes widen as you stare up at her, mouth hung open in shock. “I’m sorry.” Mel breathes.

“Mel…do you-” You pause, your own breathing quickening. “Do you mean as…as a friend or-?” You trail off.

“I’m in love with you.” Mel sighs, eyes never leaving yours. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for that.” You laugh breathlessly, leaning up and pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. “Never apologize for that…jesus.” You huff, smiling like crazy. “I’m in love with you, Mel.” You whisper back. “For so long…so fucking long.” You both sit in comfortable silence for a while, holding each other.

“Is that why you were being weird last week?” Mel finally asks.

“Yes. I was jealous.” You reply quietly.

“Jealous?” Her brows furrow.

“I thought you were into Langdon.” You laugh. She pulls away from your embrace so she can look in your eyes.

“He’s just my friend.” She shakes her head. “I…I don’t think I could ever love anyone but you.” She sighs, smiling at you with sparkling eyes. Those same sparkling eyes you saw her give Langdon, only this time is seems brighter. How could you possibly be so blind?

Mel likes to keep eye contact with you. You've noticed your girlfriend's habit more times than you can count. It's not like it bothers you, if anything you think its sweet. You dont even have to be looking back at her, she just likes to look at you. You've asked her once or twice why, and every time she gives you some sensible explanation. She likes the expressiveness of your face, or that she simply thinks you're beautiful.

However, the real reasoning is anything but sensible and sweet. It makes Mel feel a bit bad when she really thinks about it, or when you smile back at her. All she can think about is your lips wrapped around her fingers, while her strap nudges that spongy spot you love so much. The way your eyes would roll back, or look away from her own when you started feeling shy. She can't help the warmth she feels in her stomach when she stares for too long.

Shes comfortable on the sofa, the televisions on. But shes not watching it. Her eyes are on you, sat on the sofa next to her, curled into her side.

She lets herself get lost in it. Imagine slipping her fingers into those little sleep shorts you've got on, letting you bury your head in her neck as she fingers you on the couch. How you'd squeeze her fingers, arch into her as your high washes over you. It halfway has her biting her lip, imagining the way you'd toss your head back against the arm rest if she flipped you over and crawled between your thighs. She practically salivates at the thought of your slick lining her lips. The way you'd squeeze her head with your thighs, and-

"Mel?"

She didn’t raise her voice often.

She didn’t need to.

When she walked into a room, things settled.

What no one expected?

Was how gentle she was with you.

---

You’d come into work already overwhelmed.

The hospital lights felt harsher than usual — fluorescent glare bouncing off polished floors. The noise seemed layered instead of linear: monitors beeping in staggered rhythms, distant overhead pages crackling, rubber soles squeaking against tile. Even laughter from down the hall felt sharp, like it scraped against your senses instead of blending into background noise.

Being an omega meant your body processed everything at full volume.

Smells lingered too long.

Voices carried too far.

Stress hit faster and deeper.

You tried to hide it.

You always tried to hide it.

Shoulders squared. Back straight. Smile polite. You kept your movements precise and efficient, hoping no one would notice the way your hands trembled slightly when you reached for your clipboard.

Mel noticed immediately.

She always did.

It wasn’t dramatic. She didn’t call you out in front of anyone. Didn’t frown or demand answers.

She just watched.

Her gaze softened the second she saw the tight way you were holding yourself — like a wire pulled too taut.

Without making a scene, she stepped closer in the hallway. Subtle. Intentional. Her body angled just slightly so she stood between you and the busiest stretch of chaos near the nurse’s station.

It wasn’t obvious to anyone else.

But you felt it.

The buffer.

The shield.

Her scent drifted toward you gradually — warm cedarwood, clean cotton, and something faintly sweet underneath. Familiar. Steady. The kind of scent that told your nervous system it was safe to unclench.

“You okay, sweetheart?” she asked quietly.

Low enough that no one else heard.

The pet name wasn’t ownership.

It was care.

You swallowed. “Just… a lot today.”

She didn’t question it. Didn’t minimize it.

Her hand hovered near your waist — not touching yet. Giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted.

You didn’t.

So she rested her palm there gently, thumb brushing slow, absent circles against your side. Light pressure. Grounding.

“You don’t have to carry everything alone,” she murmured. “I’ve got you.”

And the thing about Mel?

When she said something like that, it wasn’t a passing reassurance.

It was a promise.

---

Mel was strong in ways most people saw.

She could de-escalate an angry family member without raising her voice.

She could run a code with terrifying precision.

She could silence a room with a single look.

But her real strength showed in smaller things.

The way she memorized your favorite tea and kept spare bags in her locker.

The way she automatically adjusted her pace when you walked beside her so you never felt rushed.

The way she would sit slightly behind you during long meetings so you could lean back into her chest when the room felt too loud.

She never made it obvious.

She never made it about claiming you.

She just… positioned herself where you needed her most.

---

Mid-shift, the overwhelm crept higher.

A sharp comment from a senior nurse.

A call light that wouldn’t stop blinking.

The faint scent of antiseptic mixing with cafeteria food in a way that made your stomach churn.

Your breathing grew shallow.

Mel saw it before you said anything.

She stepped closer again, voice even softer this time.

“You want my jacket?” she asked. “Or we can step outside for five. Your choice.”

Your choice.

That’s what made her different.

Some alphas would have decided for you. Guided you without asking. Framed it as instinct.

Mel never did that.

She always gave you space to choose.

You hesitated — then leaned into her slightly instead.

Her response was immediate but careful.

One arm wrapped around you securely, anchoring you to her side. The other hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers spreading gently through your hair.

She didn’t tighten her hold when your breathing hitched.

She loosened it.

Giving you room.

“Slow breaths,” she murmured near your temple. “I’m right here.”

Her thumb traced a steady path along your spine, rhythm deliberate. Not hurried. Not impatient.

You focused on her breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

“Good omega,” she whispered softly — not a claim, not a command. A reassurance. “You’re doing so well.”

The praise wasn’t about submission.

It was about effort.

It was about how hard you tried every single day to show up.

---

Eventually, the edge dulled.

The noise faded from sharp to manageable.

Mel pulled back just enough to look at you, her hands still warm at your waist.

“Better?” she asked.

You nodded.

Her mouth curved into the smallest, proud smile.

“There’s my favorite person,” she said lightly.

You huffed a quiet laugh.

The sound alone made her expression soften further.

Because that was the thing no one else understood about Mel King.

Yes, she was strong.

Yes, she could be intimidating.

But the second you smiled?

She melted.

Completely.

She’d bare her teeth at anyone who made you cry.

She’d go toe-to-toe with a surgeon if they disrespected you.

She’d stand immovable in a hallway full of chaos just to make sure you had space to breathe.

But with you?

Her hands were always soft.

Her voice always low.

Her strength always gentle.

Later, when the shift finally ended, she walked you to your car like she always did — one hand resting at the small of your back, not guiding, just present.

At your door, she brushed her knuckles lightly along your cheek.

“You did good today,” she said. “Even when it felt heavy.”

You smiled up at her.

And the look she gave you in return?

Warm. Devoted. Steady.

The sweetest alpha in the world.

Strong enough to protect you from anything.

Soft enough to never hurt you.

And she was yours.

melissa king isn't a cruel person. she doesnt have a mean bone in her body. thats why when you're laying in bed late at night, squirming and keeping her up, she cant find it in her to deny you.

her movements are methodical. slipping your panties down just enough to slide her hand into them. she makes gentle circles against your clit, her drowsy brown eyes locked onto the way your back arches and your thighs tighten around her wrist. she has to be up in a few hours for work, and she wants to go to sleep. but she cant leave her sweet girl wanting, can she?

her fingers go from your clit, sliding along your slit to your entrance where she gently inserts two of her perfectly lean fingers. you think she mumbles something about how worked up you are, but you cant hear her over your own breathy whines. her fingers curl, and they stretch you out just enough to feel full. she doesn't take long, she never does. she finds that little spot, and she doesn't let up. shes got that cocky little half-smirk on her face when you finally toss your head back against the pillows and clench around her.

she slides her fingers out of your underwear, reaching for the sanitizer she keeps on the nightstand because of course she does. you're fast asleep by the time she rolls back over, one arm looping around you as she settles back in for a few more hours of sleep.

you're unsure what exactly compelled you to get to this point. sitting on melissa kings sofa. you've been a good friend of danas for a while, having met years ago. when dana came to you and asked if you would talk to one of her coworkers, just give her some peace of mind over her upcoming lawsuit, you agreed without question. it's been weeks. you've met mel a handful of times, just talking to her about it. you have a pre-law degree, didn't go onto law school, choosing for a paralegal job instead. so you aren't officially representing her, the hospital lawyers have that covered, more so just offering some support.

she comes back into the room, and shes holding a glass of water. something you requested.

you're nervous. not because mel is particularly difficult to talk to, if anything the opposite it the issue. you've been... dropping hints. trying to hint that maybe you want this to go further than it already has. sitting closer to her, offering to meet at more intimate settings like restaurants. yet everytime she seems so hesitant. you arent sure why, maybe she isnt interested.

"hello..?"

you're startled out of your thoughts. mels staring at you with that blank, confused look.

"sorry," you reply, taking the glass with hands that seem a bit shakier than you'd like them to be. she just stares for another moment, then sits down on the sofa. you hate the physical distance between you two.

the time goes quick, and it takes everything you've got to hide the disappointment when mel mentions how late it's gotten. you depart with a reluctant good bye. you mull over it the entire way home. why she seems so clueless. what you could do to make it any more obvious. you feel a bit defeated when you get home that night, and you find yourself texting dana about it.

Wrong. 

Your Raynaud’s was flaring before you could pass the first crosswalk, skin blanching like it was trying to match the icy gray of the sky. You made it back with an iced drink anyway, because god forbid your routine is disrupted and hot drinks leave you with a dry throat. Your fingers are worsened by the plastic of the cup and the result is you curled on the couch, hands shoved under your thighs. And a very worried girlfriend. Hovering. With a look on her face that only showed up when she was trying to act like you weren’t one of her medical emergencies.

A week later: you should totally buy those heels you’d been eyeing on Depop, right? Retail therapy always worked and you’d been staring at them for days. Weeks. Beige kitten heels with muted cream accents that were part of the timeless Manolo Blahnik’s Spring/Summer collections. The seller dropped the price (and was clearly well into her 50’s), so it only made sense. Divine intervention. 

Wrong. Package arrives. Mel agrees that they are very cute and vintage and make your legs look long (you do not have long legs, but you appreciate the effort). But now, unfortunately, she also has to mentally reroute the entire gift plan she had for you, because you’ve beaten her to the punch in a very specific, very niche category. This is said kindly. You still feel guilty every time you wear the shoes.

Halfway into December a year ago: it snowed. Wonderful and beautiful and cinematic, and you decided to lean into it. You bought eggnog to spike for you and Mel and Swiss Miss hot cocoa mix with Jet Puff mini-marshmallows for Becca. Good idea, right? Very cute, very festive. Nope. Becca decided she wanted Mel’s eggnog after you added the rum to which she promptly spat out over the counter. At least you stood there holding paper towels, offering to clean up like the moment would absolve you of having introduced alcohol into a supposedly domestic holiday beverage experience. All while Mel agreed with Becca that, yes, not all eggnog tastes like that, it was truly just a bad batch.

Long story short, this year was going to be different.

The season that Mel had already labeled stressful for many reasons; more illnesses in the ER, prepping for Christmas, you– was, actually, not going to be stressful. 

Thanks to you. 

This is the conclusion you arrive to some time after Thanksgiving, while you and Mel are collapsed on the couch in that post-meal haze that had you two blinks away from a food coma and your brain convinced to let thoughts arrive slowly after they checked for permission. It was the only day she’d requested off in weeks. A strategic move. She was hoarding days like rations so she wouldn’t have to work through Christmas, and you were acutely aware of this because it made the moment feel both precious and heavily borrowed. Full stomachs. Fire on, real or stimulated, it didn’t matter. A blanket draped over the both of you, weighted, and your head tucked against her chest where her heartbeat was steady–you were very, very thankful for that one reason she was home so rarely throughout the month.

Becca had declared it the holiday season before mid-November, which no one had the energy to contest, and now, she could scroll through the single streaming service you and Mel paid for proudly. Festive movie posters slid past. Paused. Slid again. Mel’s heart thumped under your ear as the choices looped, and looped, and looped. You both knew what she was going to land on eventually. This knowledge did not stop you from narrating each movie that passed anyway.

“My family used to watch A Christmas Story at my grandma’s every year,” you hum, mostly into Mel’s shirt. Her fingers trace lazy, absent shapes into your back, the kind of touch that suggests she’s listening even if she’s not responding. Becca twists around on the floor to look at you both, hair sticking up in places from scrambling around the kitchen with you earlier, suspicious already. “Kind of freaked me out,” you continue. “There’s this part where the little brother gets his tongue stuck to a pole because it’s so cold it freezes. Like, instantly,” you pause, as if considering whether that detail was necessary. “And then at the end, when Ralphie finally gets the BB gun, he shoots an icicle and it almost hits his eye,” you add helpfully. Mel chuckles beneath you, chest vibrating just enough to be felt. “Which everyone warns him about throughout the movie.”

“You spoiled it,” Becca points out accusatorily, and you smile softly.

