Chloe

A/N:

Look, I know I said I would give myself more time between posting to prevent burnout but I've been highkey obsessed. I need yall to hold me accountable and boycott me if I post another chapter so quickly bc I literally have two midterms soon that I have not studied for at all.

Otherwise...

'Tis the season we finally learn about some of reader's backstory. If things still aren't fully clear, that's okay! Nothing is supposed to be fully revealed yet; I promise things will be explained more in later chapters.

This chapter is also...unique. Towards the end it starts exploring a topic that can be triggering for some people. I didn't describe it in the most insane of detail but please still be advised.

Enjoy!

You listened with your back turned as Baran reassured the residents, trying to ignore the stinging in your eyes and the pounding in your chest.

Not again, not right now.

Deep breath in.

You could do this. You came back for a reason, right? You wouldn’t be here if you couldn’t handle it.

You turn back around, hoping you have a good poker face.

“With a vessel that size, he was dead before he even felt the pain. None of us could have known. These things don’t make themselves known until the worst moment possible. You did everything right and you did everything you could.”

Were you reassuring them or yourself?

Deep breath out.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚

You stand with your arms crossed, leaning against the wall as you watch Princess finish covering the body with a white sheet.

“You okay?”

You don’t need to look to know who it is; even though you’ve only known her for four hours, you’ve become an expert at detecting her.

“Yeah. It just sucks is all. Doesn’t help that it’s the second chest we’ve had to open this morning.”

You feel a hand on your forearm and peek over, too scared that the unsteadiness in your eyes will give you away.

“Death is hard, no matter how long you’ve been in the field.”

There are questions on the tip of her tongue. You can see it in her eyes—the curiosity and worry she holds—and you know she’s caught you; caught whatever it was that came over you, but she keeps quiet. You thank her internally, not ready to talk about it let alone acknowledge the itchiness in your heart.

“I’m okay, promise. Thank you though.”

Her hand slips off of your arm and the coldness it leaves startles you. Almost mindlessly, you feel yourself leaning in her direction, chasing the heat and comfort she radiated before you realize where you are and what you’re doing.

Not the time.

“If you need to chat, just let me know. I’m always available.”

Maybe you’re overthinking it, maybe Dana got in your head, or maybe it’s the adrenaline still coursing through your veins, but the soft smile she gives you makes your brain do a flip, as if something rewires itself.

Or maybe I’m just lonely and desperate for any ounce of human interaction. 

“I’m going to check in with Mohan now, she was asking for me earlier. I’m sure I’ll run into you soon.”

You walk away, putting your hands in your pockets before you decide that pulling at your fingers is better. When your thumb runs over the stump of where your left ring finger used to be, you can’t help but be self conscious, wondering if the others had noticed it.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚

“You needed to see me, Dr. Mohan?”

The resident looks up at you from her computer.

“Yes! Can I present?”

“Go for it.”

You start making your way to North 6.

“I have an 8th month old female named Maya Leroy. Her mom brought her in because of some ‘strange skin changes’ on her hands and around her mouth. No fever, no cough, eating and drinking normally.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Could be measles or hand, foot, and mouth but I have a feeling it’s something else. It’s not really a rash; it’s a deep orange pigmentation that’s localized to her palms, soles, and the nasolabial folds. I was worried about jaundice but her sclera looked clear.”

“So she’s turning into a pumpkin?”

She gives you a look.

“That’s what the mom said.”

You grab some hand sanitizer and head in, being greeted with what you can only describe as the chubbiest, happiest baby you have ever seen.

She screams as you walk up to her, reaching for your stethoscope.

“Well hello to you missy! You are the happiest I’ve ever seen someone be in a hospital.”

“This is very mild for her, believe it or not.”

Her mother bounces her gently on her lap.

You tickle the baby’s belly and get a happy laugh followed by some drool.

“Do you mind if I take a quick look?”

“Of course.”

You gently grab the baby and place her on the examination table. She grabs your index finger, pulling it into her mouth which you use as an excuse to examine her.

“Breath sounds are good, heart rate is perfect.”

You peek at the sunset orange that taints her palms and feet, giving them a quick tickle as you sit her up.

“You have one happy baby Mrs. Leroy. How’s her bowel movements?”

“Consistent, a few times a day.”

You gently palpate her tummy.

“And her appetite? Is she on solids yet?”

“She still breastfeeds on occasion but she mostly eats solids now. She loves the purees I make; anything with veggies, especially sweet potato or carrots with breakfast and squash or pumpkin with dinner.”

With a grin, you hand the baby back to her mom.

“Dr. Mohan, I think we have our diagnosis.”

You motion for her to take over.

“Maya has carotenemia. Essentially, the vitamin A from all of the orange vegetables is building up in her sweat glands, causing the orange tint.”

“So she’s not sick?”

You see the look of relief on her face.

“Not at all. Just cut back on the carrots and sweet potatoes for a few weeks. Switch to green beans, peas, or cauliflower and the flow will fade on its own.”

“Thank you so much!”

You hear her phone ring from her bag, her happiness momentarily interrupted.

“I’m so sorry! It’s my job, they’re upset I wasn’t able to come in today; I really need to take this.”

You give her a smile.

“No worries at all. If you don’t mind, I can take Maya out in the hallway for a quick stroll. This room will be a lot quieter than the rest of the ER.”

“You’re a life saver, thank you!”

You grab the baby who eagerly slaps at your face as you exit the room.

“Thank you Dr. Mohan, I needed that.”

She gives you a confused smile.

“You’re…welcome?”

You head towards the nurse station—which was in direct sight of the mother—as you pick up the baby’s hand to wave goodbye.

“Say ‘bye bye’ Dr. Mohan.”

You walk up to Princess and Perlah who immediately start cooing and trying to steal her from you.

“Hands off, gremlins. First come, first serve. You know the rules.”

“