“We weren’t gonna watch it anyways,” you counter. “Plus, I don’t think you would like it. I don’t, even though it’s nostalgic for me.”

Mel shifts beneath you, and you can tell without looking that she’s probably looking at you now. There’s a very specific silence that precedes commentary. “Those characters kind of sound like you.”

Pause.

You take a little offense to that. Those stressful characters? The loud, chronically unlucky ones? Everything that happened to you during December was an accident. Of your own doing, sure, but it was still an accident. You weren’t going around licking poles to see if your tongue would get stuck to them. You weren’t actively tempting the universe. You were minding your business, the farthest thing from that. The farthest thing from them.

But then, as Becca finally clicks on Elf and the opening music kicks in, bright and intrusive, you let the thought sit there longer than you want to. You replay the previous holiday season: the gloves, the iced drink, the heels, the eggnog incident. Mel: tired, hovering, recalibrating around you like you’re a variable that won’t stop changing. And you consider it. 

Did you really stress Mel out that much?

Which you concluded: a very strong probably. 

Along with the good idea to actively make this your best holiday season yet.

Which, historically, is how all of your accidents begin.

DECEMBER 1ST

Black Friday comes and goes without ceremony. No trampling at Robinson, no dramatic savings, just you. Cocooned in the comforter on yours and Mel’s bed, laptop balanced precariously on your thighs and pillow supporting your lower back as you started on Christmas shopping. Your fingers speed over the keyboard of your laptop. Amazon deals. Tabs open like a dozen little obligations. A list pared down to the people you cannot reasonably get away with forgetting. Your parents. Your sister. Best friend. Two co-workers. Dana from Mel’s work (that absolutely adores you, somehow). Becca. 

Everyone except for the most important individual of them all. 

Because Mel is, inexplicably, hard to shop for. Not in a picky way, but in the way where she can tell if you put thought into it or not, and then her expression would reflect how confident you were in the present no matter how hard she tried to mask it. And because you are a perfectionist, and because you are in love with her, you have decided that getting it wrong is not an option. So you don’t get it at all. Yet.

These are the filler days, the soft, deceptive stretch at the end of November before the calendar officially clicks over and things become real. You come up with one idea. You turn it over in your head. You set it down gently and walk away from it. You conclude, that’s stupid and go back to the drawing board. Think again. Repeat. All of this happens while Mel leaves for the PTMC in the early morning dark and comes back just barely in time for dinner

Bitterly, you think the most selfish gift you could give her would be bribing her boss. More days off for time that doesn’t feel borrowed and time that doesn’t have to be rationed.

You know she would probably insist you don’t get her anything at all. And she would mean it, too. Meanwhile, she absolutely already had an idea for you locked in and loaded. Nailed down something thoughtful and infuriatingly perfect, and all you have is a half-baked plan to handle everything for her this December. And a growing, impractical desire to purchase time like it’s something you can add to a cart.

But time, unfortunately, does not wait for checkout. It runs faster than you expect and would like because you wake up one morning to an empty bed, the absence loud. The air carries a chill that somehow just signals the countdown has begun. Rolling over to face the closed curtains, you flip your phone, and there it is–your screensaver. You and Mel on your birthday earlier this year, cake smudged on the bridge of your nose and your fingers. Her hands cupping your elbows, looking at you sweeter than the whipped sugar had been. 

The moment is frozen, but the date stares back at you anyway: December 1st.

And time, predictably, proceeds without allowing a pause to let you workshop the answer to the ongoing crisis that is what you are doing for Mel this Christmas. It moves forward with or without your consent. You move through your morning routine sluggishly: brushing teeth and hair, washing your face, debating taking a body shower because you were cold enough that shrugging on a sweater wasn’t going to be enough. The temperature having settled that far into your bones. But you ultimately decide against it, time working against you again, opting for said sweater because layers solve most things and so you would make it in time for a work call that lasted for roughly 43 minutes. 

By the end of it, you are starving, stressed, and already experiencing caffeine withdrawal despite the fact that the day has barely started. And when you exit yours and Mel’s room to Becca standing on the kitchen counter, that only adds to your faint irritability.

The youngest King sister glances back at the sound of the door opening when you come out with your laptop in the crook of your elbow and plaid pajama pants still on. She has scraps of paper garlands in her outstretched hands, scissors sheared pieces and corners off before being discarded a few inches away from her. A bright exclamation of your name leaves her.

“I’m decorating. Look–” She extends her arms fully, letting the paper fall open to reveal the design. snowflakes. Lopsided in places, but still identifiable. “They’re snowflakes. It took me a couple of tries but I figured it out.”

You nod, because that’s easier than panicking, as you cross the short space to the counter and set your laptop down on the linoleum countertop. Then, you reach carefully for her arm, mindful of balance. “They look great, Becca,” you say, honestly before adding, carefully, diplomatically: but let’s um– Let’s find a safer way to hang them up.”

Because it is December. And apparently, the season has already decided to test you.

Becca shakes her head insistantly. “No, they should hang from the tops of the cabinets. I made them long enough to have three swoops for each side,” she explains, paper rustling in her hands as she contracts her arms back toward her chest. You let out a breath, dropping your hands as well. Four of the dark oak cabinets hovered over the right of the stove, a microwave wedged between them and two others to the left. Climbing to decorate isn’t an unreasonable plan, just a vertical one.

“Okay,” you say, because arguing feels like it would take more energy than you currently possess. “You do the ones on the left, and I can do the ones on the right. Sounds good?”

Becca nods immediately, an excited smile taking over her face. The way her eyes crinkle slightly at the corners reminds you insistantly of Mel. 

“Kay,” you whisper under your breath, mostly to yourself, mirroring her expression as you take some of the garland from her hands. “Be careful, Becca.”

You should have taken that warning for yourself as well.

Slipping is something you’re used to. You've suffered worse falls than the few feet from a crouch on the counter to the wooden floor of the small kitchen–off your electric scooter when you were ten, the back of the risers after the last period of your sophomore year of high school. But that doesn’t make the impact pleasant. Your right hip takes the brunt of it, the ache blooming sharp and immediate where your weight lands, bright enough to steal the air from your lungs for a second.

Honestly, you’re not even sure how it happened. One moment you’re reaching, and the next gravity is doing its part to enforce Newton’s second law. Becca had hung her garland effortlessly, dismounting the counter without fault, and had even turned back to help you when you reached just a little too far. And consequently, stumble straight down to the floor, garland fluttering uselessly in your hands like it’s surprised too.

And Becca, bless her, moves fast. Quicker than you expect. She's at your side immediately, hands careful as she helps you sit up, eyes scanning you like she’s mentally checking off a list. She notices the way your hand goes straight to your side. Doesn’t comment on it, just gets you ice. Says something tentative about calling Mel–

“Don’t,” you say, too quickly, the word tripping over itself on the way out. You press the ice a little harder against your hip, like you can convince it to behave. “Don’t. It's okay, I'm all good. And Mel is busy.”

Becca frowns at that, just a little. The kind of frown that suggests she’s unconvinced but not ready to argue yet. You force yourself up anyway, pushing through the sharp protest of your body. You wince despite your best efforts, the movement tugging at something sore and blooming, but you keep your balance. Barely.

“Mel always makes time for us,” Becca says.

And that’s exactly the problem.

She always does. No matter how tired she is, no matter how thin she’s stretched, she would use her break to call you. She would worry. She would catalog this as another thing she should have been there for. She doesn’t need that. Not because of you.

“This really isn’t that bad,” you insist, voice steady even if the rest of you isn’t. Your eyes drift to the half-hung garland still clinging to the cabinet, miraculously intact. “We can tell her when she gets home.”

You wouldn’t.

Becca would remember, though, which is inconvenient, so you pivot. The solution presents itself fully formed: distraction through productivity. Wear her out with festive attrition.

You glance back at her and tilt your head toward the hallway. “Go check out the holiday closet,” you say lightly. “Let’s surprise Mel with a decorated apartment, yeah?”

Becca hesitates, clearly torn between her sense of responsibility and her love of surprises. You don’t give her much time to decide. Swallowing the remaining ache, mostly dulled by the ice, you turn away from the kitchen and start toward the hallway, waving her along. She follows, still watching you like you might fall again, which you very carefully do not.

December already had one on you, but you wouldn’t let it get one on Mel.

And despite the ache–and the bruise you know is already blooming beneath your pajama pants, soft and inevitable, like a bad spot on an apple–you keep moving. Decorating helps and so does cleaning, more than you expect. It gives your body something to do while your brain runs laps.

The magazine you work for makes sure you don’t get too comfortable. Every hour there’s something: an edit to review, an article idea to discuss, a quick call that turns into a longer one. You keep your laptop within reach, chiming in where necessary, sounding engaged even as your hands are busy. Still, there’s enough space between tasks for your mind to wander. Gift ideas circle and double back before the familiar feeling of none of them landing hitting. Becca helps you wipe down the kitchen, crumbs disappearing under the cloth, and later with vacuuming the floors.

And you assist where you can. Gel clings go up on the living room windows, pressed carefully into place so they don’t peel at the corners, little snowmen, stars, and something that might be a reindeer if you squint filling the panes. You lay a new crocheted placemat in the center of the circular dining table, adjusting it until it sits just right. Symmetry feels important today.

The hallway closet is a disaster in the way all functional spaces are. Two medium-sized bins of Christmas decorations take up most of it–wedged in among the vacuum, the swifter, stacks of notebooks from Mel's med-school days, and various documents deemed important enough to keep but not important enough to display. The bins are lighter than you expect because there aren't as many decorations as you remember, really. One of them is almost entirely occupied by the 4.5-foot christmas tree that will go in the corner of the living room, next to the shelves holding a handful of your vinyls and several books. The other is meant to hold the rest.

Which, again, isn’t much.

You stare into it for a moment longer than necessary, hands resting on the frame, thinking. About Mel. About time. About decorations. About how you’re running out of two of them and still don’t have anything concrete to show for it. The bruise throbs dully, reminding you you’re still in your body. You close the door. Keep going.

So you delegate. Becca gets a task, making decorations–construction paper and markers spread out like a sanctioned mess while you pretend to be productive. You manage to assemble the Christmas tree one-handed, ice pack balanced awkwardly against your hip, pausing every so often to reposition it when the cold starts to bite more than help. Branches get fluffed unevenly. Which is fine. No one is judging the tree. You work. Then work some more.

Time does its thing. Becca crafts with intense focus, tongue caught between her teeth, producing decorations that are earnest and slightly asymmetrical while you glance at the clock more than you mean to. By the time she’s finished, it’s nearing 4 P.M.–one hour before you can officially clock out and three hours before Mel gets home.

Becca is particular about placement and presentation. You know this, so you dart back and forth between your laptop and her. And between instructions and adjustments, the living room slowly transforms while you try not to move too fast or bend the wrong way. Finishing the decorations takes longer than it should. Everything does today. But you get there. Eventually. Actually, once again, forty-three minutes after you’ve finished your work day. It leaves you just enough time to wrangle Becca into helping put things away and start dinner. Barely enough. The clock ticks loudly as the apartment smells like something warming on the stove.

Then the sound of the door unlocking cuts through it all. Mel's home.

Her nose is red from the cold, glasses fogging slightly as the warm air hits her, her coat wrapped tight around her middle. She's tired. You can see it. And still, she smiles. Just a little. Like always. 

Becca gets to her first, but you’re right behind, the two of you crowding Mel's personal space as she shrugs out of her coat and hangs her bag on one of the hooks by the door. She kicks her shoes into the rack on instinct, movements practiced, muscle memory from a thousand late returns, and before you can even lean in for a hello kiss, Becca is grabbing her arm and tugging her forward. Already showcasing the decorations and vibrating with excitement.

Any hope of subtlety dies immediately.

Still, your plan works. Enthusiasm is contagious so Mel lets herself be pulled and be shown. She laughs in that tired-but-soft way as Rebecca points things out, explaining decorations. Later, on the couch after dinner, Becca starts to wilt. The movie is on (Miracle On 34th Street, which you can’t fault her for falling asleep to) and before you’re even halfway through, she’s nodding off. You shepherd her to bed without protest. Success.

Then, it’s just you and Mel.

The movie is paused, frozen on a frame you’ll never return to as you’re tangled together on the couch. Limbs fit easily like this, where they’re meant to be, but it’s not enough to stop you from suddenly sucking in a small gasp and sitting up too fast. “I forgot something.”

Mel follows your movement without thinking, like she always does. It's one of those things you notice only because it keeps happening. She pushes up onto her hands, brows knitting slightly, her hair is still braided, though a few strands have escaped and frame her face. “Is something wrong?”

You quickly shake your head.

“I– saved something for us to do,” you clarify as green irises track you while you separate from her and shuffle quietly back to the hallway closet. In the back corner, a singular package of purple and green ornaments (some sparkly, some matte, and some shiny) sit in a plastic box. Next to it, a Reebok shoebox that contained a few homemade ornaments. You collect them both carefully, making sure to carry them on your non-bruised hip as you enter the living room to where Mel’s fully sat on the couch.

With a tiny smile, you lift the two containers. The furrow of her brows is gone, and she tilts her head as she stands. 

“Can’t let Becca have all of the fun decorating, can I?” you say hushedly as you make your way past her to the tree. 

When you glance back, Mel is smiling–small, restrained, the kind that lives mostly in her eyes. Her hands twist together in front of her stomach, a familiar tell. “She might get upset if we do this without her,” Mel whispers back, already stepping closer anyway. She takes the shoebox from on top of the store-bought container without asking and the lift of her lips gives her away. She's not really thinking about Becca right now.

You shrug, breaking eye contact for a moment to look at your own container of the baubles. “I think she would agree that you deserve some festive joy of your own,” you tease, looking back to her. Mel presses her tongue against her teeth, lips pressed together. “Besides, she’s tired. You know I’m good at that. Tiring you both out.”

“You have a point,” she chuckles lightly. Then, she opens the lid. Tissue paper lines the inside, yellowed at the edges, and beneath it sit the keepsakes. Mismatched. Handmade. Her thumb traces the edge of the lid absently as she studies them. For a moment, her expression goes distant–nostalgic, maybe. Something gentler. Then she looks back up at you, eyes warm. “Which ones do we start with?”

A tiny smile of your own as you jostle the plastic you’re holding once.

Then, you set the box down at the base of the tree and lower yourself carefully, mindful of your hip even though the ache has dulled into something quieter, that’s still slightly insistent. And the tree still stands there in the corner–bare, branches still slightly uneven from your earlier attempt at fluffing. It smells faintly of plastic and dust. Still, it's a tree. It counts. “These,” you clarify. “‘Cause they have less… meaning?”

Mel kneels beside you, close enough that your knees brush. “They will after this,” she says. “Since we’re, y’know, doing this together.” Your heart softens at her words, and she reaches for one of the store-bought ornaments, rolling it between her fingers. Purple. Matte. “I forgot how many of these we actually have,” she murmurs.

You take one glittery green one that has swirl indentations on it, eyeing the lower branches for where to place it. “Maybe we should get a bigger tree for next year.” 

That makes Mel pout slightly, which turns into her brows raising just enough to signal an idea. “We can put this one in our room?”

“Storage, Mel,” you remind her with a small giggle. But when you see her expression (and remember everything you’re supposed to be doing for her), you cave. “Which… I’m sure we can figure out.” 

You hang your ornament on needles sticking out stiff and non-yielding despite how many times you tried to make them look less manufactured. It’s not a surprise when it holds. “Good choice,” you mumble. She snorts quietly and hands her ornament to you. You hook it onto another lower branch, adjusting the placement twice before it looks right. Mel watches, amused, then reaches for another that she hangs on her own this time.

The tree’s not very tall. You both can reach near the top when you’re sitting on your knees, so you finish with the plastic ornaments that way. Decorating in a rhythm, one ornament at a time, sometimes passing them back and forth. Sometimes Mel places them herself, leaning back to assess, adjusting angles and becoming a bit more demanding with where each shiny sphere looks best. At one point, you get too confident, plopping down to the side of your thigh and bumping your hip in the process. You’re not subtle when the small noise of pain leaves you, but you think you disguise it well enough that Mel doesn’t notice. 

She does eye you, but you play it innocent: widening your eyes and nodding to the shoebox to quietly tell her to move on.

Cautiously, she does. But she doesn’t look away from you as she lifts out an ornament made of construction paper and glitter. It’s laminated badly enough that the edges are permanently wavy. It's a star. Lopsided with a fraying string. Thankfully, it’s enough to pull her attention from your slip-up, because she smiles before she even says anything.

“I made this in third grade,” she says. “We had this whole unit on symmetry in math. I did not understand it.”

You look at the star. You look at her. “Shocking.”

She bumps her shoulder into yours, gentle. “My teacher hung it in the hallway anyway. And then my mom cried when I brought it home. I thought I'd done something wrong.”

You take the ornament from her, holding it carefully. “Did you?”

“No,” she huffs as a laugh. “Apparently it was ‘very me.’” Mel makes air quotes with two fingers. “Which I still don’t know how to take.”

You smile and stand slowly, testing your weight before committing. Mel watches you automatically, hand hovering near your elbow without touching. You hang the star closer to the center of the tree, where it’s visible but protected. “It is very you,” you agree

She laughs, the sound soft and real, and reaches for another ornament. This one is clay. Painted green once upon a time, now chipped in places. It’s supposed to be a frog. You think.

“Oh,” she says, fond. “This one I made the year my dad tried to convince me I wasn't allowed to bring homework on vacation.” It twists slightly as it hangs from two of her fingers. “It was the only vacation we ever went on–The Kalahari, in Wisconsin. Spring break.”

“And?”

“And I brought it anyway. I Hid it in my suitcase and did it in the hotel bathroom at night.” She pauses. “I was the only fifth grader that didn’t fail that assignment, since everyone else turned it in late.”

“Will you at least let me look at it before we go to bed? To make me feel better?”

You hum. “Worth it?”

She considers it. “Yeah. I still remember the frog I found by one of the cabanas. That was the inspiration.”

The tree fills in slowly. Imperfect, yet personal and warm in a way that has nothing to do with lights. When you finally sit back on the couch, hip protesting, Mel leans into your side without thinking, head tipping onto your shoulder.

“This is nice,” she whispers.

You let the feeling of victory flicker in your chest. This was a good sign, maybe you could do this whole ‘making Mel’s December worry-free’ as you sit there with her, looking at the tree, letting the quiet do the rest.

The quiet lasts for all of maybe thirty seconds before Mel brings up what she notices.

She always does. It's never dramatic. She doesn’t announce it, she just shifts slightly, settling more fully against you, and feels the way your body compensates without your permission. The careful angle of your leg, the way you don’t quite sink into the couch on one side. Her head lifts from your shoulder.

“Hey,” she says softly. Not alarmed, just attentive.

You know what she’s looking at before she says it from the way her eyes drop to your hip where your hand has drifted back unconsciously, fingers pressing there like they might keep everything in place. She sits up a little, reaching out, stopping herself halfway like she’s waiting for consent she technically doesn’t need but always asks for anyway.

“Did you hurt yourself?”

You exhale through your nose, slow and measured. “It’s nothing,” you assure automatically, “I just–slipped earlier. It's fine.”

Mel’s mouth tightens, just slightly. She doesn’t argue yet, she never argues. She just shifts again, turning toward you fully, knee tucking up under her. “Define fine.”

You sigh.

So much for some light Christmas romance.

“I fell,” you admit. “In the kitchen. Becca was there, nothing cracked. I didn't want to make it a whole thing.”

Her hand finds your hip anyway, careful and warm, resting over the fabric of your pajama pants without pressing. The contact alone makes the ache flare, like it’s been waiting for acknowledgment. You suck in a breath despite yourself. Mel freezes immediately.

“That hurt,” she observes quietly. Not a question.

You grimace. “A little.”

“Right there?”

“Yeah.”

“Sharp or dull?”

“Dull. Mostly. Kind of… blooming?”

She nods. “Any numbness? Tingling down your leg?” You shake your head and she watches your face while you do it, not trusting the answer without the reaction. Mel’s thumb traces just below the bone, careful to avoid pressing again.

“You hit the iliac crest,” she murmurs, mostly to herself. “Probably a contusion. nasty bruise.” Then, gentler: “Can you put weight on it okay?”

“I have been?” That earns you a look. Not angry, just a little tired and mostly fond.

“You shouldn’t.” Her hand stays there, warm even through the fabric of your clothing. She shifts you carefully, guiding your weight so the pressure eases. It helps immediately, which feels unfair. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You shrug. “You were working. And I wanted today to be good.”

Her hand presses just a little more firmly now, grounding rather than probing. “You don’t have to keep things from me for today to be good.” Well, that makes you feel guilty. “We’ll ice it again,” she proceeds after another beat of quiet. “Twenty minutes on, twenty off. If it gets worse, or you start limping tomorrow, you tell me. Please.”

You open your mouth. She lifts her eyebrows.

You close it.

“And I want to look at it before we go to bed. It’ll make me feel better.”

Not better in the way you wanted, but it was the least you could do, you supposed.

DECEMBER 5TH

ME: hey lmk if there’s a lull in patients today. ik it’s always busy, but I have smthing for u

MEL: Feel free to come down whenever! ☺️I’ll take a 15 minute break when you show up unless I’m in the middle of a trauma ❤️

So, maybe the Christmas decorating had been a subconscious attempt at a present for Mel. You hadn’t really realized it until a few days after, bruise having faded to a sickly-looking yellow, but somewhere in the middle of that, it clicks. Saving that experience of decorating the tree with her, had been kind of a gift. It had never really been just the two of you like that before. Not without Becca. or an agenda or the low-grade hum of something waiting to go wrong. That night had felt different. Intimate. Safe. Like the world had stepped back and given you a pocket of time to hold. It felt, unmistakably, like an early Christmas present.

And suddenly you knew.

Finally, you had an idea of what to get her: that same feeling. The feeling of you taking care of things instead of her for once (minus the hidden injury, lesson learned) and letting her experience the little joys of the season.

Decorating had been a riskier first attempt of that, considering your track record with December, but you also hadn’t pieced together what you’d been trying to do. Now, you knew. And could plan accordingly.

And there was one thing you absolutely could not get wrong. Cooking.

Mel liked certain textures (mushy was bad, slimy was unforgivable, crunch had to be intentional) but wasn’t picky about flavor combinations in the slightest, which was perfect. Because you nailed down what made her nose wrinkle in distaste and what made her sigh in contentment and then let your imagination run wild with different herbs and spices and mixes of sweet and savory. You didn’t like jam with any kind of cake or too much frosting, but Mel did, that was the only compromise you had to continuously make even if it was technically for baking. That, and you had to keep track of Mel’s allergies: severe shellfish, semi-severe with coriander and soybeans, and a minor one to benzoates.

But you had perfected it by now. And you were determined to start a streak of bringing her a homemade lunch at least twice a week.

So, on your lunch break, you pack. Sealing up rice balls shaped into different onigari–all with different fillings that were color-associated and had marked labels over beeswax paper–into a lunch box with an ice pack and a paper towel. This, you think, must be what moms feel like when their kid forgets their lunch. You're sitting alone on the bus, knees tucked in, holding the bag close to your body as the vehicle bumps along the road. The route will get you to the PTMC stop in thirteen minutes. Enough time to feel a low-grade, unnecessary embarrassment as the finance-bro-looking thirty–no, forty?–something man across from you eyes the large tupperware of cookies beneath the lunchbox.

You consider offering him one, anxiety does that to you, generosity as a defense mechanism. But the bus lurches to a stop before you can talk yourself into it, and you’re up and off, heart beating faster than necessary as you make the short walk to the waiting room entrance. The door is a pull. Of course it is. Mildly annoying when you’re balancing food in one arm and texting Mel with the other to tell her you’ve arrived. The waiting room is crowded, per usual, not that you were looking for a seat–you weren’t going to take one from someone who needed it and also, you weren’t going to be staying for long. You hoped.

Your scarf is still pulled up to your nose as you watch people move around each other in practiced patterns. The check-in line grows. You stare at your phone, willing the text back into existence. Mel keeps her sound alerts off at work, always tells you and Becca to call if it’s an emergency, so unless she’s deliberately checking, there’s a good chance you’ll be standing here for a while.

You shift your weight. Hold the lunchbox tighter. Wait.

At least–until Mateo notices you.

He rounds into triage with a clipboard tucked under his arm, already halfway through calling the next name. curls bounce when he stops short, mouth open mid-syllable as his eyes land on you. 

He rounds into triage, clipboard in hand with the next patient to call and he looks up, curls bouncing slightly and mouth open to speak when he notices you. There’s a brief recalibration. Then he lowers the clipboard and gives you a quick wave, unmistakably meant for you. You don’t hesitate. You move fast, grateful for the permission you didn’t technically ask for.

“What’re you doing here?” he asks once you’re close enough to hear him over the layered noise of the ER. Voices, a child crying somewhere you can’t see, coughing and sneezing.

“Bringing Mel lunch,” you say, lifting the bag slightly like proof. Then, after a beat, “and the rest of you cookies.” You glance down as he does, at the tupperware. “I guess.”

Mateo laughs, short and easy, and steps back just long enough to badge you through the door. “You remember where the staff lounge is?”

You nod, a tiny smile tugging at your mouth. “Thanks, Mateo.” He says something back, but you don’t catch it as you slip past and into the hallway, following the familiar-but-not-quite path toward the central nurse’s station. It's just as busy back here, if not more, with people moving around in circles. Charts changing hands, urgency without panic. You swallow, suddenly aware of yourself again. Your eyes catch on the decorations first: garlands that look like they belong in an elementary school classroom over doorways, mini Christmas trees on counter corners, more window sticks on a few of the bays. Hoping you don’t get in anyone’s way, and that you’re not called out for not having a visitor’s badge, you maneuver your way through the space, feeling severely out-of-place without black scrubs or a hospital gown on. Just you and your sweater and a bag of food, moving through a space that doesn’t belong to you. You keep going anyway.

And with the amount of commotion, it’s easy to get turned around. Sounds overlap and hallways bleed into each other, every turn looking briefly correct until it isn’t. Even in a space this small, you can feel yourself drifting toward trouble just by being slightly out of rhythm.

Thankfully, a familiar head of almost-white blonde finds you before that happens.

“Kid!”

The voice–gravelly, warm, edged with New York–cuts through everything. You spin on instinct as you let out a breath of relief. Dana is there immediately, materializing at your side like she’s been keeping half an eye out for you the whole time, guiding you to a spot on the floor where you weren’t in anyone’s way.

“Mel said you were comin’,” she says, already scanning you for damage out of habit. “Did you let her know you were here?”

You nod quickly, eyes darting around like you were trying to search for her in one of the bays. “Mateo let me in. I, um–” You shift the containers in your arms around a little. “I brought you guys cookies, just cause– y’know the holiday.”

Dana glances down. You keep going.

“I wasn’t sure what everyone liked, so there’s red velvet, peppermint bark, and double chocolate chip,” you ramble, words tripping over each other now that you’ve started. “And I didn't know about allergies, so they’re gluten-free and there’s no kind of nuts in them, but they do have dairy—”

“Kid,” Dana says gently, a small chuckle threading through it.

You stop. Finally.

“Thank you,” she says, and she means it. She places a steady hand between your shoulders and starts guiding you toward the staff lounge before you can overthink it again. “I’ll let everyone know.” You inhale, already preparing to add something else, when she continues, preemptive and kind: “And i’ll get mel for you. Alright?”

“Thank you,” you breathe as Dana pushes the door open, the hinge squeaking softly in protest. The staff lounge smells like burnt coffee and disinfectant and something faintly sweet you can’t place. You move for the table immediately, setting the cookies down with careful hands. “Have her take the tupperware and any leftovers home with her?”

“There won’t be any leftovers,” Dana knowingly chuckles, already halfway back out. The door swings shut behind her, cutting off the noise of the unit in a way that feels almost unreal.

And you’re alone. Momentarily. 

Because apparently Mel’s much faster at responding to Dana than your texts.

When she enters the lounge, her shoulders are tight, posture coiled with tension and lips slightly parted as she lets out a long breath. But then, she sees you, and it’s like every piece of worry melts from her body. You’re standing there, suddenly very aware of how you look–coat still on, scarf half-undone, lunchbox clutched awkwardly in both hands.

“Hi,” she says gently, reverent almost. “I cannot tell you how happy I am that you stopped by.” Another long sigh as Mel closes the distance and her arms envelope you before you can process that she’s close enough. And she smells slightly different here (cleaner, sharper, antiseptic clinging to her clothes) but underneath it is still her, still familiar. She kisses your cheek. Your nose. Your mouth. Gentle and checking. 

“Is that for me?” she asks, voice warm against your skin.

Your arms are pinned against you, and therefore the lunchbox, and you hope that the food inside isn’t being crushed. 

“I brought you lunch.”

She kisses you again. An actual kiss this time, not just a peck. And because she’s Mel, her tongue slips inside your mouth momentarily and you almost forget that you’re in her workplace. Until she pulls back with a small smile.

“Onigari,” you add, like it’s an afterthought.

Another longer kiss. “You’re heaven-sent,” she mumbles against your lips. “I love you.”

You can’t help the quiet laugh that escapes you. “I love you too,” you repeat as her hands slide from your back to your face, thumbs warm against your cheeks, cupping your cheeks as she kisses you again.

Slow at first, like she’s savoring the fact that you’re here. Her hands stay gentle, thumbs at your jaw, but the kiss deepens anyway, breath catching just slightly as she leans you back until the edge of the table presses into your hips. You make a quiet sound you don’t mean to, swallowed immediately by her mouth. It’s different like this–compressed, stolen, charged with the awareness of where you are. The door. The hallway. The world outside the lounge that could intrude at any second. It makes every second feel sharper.

Her forehead rests against yours when she pulls back, just enough to breathe, noses brushing. “How has your day been?” she murmurs, voice low, already smiling like she knows the location isn’t going to stop her.

“Pretty good,” you whisper back, even as one of her hands slides up the front of your coat, fingers curling into the fabric like an anchor.

She laughs softly through her nose and kisses you again, quicker this time, more insistent. Her body presses closer and you can feel the tension she carries every day slowly bleeding off into you, like this is the only place she lets herself rest.

Fingers drift from the edge of your coat to the hem to your jeans and–

“Oh–”

Mel’s off of you instantly. 

Neither of you heard the door open. No warning creak, no telltale scrape, just the sudden awareness of another presence in the room and the way Mel’s body curls inward on instinct, shoulders hunching as she steps back. Dennis Whitaker stands awkwardly in the doorway, one hand still on the handle, the other frozen mid-adjustment of his badge. His expression is carefully neutral (from what you seen, you think it’s neutral, at least–he looked sad and or in shock every interaction you’ve had) in the way of someone who absolutely saw something and is doing their best to pretend they didn’t.

Heat floods your face.

“Hi, Dennis,” you manage, breathless and a little too loud, voice high-pitched. “I was just–” You gesture vaguely toward the door, toward anywhere that is not here. “–Leaving?”

Mel nods quickly beside you, cheeks flushed pink all the way up to her ears, “Yeah.” 

“Yeah,” you echo, already untangling yourself fully, stepping out from between her and the edge of the table. You move fast, too fast, bee-lining for the exit before your brain catches up with your body. Only to remember that you’re still holding the lunchbox. 

There’s a half-second of frozen horror before you turn back around, movements suddenly clumsy, and hold it out to Mel like a peace offering. “Uh–here. See you at home.”

Her mouth twitches, caught somewhere between a smile and mortification, as she takes it from you. “Yup,” she agrees before you’re rushing out the door again. Past Dennis and face burning so hot you’re convinced it’s visible through your scarf.

The embarrassment only deepens when, just as the door swings shut behind you, you hear Dennis’s voice carry faintly from inside the room: “Taking a page out of Santos and Garcia’s book?”

You do not slow down.

DECEMBER 8TH

“Lay down.”

You’re both giggling and breathless from the way you’d had to practically fight her into your bedroom. A very undignified struggle you had to take to get her down the hall. Because Mel was unrelenting at the fact that she was behind on Christmas shopping. Refusing to part from her laptop, so you’d faced it in stages. First, the promise of just five minutes. Then, please. Then, a very unconvincing threat involving tickling. Because she was doing something for you, you knew she was. Even after staying longer at her shift than she usually did. Longer shift. Supposedly behind schedule (she never strayed from the timeline she set for herself). 

It had sounded like a stressful day.

Which was perfect for the next part of your Christmas gift.

“C’mon, lay down,” you repeat, still laughing and trying to stay quiet all at once. A shaky breath escapes your girlfriend as she finally calms down enough to question you.

“What for?” 

You shrug, grinning a little. “Another surprise?” Mel guesses, voice small and sweet and god, you could just kiss her senseless. 

“Was it that obvious?” you ask, leaning into her and looping your arms around her shoulders. Habitually, her hands fall to your waist–still mindful of your side (she would probably be until the end of the year), where your sweatpants are beginning to slip off your hips. 

You pretend like you don’t see when her eyes slip down your body just enough to make you feel warm. 

“You’ve been very generous lately,” she comments, brows pinching together. And then some more as your thumbs hook into the neckline of her sweatshirt. The fabric is warm from her body. It smells like her laundry soap and outside air and that faint lemony note that never quite leaves her. “Not that I’m complaining. I would never complain about that–”

You tilt your head to kiss just underneath her ear. “You’ve been so stressed lately,” you mumble against her skin. She smells clean. Probably just her perfume, if she even decided to wear it. Sometimes she did, sometimes she didn’t. Because she had to be aware of patients and the smell would be too much for her too sometimes–

Another kiss to the skin to stop your thoughts. To maintain your focus. And it works, especially when you hear a breathy sigh escape her. A sound she doesn’t make on purpose, which is always the tell.

So you lock onto that spot for a moment, sucking softly, the thought of leaving a mark passing through your mind, but then Mel would have to cover it somehow and– When you go to pull back, one of her hands just finds the back of your head, holding it to the crook of her neck. Guiding back into the hollow of her neck, not forceful, just certain. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. You know exactly what she’s asking for, what she’s allowing. So you oblige.

Your mouth works over her skin again, unhurried this time, and your feet bump against hers as you shift closer. Closer turns into tangled. Tangled turns back towards your bed until the two of you awkwardly collapse onto it. When that happens, Mel’s using her grip on your hair to twist your head up to hers so she can kiss you.

She kisses you deep, like she’s testing the shape of it with all of the time in the world. Her mouth is warm, familiar, and you melt into it without thinking, hands coming up to brace at her shoulders, then sliding down her arms because you never know where to put them when you want to be everywhere at once.

The bed shifts under you as she rolls, easy and practiced, until she’s half on top of you. Not pinning, but her knee slots between yours and you feel it everywhere, a quiet reminder that she’s here and not anywhere else she could be stressing about. That also reminds you that you should be trying to get her on bottom and–

You break the kiss.

She chases you anyway, lips brushing your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth again like she’s mapping you by touch. Her hair falls forward, tickling your face, and you smile into the kiss without meaning to. “Hey,” she murmurs, more air than sound.

“Hi,” you answer, “Surprise– Let me–”

Your hands find her back, thumbs pressing in slow, grounding circles like you’re trying to smooth the day out of her muscle by muscle. She sighs into your mouth this time, deeper, and the kiss shifts–less careful, more certain. Something heavy that’s about to make you drop all of your clothing.

You feel it in the way she leans into you. Trusts the space. Lets herself go heavy for a second.

Your teeth graze her bottom lip, not enough to hurt, just enough to make her inhale sharply. Her fingers tighten in your hair in response, like a reflex she’s given up pretending she controls. The world narrows. The lights blink softly behind your eyelids. The only things that exist are the press of her mouth, the warmth between you, the quiet understanding that this, this, is the thing that makes the stress loosen its grip.

Eventually, you pull back just enough to rest your foreheads together.

“Okay,” she says softly. “Lay down, I can do that...”

She shifts her weight, untangling herself from you with a little huff of effort, and settles onto her back. The mattress cradles beneath her. For half a second, Mel looks up at you like she’s waiting for the next instruction, relaxed now, pliant in a way that feels earned. You shake your head immediately.

“On your stomach, please,” you say, polite about it. There's a pause. You think you see her cheeks flush, but the room is dim on purpose, the lamp on your bedside table barely pulling its weight. Still, she listens, turning over and tucking her arms beneath the pillow, spine aligning. You push her shirt up carefully, slow enough to give her time to object if she wants to. She doesn’t. The fabric gathers at her ribs, exposing the soft expanse of her lower back, skin warm and faintly marked by the day. Tiny moles and freckles that make constellations of their own.

You reach to the bedside table on your side, fingers brushing the wood until they find the box. You're very aware of the fact that you did not open it when it came in the mail. You set it down and walked away, but–

“Wait,” Mel mumbles, lifting herself onto one elbow even though you’re straddling her hips, knees planted on either side of her thighs. She cranes her neck just enough to look back at you.

“What?” you whisper, matching her volume automatically. 

She extends her hand and you assume she wants the box, because that’s what makes sense, so you pass it to her without thinking too hard about it. She turns it over once. Twice.

A small utterance of your name has a little bit of worry clouding your head. “The surprise is a massage,” she says, not quite a question. “Right?” 

“Yeah…” you trail off, the word stretching thin. There's a flicker of annoyance–more at yourself than her. Of course she clocked it. What did you expect? “Why?”

She holds the box up so you can see it, arm twisting back awkwardly. “This is peppermint essential oil,” she says. “Not massage oil.”

You blink.

There’s a beat where your brain scrambles, flipping through facts you half-remember. Essential oils. Dilution. Skin sensitivity. Peppermint being… intense. “I know,” you say slowly, even though you absolutely did not know in the way she means. “I was gonna mix it. Like. Responsibly.”

She hums, unconvinced. “Menthol makes your nerves think they’re cold by activating the TRPM8 receptor.” You’re quiet, not really sure what that means. Mel’s quick, though. “Peppermint tingles.”

“I thought… that was the point?”

“On my back?” she asks, tone soft but pointed, which is unusual for her. And you. “That wouldn’t make it any easier for you to massage me, either.”

You sigh, dramatic on purpose, and reach forward to take the box from her. “Okay. Fair.” She relaxes again, elbow lowering, cheek settling back into the pillow. 

“I just don’t want to be overstimulated,” she adds, quieter now. “It’s been a lot today.”

Something in your chest softens. “I know,” you say, matching her earlier cadence. You set the box aside and press your palms flat against her lower back instead. “We can do it however you want. Or not at all.”

She exhales, long and slow, the tension easing out of her like she’s finally been given permission to set it down. “Please still rub my back,” she requests quietly.

Your hands move before she can second-guess herself. Slow and deliberate, hoping your palms are warm against her skin as your thumbs trace the lines on either side of her spine like you’re following instructions written there just for you. She sighs again, deeper this time.

Starting small, circles are pressed low, grounding, like you’re anchoring her to the bed. Her back rises and falls under your touch, breath evening out in increments. You can feel where she holds tension without needing her to tell you–knots tucked beneath muscle. You lean forward a little, careful with your weight, forearms bracketing her sides and your thumbs press in, just firm enough to make her hips shift.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” you whisper. Mel hums in response, you think her brain is too tired to form a coherent response.

You work your way up, inch by inch, like you’re mapping her. Shoulders next. You knead gently, then a little deeper when she exhales instead of flinching. Her fingers curl into the sheets. Then, you lower yourself more fully onto her back, being careful while distributing your weight so it’s more presence than pressure. Mel makes a quiet sound at that, not discomfort. Something closer to relief.

Your hands slide back down, smoothing over her skin. The room feels smaller now. Warmer. The blinking lights fade into background noise. 

A kiss to her lower back.

“You know what else helps with stress?”

Mel, even if tired, comes to that answer quickly. “Orgasms.”

A small laugh against her skin as your fingers curl into her sweatpants and drag them past her hips along with her underwear. She lifts her hips to help you, her breath coming in slow, even breaths, but her chest is still heaving. You feel the fabric slide against your fingertips, the soft cotton catching briefly on the curve of her hips before giving way and slipping down, down, down, until they pool around her knees. 

Carefully, you hook an arm against her lower belly, propping her hips up and angling them back.

And then, finally, she's bare before you. Exposed and wanting and so breathtakingly beautiful that it steals the air from your lungs. You see the way her body is flushed and ready, the way her skin seems to throb with a pulse of its own, the way her back rises and falls with each shuddering breath.

Your hand trembles slightly as you reach out, your fingertips grazing against the slick, hot flesh of her. She inhales sharply, a sound that catches in her throat and turns into a low, keening moan. Her hips jerk backward, seeking more of your touch, craving it, demanding it.

“It’s okay,” you breathe, fingers gliding through her slick folds and coating them with her arousal. The tiny noises she’s making, and how she’s grinding back against your hand slightly sending heat to your own core. Touch, want–you wanted to touch her, make her feel like this always. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Mel assures you breathlessly. “Can I– Have more? I–” she’s cut off in a small gasp as you ease your middle finger against where her folds are pressed together, but are leaking the most. “Want to feel you,” she barely finishes before you’re letting the digit slip, pushing inside her with patience you didn’t know you had. Her body instinctively clenches around the intrusion. “That feels– Feels so good,” Mel manages before she’s burying her face into the pillow.

Emboldened by her reaction, you begin to slowly, carefully, work your finger deeper, feeling her silky walls flutter and clench around you. Mel’s hips undulate in tandem with your movements, her body naturally rocking into each thrust of your finger. She’s not very loud, but you figure that it’s because she’s relaxed. Hands tangled in sheets as her hips angle to try and get more of what you’re offering. And you feel like you’ve never been more aware of your body than you are at that moment. Every nerve ending feels electrified, every inch of skin tingling with sensation.

“More,” Mel requests shakily again, voice muffled by fabric.

And who are you to deny her?

Gently, you add another finger inside of her, giving her lower back another kiss (almost to her hips) before you’re maneuvering to be situated behind her. Your other hand presses up against where her uterus would be, and the pressure combined with the added finger finally has the first loud moan leaving her. Before she bites down on one of the pillows.

You begin to pump your fingers in and out of her cunt, her inner walls clenching and fluttering around the new intrusion, adjusting to the increased stretch. To help, you pivot your elbow up to make room for your mouth just below your fingers, tongue darting between the apex of her pussy to tease her clit.

"Don't stop," Mel pleads, her voice a desperate, breathless sound. "Please don't stop touching me like this. I'm so close–” A gasp of your name. “I'm going to...I'm going to come." She's never been one to shy away from dirty talk, but the words spill from her lips now, raw and unfiltered, a testament to the intensity of the moment. You know the feeling. It’s one she’s given to you quite a few times. The one where you’re too far gone to care about anything but chasing pleasure, about finding that release that is so desperately needed.

Mel grinds her hips back weakly against your tongue and fingers again. The scent of her arousal fills your nostrils, the taste of her essence coating your tongue, and you feel drunk on it, addicted to it, craving more. But with a sudden tensing of her muscles and no warning, Mel comes undone. Her body pushing back against you, her inner muscles clenching rhythmically around your fingers as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes over her. You think you hear another gasp of your name, a prayer and a declaration, as she rides out the intense pleasure, but you’re not really too sure. Too focused on her juices flooding your hand and chin.

You part from her pussy as Mel steadily comes down from the high, fingers inside of her still, but you’re making sure to gently thumb her clit through the orgasm. She shivers as you feel her muscles relax. 

And then a tiny giggle leaves her. And her hand is reaching for your wrist as she rolls and you’re falling over her–

And you really hope that she’s not too tired during her shift tomorrow.

DECEMBER 12TH

Christina Burgett <[email protected]> Bcc: [email protected], [email protected]… Subject: Aspen Hill Ice Skating & Hot Cocoa Fundraiser

Hey all!

Regarding tomorrow’s fundraiser event, a previous email was sent out last week containing information about when to arrive depending on what part of the event volunteers are helping with. It’s important to come five minutes early to the North Park Ice Skating Rink to make the check-in process smooth! 

The sign-up sheets, times, and additional info have been forwarded with this reminder. If you did not receive this e-mail, please directly contact me through this address or call the number under ‘Activities’ on Aspen Hill’s website.

Stay warm!

When Mel found out you’d beaten her to the volunteer position she usually took for Becca’s care center’s annual winter fundraiser, you genuinely couldn’t tell if she was upset or relieved. Her reaction hovered somewhere in the middle, unreadable in that way she gets when she’s too tired to sort out how she actually feels. Either way, she would’ve gone regardless. Volunteer or not, because Becca would never forgive anyone who stood between her and ice skating, and Mel knows better than to test that.

The difference now, as you had explained to her, was that Mel didn’t have to be on her feet all day. She didn’t have to smile politely at demanding parents, or refill cups of watered-down, lukewarm hot cocoa for people who would complain about it anyway. She could just… be there. With her sister. Watching her circle the rink like it was the most important event of the year or actually brave the skates herself.

“You would do that for me?” she had asked later, when you had retired to bed with the lights off and the bedroom settling into that quiet stretch before sleep came.

it’s hard not to feel a little offended by the question. Not hurt, just surprised. Like she doesn’t realize how obvious the answer is. “Of course I would,” you mumble into the pillow. “Acts of service isn’t my love language, sure, but I would do anything for you.”

There’s a pause. Then: “But…” The word hangs there, tentative as she trails off. You can almost hear her searching for a counterargument, something practical enough to make you back out. “You hate taking part in any kind of customer service.”

Which is… Yes, true. Painfully so. The evidence is well-documented. Most notably during the first game of the PMC Mercy summer baseball tournament, when you volunteered to help run concessions and somehow ended up dumping a soda on a guy. To be fair, he absolutely deserved it after commenting on your jean shorts one too many times, but still. It didn’t do much for your reputation.

“But…” she trails off, and it’s almost like she’s trying to come up with a reason for you not to take her place volunteering. “You hate taking part in any kind of customer service.” Which was… true, yes. That much was clear when you’d volunteered to help run concessions during the first game of the PMC Mercy’s summer baseball tournament and ended up dumping a soda on a guy. To be fair, it was deserved, but still. 

You sighed, shifting closer to her in the dark. “I don’t hate it when it’s for you.” Silence. “Besides, just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean I can’t do it,” you had pointed out, punctuating it with a very convincing fake eye roll. Mel had huffed out a laugh at that, fond and disbelieving in equal measure, like she knew exactly how this was going to end.

You’d repeated the sentiment to yourself the night before, when the reminder email came through from Christina (the head of activities at the care center) with the cheerful subject line, bullet points, and clip-art marshmallows. You read it twice. Once to absorb it. Once to brace yourself.

Now, though, standing behind a makeshift folding table draped in a plastic, light-blue tablecloth patterned with snowflakes that have definitely seen better years, you’re second-guessing your patience.

Not because the work is hard. It isn’t at all, the instructions Christina sent were simple: pour the cocoa, take the tickets, smile politely. And it's the last hour of the fundraiser, and the rush has already come and gone. The line that once snaked around the corner has dwindled to a trickle. This should be the easy part.

Except.

The woman working beside you, someone’s grandma, judging by the sensible shoes and the faint smell of wintergreen, has taken the only folding chair. She’s been here all day, apparently, and still has things to say. Because she tells you this. Repeatedly. She also tells you everything else. Her grandchildren, her knee, the price of groceries, the weather (past and present). She talks while you work, and you work while she talks, hands moving on autopilot as you pour and pass and wipe down the table. I.e. she does nothing and you’re managing every part of labor.

Mel would’ve handled this effortlessly. You know she would have. She would’ve leaned in, asked questions, made the woman feel seen. But as you glance out toward the indoor skating rink, where Mel is gripping Becca's hand, laughing as her sister chatters away with one of her friends, you force down any annoyance you’re feeling. Mel's scarf has come loose. She looks lighter. Happier.

She’s having fun. This is for her. She shouldn’t have to work right now–

“Is this the warmest you could’ve made this?” 

Another mother. Another tiny styrofoam cup held between manicured fingers with the hot chocolate inside sloshing slightly as she gestures. It’s from a large thermos someone on the activity committee had provided and the steam is long gone, but the accusation is very much present. You sigh, quietly, the way you’ve learned to, which is contained, polite, and practiced.

“Yes, ma’am–” you begin, already lining up alternatives in your head. Apologies. Explanations. Solutions for causes you don’t control, but she doesn’t wait.

“We paid $7.50 for lukewarm hot chocolate?”

You clench your teeth together hard enough to feel it in your jaw and glance sideways, hopeful, toward the grandma beside you for backup. Somehow, she’s produced a phone, thumb scrolling with intent, despite the very clear no phones while volunteering sign taped to the wall behind you. Betrayal stings sharper than the cold cocoa. “It was $7.50 for an hour of ice skating,” you say evenly, voice pitched calm on purpose, “including the skates and any refreshments–”

“There has to be a microwave around here somewhere,” the woman cuts in, leaning closer, lowering her voice like she’s offering advice instead of a threat. “And I recommend you go look for it before I inform whoever’s in charge that you’ve let the beverages get cold.”

Something sharp flares in your chest. Irritation, probably. A bit of humiliation. The sudden urge to defend yourself, loudly, publicly. You swallow it back. You remind yourself of Mel. Of Becca on the ice. Of why you’re here.

“Ma’am, I’m just a volunteer–” 

But she shoves the cup into your hands before you can finish the sentence, impatience winning out over sense. And because styrofoam is the world’s weakest medium, it gives immediately. There's a soft, ugly crack, and then gravity does the rest.

Brown liquid spills down the front of you, hot chocolate soaking straight through your white sweatshirt. You hiss softly at the sensation, arms instinctively lifting away from your body, fingers splayed uselessly as the cup collapses in on itself. It’s definitely going to stain. Permanently. You can already tell.

When you glance up at the lady, clothing dripping and arms slightly apart, she at least has the decency to look a bit guilty. “Ma’am–”

“There's a microwave back in one of the break rooms,” granny finally decides to pipe up, cheerful and decisive. Given the hearing aid tucked behind her ear, you’re fairly certain she missed most (if not all) of the exchange leading up to this moment. Which, of course the lady takes as an out instead of apologizing like a decent human. She scoops up two more cups without asking and disappears behind the table, already halfway gone by the time you turn to yell after her.

Granny, meanwhile, squints at you and tilts her head. “Oh, Dear,” she says kindly, eyes landing on your chest. “What happened to your top?”

You don’t answer. You don’t know how.

In the bathroom, you attempt damage control by trying to wash some of the cocoa out of your sweatshirt. Bulk liquid soap. Thin paper towels that disintegrate on contact. You dab and scrub and ultimately make it worse. Actually, you think the stain spreads. Eventually, you concede defeat and shrug your coat up over it for the remainder of the shift, smelling faintly of chocolate and industrial soap.

When it’s finally time to close up, you’re stacking the remaining cups and sealing the thermos when Mel approaches. Becca is still off with her friends, skating laps. Mel's cheeks are pink from the cold, from laughing. There's a grin on her face that’s easy and unguarded. You look at her and decide, immediately, that any amount of discomfort was worth it.

It flickers when she notices you in your coat, though. It's subtle. The smile doesn’t disappear, exactly. It just… hesitates. Like her brain has flagged something out of place before she’s fully caught up.

“Hey,” you greet, a little breathless, mostly because you’re moving and talking at the same time as granny finally hauls herself out of the folding chair. “How was skating?”

“Good, good, it was… good,” Mel says, looping back on the word. She’s got her own coat on, scarf tucked up around her neck, so you’re not sure why she looks so puzzled or why she keeps glancing at you like that. Then it clicks. There’s a big stain right in the center where your coat opens.

“Ah,” you mumble, glancing down. “Spilled on… myself.”

Mel hums, nodding once. Then, she steps closer and adjusts her orbit so she’s near enough if you need her. Her hand finds your elbow, and you’re not sure if she’s trying to keep your attention to herself or double check on you. 

“Are you okay?” she asks quietly, like the question is meant only for you and not the echoing rink, not the fluorescent lights, not the lingering volunteers folding tables behind you.

So it was the second option.

But you nod, because no matter how badly you want to rat out that woman for earlier and that grandma for being a horrible volunteer, Mel had had fun. “Yeah. Totally. It's just hot chocolate, was bound to happen with me, honestly.” And you choke out a laugh.

She looks at you again, slower this time. The stain. The coat. Your posture, which is too straight and too casual. She doesn’t call you on it, she never does in public. Instead, she hums again, that thoughtful sound, and tips her head toward the exit.

“We should get Becca,” she suggests, giving you an out before you would get roped into any more volunteer-antics.

Becca comes skating up a minute later when you and Mel wave her over to the side of the rink, breathless and glowing, hair frizzed with static and effort. She chatters the entire way to the door, recounting spins and near-falls and something about a race she won. Mel listens. You listen. And before you’re out the door, Mel reaches to help you zip your coat up. 

Outside, the cold hits fast. Sharp enough to steal your breath, enough to make your hip throb in protest, and you choose to believe that that’s why Mel zipped your coat shut for you. Her hand slides into yours, fingers warm despite the air.

Once you’re in the car, doors shut, engine humming, she finally speaks again. Becca’s distracted, busy buckling herself in and fighting off her gloves.

“Do you… want to tell me what actually happened?” 

How did this keep happening even when you tried to avoid it?

You stare out the window for a second, watching your breath fog the glass. You could deflect. Joke, then minimize. You’re very good at that. Instead, you sigh. “A mom got mad, and then tried to give me her cocoa and the cup broke and–” You pause to gesture to your front. “But it was unprovoked on my end. Really.”

“I believe you,” Mel reassures. Then, she just reaches over and squeezes your hand once, firm. “Thank you for doing this,” she says after a beat. Not I’m sorry. Not are you hurt. Gratitude first. “And I’m giving you my Northshore Hawaii sweatshirt,” she adds and you blink at her for a moment. 

It was oversized on the both of you–cream colored fabric with forest threading that spelled the words out in the center in a stretched font. It wasn’t even from Hawaii, Mel told you she got it from her dad when he came back home once from a trip to Oregon. It was her favorite.

“Mel…” you trail off slightly, and she shakes her head in a way that would silence any more protests.

“I want you to have it. After today,” she whispers. “I haven’t got to spend time like that with Becca for a while. And I got to because of you.” Your chest tightens around the reasoning. You nod, swallowing harshly again. “Besides, you wear it more than I do.”

But she’s smiling like that again. Because Becca is humming in the backseat, happy and exhausted and safe. Which is enough for you. More than worth it.

Later at home, coats off and lights low, she’ll check on your bruise again, even if it’s mostly faded. She will scold you softly for not making enough peppermint bark cookies when you brought them to the ED because they were all gone before she could get to them. She’ll press an ice pack back into place even if you don't need it. She will kiss your temple and tell you you didn’t have to do all this.

You’ll tell her you know.

DECEMBER 15TH

Convincing Mel to go out after she returns home from her shift is a difficult task. For both you and her. You don’t like making her do things she doesn’t like to do, especially when she’s tired. And for her, probably because she is tired. But there were certain instances where you figured it wouldn’t hurt for her. Like when she spent too many nights cooped up or when she would get a bit stir crazy. When either of those things happened, while others would get irritable or refuse to interact with others, Mel would get sad. 

Lips in the shape of a small frown as she would drift through the apartment, asking you and Becca what you were up to or if you wanted to do something. 

Which is what she would probably be doing right now if she wasn’t stuck at the small, circular dining table and stressing herself over finishing online Christmas shopping. Or if you weren’t sitting at the table with her, scrolling through your phone. Both of you were bored, you could feel it in the air.

Across the table, you hear her click the mousepad harshly. Three times in a row. Then, she huffs, fingers moving over the keyboard as her mouth is pulled tight, that same small frown that is probably present on her face because she keeps clicking on things she doesn’t actually like. This is one of those moments. You can feel it click into place–the apartment is too still and the air feels used up. Mel's been home for long enough that the tired has tipped over into something heavier, something that’s starting to look like sadness if you squint at it too long.

The time on your phone reads 8:30 P.M. You could at least take her to one of the shops by your apartment complex. You lock your phone and set it face-down on the table before clearing your throat slightly. A deliberate motion. A signal.

“Who’re you shopping for?” you ask, gentle. 

Mel doesn’t glance up from the screen. “Your mom,” she sighs. “She had a specific hat on her list. It’s one of the Ugg ones, but it’s sold out on their website.” And then she pouts and you think it’s one of the cutest things you’ve ever seen.

“Show me,” you request, even though you’re pretty sure you know what it looks like already. Mel complies, pivoting the laptop in your direction for you to see. Cream cable knit. A matching puff ball on top. You nod. “You know…” you start, like you’re not about to suggest anything out of the ordinary for the two of you. “The Dillard’s that’s like a block away has Ugg products. And, they close at 9:15.”

That gets her. Her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but closer than it’s been all evening. 

“It’s so late, though,” she points out, pushing at her glasses with the back of her hand.

“I know,” you say, and you do. “We don't have to do everything. We can just… walk. Look at things. I’ll hold the bags and we can leave the second it stops being fun.” She glances back at her screen, at the mess of open tabs and half-decisions. Then back at you. Normally, Mel would say yes to whomever was asking her, just to make sure their feelings weren’t hurt. But, since she was with you, you knew she didn’t feel that same obligation.

And by the way her eyes soften, you figure she knows she needs to do something despite it being late.

“…Okay,” she says, quiet. “But only for a little bit.” 

Mel changes her mind twice while putting her shoes on. You can tell because she keeps pausing, one sneaker half-tied, staring at nothing in particular like she might sit back down if you blink too long. You don’t rush her. You've learned that part too. In situations like these, urgency makes her fold in on herself and patience gives her room to follow through.

Becca pokes her head out of her room when she hears the front door to the apartment open. “Are you guys going somewhere?”

“Christmas shopping,” you inform as Mel fixes your gloves over your fingers.

“Brave,” Becca states solemnly. “Godspeed.” She disappears again, already uninterested, already confident you’ll return in a short period of time.

Outside, the air hits first. Cold enough to wake something up behind Mel’s eyes. She tucks her hands into her coat pockets, shoulders hunching, but there’s color creeping back into her cheeks. The street is lit up in that slightly desperate way it gets this time of year–string lights stretched too thin and wreaths hanging at uneven angles. You walk slower than usual, letting her set the pace. Mel’s steps start small, like she’s testing the ground to make sure it won’t disappear under her even as your arm loops with hers. Every few squares of pavement she exhales, long and visible, fogging up the air between you. 

The Dillard’s is a seven minute walk away. You make it there in nine minutes. 

It’s strangely warm inside, the aisles mostly empty except for a few stragglers running errands late on a Monday night. And the lights are bright like you would expect in a department store, Christmas apparel and decorations fueled by consumerism crowding the entryway next to the sliding doors. There’s music playing–something cheerful and ancient–and the smell of cinnamon, artificial but convincing enough.

“This is… a lot,” Mel observes.

“We can leave?” you suggest, automatically as you tend to at any sign of her discomfort.

“No,” she says, surprising you a bit. “It’s… fine. I think. I just need a second.”

So you stand with her near the entrance, pretending to look at light-up gingerbread houses while she adjusts. Eventually Mel’s hand brushes yours, tentative, then stays there. Her fingers are cold. You don’t comment. You just let her have the contact, like a quiet anchor, and she finally gives a tilt of her head that tells you she’s ready to move on. 

“That hat my mom wants is with all of the other Ugg stuff by the women’s clothing,” you tell her, her hand slipping into yours as both of your shoes squeak silently against tile that reflects light just a bit too harshly. Something to the left catches her eye, an ugly Christmas sweater. Red. Loud. With a reindeer that makes her squint slightly. 

Mel turns to you, lowering her head toward yours. “Becca would hate that.” Her voice is hushed like she’s sharing a secret. And when you follow her gaze, a laugh slips from you. 

“She would,” you agree. Then, as you both continue shuffling forward: “She would ask you to wear it.” That makes Mel laugh, soft and sudden, like it slipped out before she could stop it. And for the first time all night, she looks less like someone enduring something and more like someone participating. Less like she was forcing herself to complete a task. 

And she starts doing that thing where she narrates her thoughts out loud without realizing it. Half-sentences, little verdicts murmured under her breath as you move from shelf to shelf–finally approaching the women’s section. 

Thankfully, the display with the Uggs winter wear isn’t difficult to find, and you watch her shoulders loosen, just a little, as the world gives her something small and manageable to focus on. Something she can choose. You trail a step behind her, hands skimming clothing you don’t intend to buy as you watch her hands more than the merchandise. They're steadier now. Decisive in a way they weren’t at the kitchen table on the laptop. She picks up the hat you’d seen online and commits. The act of choosing seems to soothe her. Which soothes you.

With Mel satisfied (settled, even) the two of you peel away from the Uggs display and drift toward the back of the store towards the large counter that is easily presumable as the check-out. There’s not much of a line, but you’re sure the poor teenager working’s cheer will be more performative than anything.

And then you pass the sleepwear.

It’s tucked off to the side, softer lighting. Almost everything is draped instead of stacked, including silk and satin and lace. The air even feels different there, quieter somehow. Mel slows.

Mel isn’t obvious when she wants things. She doesn’t reach, she doesn’t announce. Wanting, for her, is a private act. It shows up in the details: the way her eyes linger a second longer than necessary, the slight part of her lips, like she’s mid-thought and forgot to finish it. She pretends to be casual, but her body always tells the truth first.

But it’s so obvious though when her eyes settle on a baby blue set.

It looks soft in a way that feels intentional. Not flashy. Not trying too hard. Lace that looks like it would give easily in the kind of color that feels cool just to look at, like clean sheets or early morning light. And Mel stops fully this time. 

She doesn’t touch it,  just stares. “That’s…” she starts, then stops, swallowing. Her voice goes quiet. “That's pretty.” It's understated, the way she says it. You glance at the set, then back at her. Her cheeks have gone pink, not embarrassed exactly, but aware. Caught wanting something small and indulgent and not strictly necessary.

And then she does reach for it. 

Mel's fingers linger on the strap a second too long, rubbing the fabric between her thumb and forefinger, thoughtful, like she’s memorizing it. Then she does that thing where she tilts her head, glances at you from the corner of her eye, and looks away just as quickly. “It’s stupid,” she starts.

You raise your eyebrows slightly at her statement. “There’s no such thing as a stupid idea or– Something like that,” you mumble and she exhales a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. 

“I was just thinking,” she tries again, then stops. Her shoulders lift in a small shrug. “I mean– this is nice. And I guess I was thinking it would be… nice if you saw it. On someone. Not me. Obviously.” She winces at herself. “I mean. On you. But–”

Mel cuts herself off, cheeks burning now, the words tangling as soon as they get too close to the truth. She lets go of the fabric. “Forget it,” she backtracks quickly. “I don't need it.”

You don’t tease her. You don’t say anything that would make the wanting sharper, you just look at her, doing your best to appear soft and steady, like the thought didn’t scare you at all. “I don’t think it’s dumb,” you say, because that’s definitely along the lines of what she’s concluded. “I think it’s kind of sweet.”

That makes Mel pause. She swallows, eyes flicking back to the set, then to you. There's something there–want, yes, but also hesitation. The weight of cost, of vulnerability, of buying something with an expectation attached to it. Even an unspoken one.

She shakes her head, gentle but final and turns away from the table where several pieces of the intimates are laid out. Her hand lingers though. “Maybe another time,” she adds, quieter.

You nod. “Another time.”

And as you turn back toward the checkout together, you catch her sneaking one last glance over her shoulder. In the checkout line, Mel finally speaks up again. “Thanks for making me come,” she whispers, reaching for your arm. 

You don’t follow her gaze back to where she was looking, but a mental note is made. For later. 

“Anytime.”

DECEMBER 24TH

Thankfully, after going out to dinner with your parents, Becca heads home with them. 

It’s treated like a small holiday in your household and it’s like a mini-vacation for her. There’s a soft handoff in the parking lot with hugs that linger and promises of breakfast. She's excited in that contained way she gets when she knows what’s coming–your mom inevitably breaking out a board game (Monopoly, probably, because Becca learned the way to win every time), your dad insisting on A Charlie Brown Christmas, flour on the counters, cookie cutters everywhere.

And, most importantly, space.

Mel had told you once, late at night and very honestly, that Becca fitting so seamlessly into your family felt like a weight she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying. Stability, yes, but also relief. The kind that loosens the pressure in her chest. The kind you’ve been trying, consciously, to add to. to be better at. To shoulder without being asked.

But now, back at home and still a little buzzed from the white wine your parents had ordered at the Italian place, you were laughing as Mel tries to set up your record player. 

“I– I thought you said you just have to twist a knob,” Mel stutters, looking over the gray leather like it was some kind of puzzle she couldn’t solve. 

You chuckle again as you get up from your spot on the floor next to the tree, steps soft against the wooden floor through your fuzzy socks. “It’s not on, Mel,” you point out, reaching behind the case to let your fingers run along the surface until they find the On/Off switch. Once you press it, the tiny red dot in the bottom right corner flickers on. “There,” you say softly. 

Mel lifts the needle, the vinyl beginning to spin, black and glossy under the low light, and she sets it on the outer edge of the record. The soft instrumental of jazz echoes in a hushed volume from the speakers, before a woman’s voice that you can’t identify begins singing. Mel looks to you, a tiny, proud smile on her face.

“You’ve been doing that a lot lately,” she says. You shift, leaning into her side, shoulder fitting neatly beneath her arm. 

“Doing what?”

“Helping me,” she explains quickly. “More than usual.”

“You make me sound like a bad girlfriend,” you laugh and she opens her mouth to respond, an almost panicked look taking over her features before you interject again. “I’m teasing, Mel, you didn’t say anything wrong.”

She exhales. “Well– You’re not a bad girlfriend. You’re my favorite,” she mumbles. “It’s just unlike you to be like this during this time of year.

You hum in acknowledgement. Maybe agreement. “You’ve noticed that too, huh.” She smiles faintly and you share a small, conspiratorial chuckle, like you’ve both been circling the same thought without naming it. 

“It was, um…” you hesitate, suddenly aware of how earnest this is going to sound. “My Christmas gift to you, actually.” Her arms slide around your middle at that, slow and instinctive as she tilts her head, that familiar angle that means she’s processing. Absorbing. 

“I wanted you to have a real Christmas,” you continue, words tumbling out a little faster now. “One where you didn’t have to worry about me, or manage everything, or carry the stress you usually do just because you think you’re supposed to.” Your voice softens, "I wanted you to just… be.”

You’re already bracing yourself for how exposed that feels when she leans in and kisses you.

And she doesn’t pull away right after the kiss. Instead, she lingers there, forehead resting against yours, breath uneven like she’s trying to steady it without making a big deal out of the fact that you’ve just knocked the wind out of her. Her hands tighten at your waist, silently confirming you’re still here.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says finally, voice awed.

You shrug a little, even though there’s nowhere to really shrug with the way you’re pressed together. “I wanted to.” She swallows. You can feel it. Her thumb starts tracing absent-minded circles at your side, grounding herself the way she always does when she’s emotional but refuses to name it.

“No one’s ever done that for me,” she admits quietly. “Planned around me like that.” The music keeps playing behind you, soft and patient, and the room feels warmer somehow. Smaller. Like it’s holding the moment in place and you both are the only people to exist. Mel pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes shining in that way that makes you ache a little. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” you tell her.

She nods, her silent way of accepting the answer. Then she leans in again, kisses you once more. Slower this time, fuller, reminiscent of gratitude translated into touch. When she finally rests her head against your shoulder, she murmurs, almost to herself, “This is… really nice.”

You hesitate, just for a second, like you’re debating whether to ruin the moment or deepen it. “There’s also,” you say, clearing your throat softly, “an actual gift.” 

Mel lifts her head immediately. “You already–”

“I know,” you interrupt gently. “But still.” So you bend awkwardly away from her and toward the tree, pulling it free and holding it out to her. It’s the first thing you’ve ever wrapped so carefully, having redone the corners twice because they didn’t sit right the first time. She takes it, eyes flicking up to your face before dropping back down to it again. You watch the way her mouth presses into a thin line, trying not to smile too fast. Trying not to expect too much.

“You didn’t have to,” she repeats, quieter this time.

“I wanted to,” you insist, because it’s still true. 

She sits down on the floor beneath the tree, back resting against the couch, patting the spot beside her until you follow. The music hums on in the background as she peels back the paper slowly, methodical. The box opens and you feel a little embarrassed again, because this is personal.

Inside–two pipe cleaner ornaments grown with borax crystals (one with a nametag of your name and the other with Becca’s), peppermint massage oil, a white sweatshirt that has your hometown written on the front in graphic letters, and a tea leaf mix made by your mother (for colds as long as you added honey after brewing).

Mel sits there for a moment, just looking, and you wonder if this was dumb.

“I– They’re just little ideas from things that happened this month,” you rush out. “There’s peppermint bark cookie dough in the freezer too, you probably saw it ‘cause I didn’t really try to hide it–” 

She just sits there, cross-legged on the floor, the box resting in her lap like it’s something she’s afraid to disturb. The Christmas lights catch in the crystals on the pipe cleaners, throwing soft little glints onto her hands. She turns one of the ornaments carefully, reading the names twice, like she needs to be sure they’re really there.

You watch her face too closely. You can’t help it. 

Mel looks up then.

Really looks at you. And the expression on her face makes you stop talking immediately.

It's not confusion. Or disappointment. It's that soft, overwhelmed stillness. Her mouth opens like she’s going to say something practical (thank you, probably) and then closes again. Mel leans forward suddenly, and wraps her arms around you, box tipping forgotten to the side. She hugs you tight, face pressed into your shoulder, and you feel her breathe out.

“This isn’t dumb,” she says into your sweatshirt, voice thick. “This is… this is everything.” You swallow thickly, in the same way she sounded. “Thank you,” she whispers. Not rushed. Not reflexive. Heavy with meaning.

“You’re welcome,” you respond, because it’s the only thing you can think of. “And…” Gently, you separate from her.

You shift across the floor to sit in front of her, the distance small but deliberate, close enough that your knees almost touch. Close enough that she can feel the change in the air even before you do anything else. Mel watches you, quiet, attentive, her hands resting loosely in her lap as you reach for the hem of your sweater. 

The fabric lifts slowly, over your shoulders, your chin, your ears. Cool air kisses your skin as you pull it over your head and let it fall to the floor beside you, forgotten immediately.

Underneath, you’re wearing the light blue set.

The shade is powdery, almost. The color of early winter mornings, of sky just before snow, with lace traces along the edges in delicate patterns, little looping florals that feel more intimate the longer you look at them. The fabric fits close without biting, sheer fabric apart for the embroidery that very conveniently covers your nipples. Straps sit neatly against your shoulders, thin, little bows above the cups.

Mel's breath stutters.

Then, her eyes move slowly, respectfully (mostly) taking in the details. The lace. The way the color contrasts against your skin. Her hands curl slightly in her lap. “…Wow,” she murmurs, almost to herself. Heat blooms low in your chest, but you stay still. You let her look. This isn’t about performing. It's about being seen. About letting her understand that this, too, was part of the gift. 

Mel swallows as her gaze lifts to your face, eyes soft and bright in that way that makes your throat tighten. “You look… beautiful,” she breathes, voice warm. “I– You always look beautiful,” she continues, making a blush rise to your cheeks and a barely restrained smile grow on your lips. Mel sighs like she’s embarrassed of her compliment. “Can I touch you?”

“Yes,” you breathe, shifting closer to her already. Other gift on the floor by her, lights still glinting in the tree. Her fingers brush your knee first, skimming up your jeans before her thumb comes to rest on the button.

You nod again when she looks at you.

Breathing deepens, eyes becoming slightly lidded as she undoes the fastening, her green irises immediately flicking down to where your jeans open–looking for blue lace. When she sees it, a long sigh escapes her mouth. And it’s like she can’t pull her eyes away as you move to stand on your knees, waist aligning in front of her eyes. Momentarily, your hands come to rest on her shoulders as her dull fingernails dig into the soft skin of your sides. 

Tucked into your waistband.

And pull down. Down. Down. 

Until they pool at your knees. Only then does she risk making eye contact with you again, and the sight of her mouth being a breath away from your stomach has a rush of heat settling in your belly. 

Her lips skim your navel. 

A small noise leaves you and then she’s guiding you back to lay on the rug, your feet kicking the rest of the denim off your body.

Mel doesn’t pause. Her lips slide from your stomach upward, teasing over the curve of your ribs, brushing against the lace over your nipples with delicate pressure. Every movement is deliberate, slow, savoring the small reactions that make you shift beneath her. Her hands roam lightly across your sides, fingertips tracing your ribs, memorizing the feel of them, grounding herself at the same time.

You tilt your head, letting her claim the space, and she takes it further. Her mouth finds yours, testing, before deepening into something more insistent. Your hands come up to her shoulders, then slide down her back, tracing the lines beneath her shirt as if you’re marking your territory. Her tongue teases at the corner of your lips, coaxing you, daring you, and you respond with the same heat, matching the rhythm. Slow then faster. Hands tangled in her hair, feeling the texture of the strands, pulling her closer without needing to because there’s barely any room to begin with.

She presses into you, knees straddling your hips, chest flush against yours, and the heat between you isn’t just want–it’s something thicker, heavier, a shared pulse that grows with every kiss. Her lips move with purpose, sometimes brushing, sometimes claiming, and you meet every motion, leaning into her, whispering her name between breaths without realizing it.

Mel’s fingers trail down your sides, under the hem of your lace briefly, just enough to make a shiver run through you, before moving back to grip your hips, steadying herself.

“Is it okay if you keep it on?” she pants against your lips and you nod hastily.

“That’s what I got it for– D’whatever y’want with it– Me, with me…” The words make a tiny whimper escape her before her lips find your collarbone, biting softly. 

“I thought,” Mel mumbles against your skin as her fingers nudge the seat of the panties to the side, a string of your wetness connecting your swollen folds to fabric. “I really wanted to have sex with you in this the first time I saw it,” she admits, and when you glance down, you can see how the tips of her ears are red.

It makes you bite back a moan, especially when two of her fingers move to circle your left nipple through the lace. Subconsciously, your thighs part more for where her hand is between your thighs.

“Say my name,” Mel pleads, her thumb circles your clit as she speaks, rubbing the sensitive nub in tight, deliberate circles. You could already feel how your thighs are starting to tremble, could hear the way her breath came in short, sharp gasps against the lingerie. “Come on, please,” she says, voice high and whiny like she’s the one getting two fingers pressed inside of her.

“Mel–” you moan unashamedly, grateful for the empty apartment. Especially when Mel sets a slow, deep rhythm, fucking her fingers with long, deliberate strokes. “Mel!”

She tucks her face further against your chest. “You feel so good around my fingers,” she pants, moving them faster. Fast enough while her thumb remains torturously slow on your clit, giving pressure to intensify the feeling but not grant relief. “So good, you’re so good to me–”

You cry her name again, clenching around her as that coil in your abdomen teeters closer and closer to snapping. “I’m close,” you inform her, so she would–

Mel presses her thumb hard against your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in tight, furious circles. At the same time, she curls her fingers inside of you, stroking along the front wall of your fluttering sex until she found that perfect spot that made you see stars.

Your head falls back against the rug with a choked sob, muscles tensing as your orgasm crashes over you. Distantly, you think another gush of fluid that soaks Mel’s fingers, think you hear a broken, desperate sound come from Mel’s lips as you come undone. You feel the way her gaze remains on your face as you slowly come down, gasping for breaths between whimpers.

Drinking you in and drooling slightly against the top of your breasts.

The lights flicker softly behind you, the tree casting tiny shadows across her hair, across your skin, and for a little while, nothing else exists except the press of her lips and the grip of hands.

And the way you both fit exactly where you are.

DECEMBER 25TH (Christmas)

Your leg jerks in your sleep. In your dream, you feel like your thigh is locking up in pain. Or maybe a cramp. Like when you sit for an extended period of time or stay in one position for too long. The sensation is manageable in your clouded mind, all you had to do was change positions. Your leg twists towards your other, only to be held in place.

And then a bolt of white-hot pleasure is curling through your lower spine.

Your eyes snap open instantly, albeit, they’re still half lidded, but they’re open as you try to shift against the sheets again. You’re already panting for some reason, and you can feel how your hole is pulsing around nothing except for your own juices. And there’s so much. Weakly, you glance down just as Mel circles her tongue around your clit again. 

All that’s able to leave your mouth is a tiny whimper.

Green irises meet yours.

Mel just hums softly against your swollen bud, making your thighs seize again and your eyes roll back as your head falls back onto the pillows. 

“Good morning.” You don’t think you could respond even if she didn’t seal her lips around your clit after the words leave her.

The suction has your back bowing off of the mattress, her tongue finding the exposed bundle of nerves inside of her mouth to press against while your pussy fluttered and leaked and made a mess on the already damp sheets between your thighs. And then two of her fingers are pressing inside of you and curling just right that you don’t even have time to warn her before you’re cumming. Hard. Harder than normal, abdomen tightening as your own fingers claw at the sheets and you sob out her name. You don’t even register the spray of liquid that gushes out of you onto her face. Just the way Mel’s fingers continue moving erratically as you tremble through the orgasm.

Breaths come quickly as her mouth leaves your clit, the poor nerves pulsing as her fingers slow as well. You can’t tell if you’re half asleep or if you’re just too fucked out.

Eventually, you remember how to speak. “What was that for?” you pant, Mel tucking the side of her hair that falls heavier behind her ear as she works her way back up your body.

“For yesterday,” Mel explains as she gives your lips a small peck. Halfheartedly, because your muscles feel like rubber bands that have been stretched too taut and then loosened, you wipe at her face where her skin glistens with your cum. “And the day before that. The entire month,” she whispers, taking your wrist in her hand and guiding it back down to the bed. 

“Don’t mention it,” you exhale. “It was your Christmas present.”

The corners of her mouth tilt upwards and you can’t help but sleepily copy the action. 

“You mean… so much to me,” Mel admits quietly, a secret just for the two of you. And it has your heart softening in your chest. “And you showed that it’s the same for you– Everything about it was more than I could have asked for.”

Your wrist twists in her loose grip to intertwine your fingers.

“Even if I kind of messed it up each time?”

Mel laughs weakly, “You didn’t mess anything up.” She’s settling over you now, hooking one of your thighs between hers and sitting up slightly to reach for her bedside drawer. “You’re the only thing I wanted.”

You feel like you could cry from her words. “You’re the only thing that I want,” you agree softly. “Merry Christmas to both of us, then.” That makes Mel giggle again, the sound going straight to the organ in your chest. She fumbles with something in the drawer before taking it out.

That stupid pink vibrator. 

“Mel,” you groan softly, shifting underneath her. “Did I cum before I woke up?”

“Just twice,” she admits. “They were small ones, though, that’s why it didn’t wake you up.” She explains it so casually. As if she weren’t discussing that she had eaten you out while you were asleep. The thought is more arousing than anything you could’ve pictured, though. The topic of somnophilia had come up before–Mel being the one to ask if it was a hard no on your end. And of course it wasn’t. The thought of her being so affected by you to the point where she didn’t hesitate to use you while you were asleep was probably one of the hottest things you’ve heard. 

Part of your present for her to try it for the first time today.

“Are you okay for more?” she checks, like usual. And you do feel a little sensitive. You would probably be sore for the rest of the day and would have to sit awkwardly during the drive to pick Becca up from your parents’, but you would manage. “I know you need at least five minutes between each orgasm–”

“I’m okay,” you reassure. “I’m ready.”

To prove your point, you reach up to drag her face back down to yours, kissing her deeply. Deep enough to almost feel bruising, and both of your lips move slowly, yet desperate enough to feel like you’re trying to consume one another. Mel whines–the sound needy as she follows your mouth. The toy stays in one of her hands as she works to slip her pajama bottoms and boyshorts off before settling back in the same position. 

This time, though, with the vibrator between your pussies, pressed against each of your clits. 

You both gasp into each other’s mouth when she turns it on.

All you can do is lie limply under her as her full weight sits onto the toy, increasing the intensity against your bundle of nerves with pressure that has you panting and whining into her mouth in silent pleads. 

Mel was always all about connection when you were intimate. Wanting to feel your skin no matter how sweaty you got and needing to have her tongue in your mouth or vice versa. And you knew why–because that feeling of being so attached to another person made you needy. Needy and craving that sensation of being tethered to them. So it doesn’t surprise you when she starts grinding down against the vibrator. 

It’s on the lowest setting, and it won’t increase during this session. 

You’re overstimulated and Mel won’t want to be overwhelmed during her own orgasm and– You moan loudly, slipping your mouth from hers when she forces her hips down particularly hard, rolling the silicone over your clit in a way that has you teetering on the edge already. “Mel–”

She responds with a moan of your own name. “I need you– It’s so– Good, ah–” You can feel the way her hand shakes as she keeps the vibrator steady between your cunts, both of your slicks combining on it as you weakly buck your hips up and press your thighs against hers just to feel her.

“I need you too,” you whimper. “I’m gonn-a cum–” 

You don’t get the words out before you’re falling over the edge. Mel humps the vibrator faster, working herself to release with you and folding over your body when she does reach her climax. Moans and gasps and the dull vibrations of the discarded toy fill the room as Mel lets it fall from her grip, instead pressing her cunt against your own to ride out the high.

You don’t care. You’d take anything from her. 

And when her moans transition into gasps that stir the baby hairs at your hairline, you figure the both of you had endured the intense orgasms and come out on the other side more exhausted than you started. Sweat slicked skin and feather breaths over heated nerves. Gently, you move one of your hands to rest on her lower back, the other sweeping her blonde hair off her warm neck, an attempt to cool her down. 

Mel’s lips find your cheek as her weight collapses fully onto you. 

“Merry Christmas to us,” she repeats your earlier words.

You were going to have to text your parents you were going to be later than expected.

There were moments, though, that you didn’t mind the temporary chilliness of the apartment.

“And then, I had to show them how to swaddle her, but she wouldn’t stop kicking,” Mel laughs softly to herself. Her hands are warm for once as they slide over your bare shoulders, thumbs tracing absent-minded paths as she talks, her voice low and amused.

After a long night of making dinner and curling up on the couch together to watch a movie before bed (Becca included in the cuddle pile to try and prevent more of the cold), you’d finally gotten your girlfriend to take a bath with you.

It was something she’d been hesitant about. Mostly because she didn’t understand the point. She’d been perched on the edge of the tub with her arms crossed like a negotiator who already knew she was right. Baths, according to her, were pointless. Counterproductive, even. A true believer that sitting in bubbles and water was just soaking in your germs rather than getting clean. It just steeped you. Like tea. 

“They don’t rinse like showers do,” she’d said, but then you’d brought up warmth. And she gave in pretty quickly after that, reaching for the faucet and checking the temperature.

You knew she’d probably shower after, though.

But you would take what you could get. Which included a halfway-filled shower bath with hot water and Dr. Teal’s Shea Butter and Almond Oil bubble bath (Mel’s skin got extremely dry in the winter). And you and Mel, stripped down to nothing. Her lying back in the water, blonde hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and you situated comfortably on top of her. 

Well, as comfortable as you could be in the cramped space.

A few candles are lit on the edges of the bath, you and Mel both agreeing that the harsh overhead lighting of your bathroom being too much for the late night and intimate atmosphere. Now, she had her head tilted back on the edge of the tub, propped against the tiled wall as she told you about the young parents that had come in with a baby experiencing reflux.

Worried and panicking, only for it to be nothing but usual newborn behavior.

“And babies are surprisingly strong,” Mel notes, glancing down at you as her fingers continue leaving trails of water over your exposed shoulders. The touch is light, but deliberate, like she’s mapping you without needing to look.

You nod against her collarbone, cheek pressed into the warm hollow there. “They are,” you agree quietly. “Able to make people feel it through their stomachs.” The words come out a little strange and definitely half-formed, the way thoughts do when you’re comfortable enough not to sand them down first.

You hear Mel inhale like she’s about to say something (correct you, maybe, or ask what you mean) but then she thinks better of it. Instead, she leans down and presses a kiss to your hairline, lingering just a second longer than necessary and her arms come around you properly this time, encircling your upper body.

“It was sweet seeing it,” she whispers, voice softened by the steam and the hour. Your hands curl instinctively around the sides of her ribs, thumbs pressing lightly into skin that’s warm and familiar. Your eyes flutter shut without you meaning to. “I love when babies come in–” she starts, then stops herself, a quiet laugh puffing out of her nose when she realizes how that sounds. “Well,” she corrects, carefully. “When they’re not hurt or sick.”

You chuckle softly, breathing in the earthy, nutty scent of the dwindling bubbles. You’d lost count of the minutes you’d been in here with her, but the water is betraying you now, its warmth fading, edging into something lukewarm, then cool. You know, reluctantly, that you’ll have to get out soon. 

“You’re not getting sick right?” you ask, eyes still shut, not quite ready to move. “I heard you sniffling earlier.”

There’s a pause.

“I might…” Mel admits slowly, “have a cold.” You peek your eyes open to glance up at her. “But it’s nothing serious,” she objects. “We’ll still be able to kiss.”

That makes you laugh, the sound soft and a little muffled as you press your cheek closer against her skin, nose brushing her collarbone. You shift just enough to find it–her heartbeat, steady and warm beneath your ear. You settle there like you were looking for it on purpose, soaking in her warmth greedily, as if the water hasn’t already started to cool around you.

“I would still kiss you if you were sick.”

Her fingers pause for half a second before resuming their slow path over your shoulder blades, down the notches of your spine, like she’s counting them. “You would?” she asks, and even without seeing her face, you can hear the hesitation in her voice. “I wouldn’t.”

“Mel,” you mumble, pretending to be offended even if she can feel your smile on her sternum.

“I wouldn’t want you to get sick too,” she reasons hastily. She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “I’m a doctor. I know these things.”

“I know you’re a doctor,” you say, laughing a little sleepily now, buoyed by the closeness and the lingering heat of the bath. Your limbs feel heavy, pleasantly useless. “But you still bend your… rules or whatever for me.” You shift, just barely, tilting your head. “Like kissing even if you have a cold.”

As if she were trying to prove a point, her lips find your hair again. 

“Like sitting in our germs?”

“Stop saying that,” you mumble, burrowing closer. After that, the quiet settles differently. Thicker. The kind that isn’t empty but full of fatigue, of warmth ebbing away, of the late hour finally catching up to you both. You can feel it in the way her breathing deepens, in how her hands slow where they rest on you.

Mel takes a deep breath, chest rising beneath your cheek. “Because I want you to be happy,” she whispers. “And it’s not bad sitting in here with you. And since it’s freezing in our bed probably…” 

You hum in acknowledgment, already understanding where she’s going. You always do. It’s something you’ve learned with time, with practice, with loving her long enough to read the spaces between her words. “You wanna do this again tomorrow?” you ask, because you know what she’s implying.

Mel swallows harshly, her throat dry and rough. “I have to start getting ready at 6,” she mumbles, voice thin from being used for the first time that day. Outside, the sun has barely begun to rise; the sky is a muted cobalt at the edges, fading into something more powdery that then ombre-d into the peach and blush of dawn. You’d left the window open the previous night, the air in your room being too stuffy with the summer heat that was beginning to creep on the edges of Pittsburgh. The breeze is cool on her face as you give her cheek a small peck and unwind yourself from her side, moving to get what you’d been asking for. 

Next to you, Mel props herself up on her elbows, retrieving her glasses from her bedside table and pushing them onto her nose bridge as you bound back onto the bed. The frame is the cheapest one you both could find at Ikea, and it had taken an entire day to set up. That being said, it’s hard to get rough when the slightest movement makes the whole thing creak. Especially when you practically jump back onto the comforter. 

Mel’s hand shoots out to steady your hip as the boards under the mattress complain at the sudden movement. You have to bite your tongue to keep from laughing, settling onto your knees next to where she’s still half under the covers. “Stop,” she whispers, even if she’s smiling a little too. “You’re gonna wake Becca up.”

You shake your head, holding your finger to your lips as you hand her the harness for the strap. 

Mel, bless her, takes it with a tiny breath, and shifts her legs out from under the covers. 

“You’re really wet,” Mel observes as you slide your panties off your thighs. Said like it’s the most casual thing in the world. Like you were discussing what to have for dinner. You chuckle, but you don’t miss the way her eyes linger on your panties. Or the way her neck gets a little red. You just smile to yourself, hearing the buckle of the harness fasten. 

And when Mel moves to sit up, your hands find her shoulders.

“No,” you say shortly, still gentle, but firm. And it makes her half-open eyes widen slightly, her head tilts to the side and her brows flick up for a split second as you push her back down onto the pillows. You think you feel her heartbeat stop under your hands as you trail them down her chest, holding her in place as you straddle her middle.

Spoiled indeed.

Mel doesn’t protest as you press your face against her neck, giving the sensitive skin above her collarbone a lingering kiss. Instead, her breathing gets shaky. And you don’t move. With your face in her neck, open mouth on the curve of her throat, you grind your cunt along the strap, wetting it with your juices. 

“I had a dream about you,” you start lowly, knowing that the close proximity made her feel the vibrations of you speaking. “You asked me to go out with you and your co-workers after your shift for drinks…” Another lick of your tongue over the flexing muscles on the side of her neck. A kiss to the corner of her jaw. “And you fingered me under the table–”

A gasped moan of your own cuts you off, lips against Mel’s cheek as she reaches between your bodies to guide the tip of the cock into you. 

“I wouldn’t do that,” she mumbles, hand moving to settle on your hip over the t-shirt of hers you were wearing.

But you saw the way her cheeks were flushed now as you shakily pushed yourself up to a sitting position. It takes everything in you not to groan in relief as you sink down slowly onto the strap, the fake ridges of the dick sliding along your walls that had been aching to be filled ever since you woke up. The only reason you didn’t take the entire thing immediately was because of Mel’s grip on you, knowing that even if you were turned on, it would still be a bit of a stretch with no prep and first thing in the morning.

“Sure,” you chuckle breathlessly, the word fading as your mouth falls open again. With your cunt full, it was hard to remember why you wanted to do all of the work in the first place. So, you bat Mel’s hand off your hip to rock forward, grinding your clit on the silicone of the base and the weight shifts inside you to brush all of those sensitive spots. 

Mel’s hand settles on her stomach.

Her eyes never leave where your pussy lips spread around the strap. 

With another tiny moan, you lift your hips only to slowly drop back down. And again. And again, until you’d found a steady rhythm that had the bed squeaking slightly and your pussy gushing down onto Mel’s own pelvis. 

“I saw–” you try, eyes fluttering from how good and lazy this feels. “I saw you looking at my panties,” you mumble, leaning back onto your hands to give yourself more leverage to ride her just a bit harder. “You want them?”

Mel’s hands twitch on her stomach, her eyes darting from your loud cunt to your lust-filled eyes. The way her lips are parted and her pupils are dilated tells you everything you need to know. 

Smirking a little despite already being right on the edge of an orgasm, you pause your bouncing, opting to grind the hard bud of your clit against her as you reach for where you’d discarded the soaked garment on the bed. You drop them over her hands. She doesn’t move for a moment, opting to grip them. Your cunt clenches when her thumb runs over the wet spot.

You can’t help the way the sight of her being so flushed underneath you makes you rock against her again. A moan tears from your throat. You’re too high on your approaching release to realize how loud it is, tits bouncing under your shirt as you pick up the pace, the slick sound of the strap barely leaving your pussy before you sit back down filling the room–

Mel’s pushing your panties between your lips before you even see her move.

And the sentiment, the taste of yourself on your tongue, has your orgasm crashing over you. 

Mel’s hands are on your hips again, pushing the strap up into you in tiny little thrusts to get you through the peak of the climax. And thank goodness for your panties in your mouth. Otherwise you would’ve probably woken up the neighbors. Upstairs, downstairs, and next door. It was just so deep and you were so sensitive that the waves of pleasure were more than your brain could’ve controlled. 

You’re panting, spit wetting the fabric when Mel hooks her finger into your mouth to tug them back out.

“I figured,” she mumbles, voice trembling with her own arousal. “That, um, about the dream. Because you were noisy enough in your sleep,” she pauses, taking a deep breath as you collapse against her chest, exhausted. 

Your underwear is still in one of her hands.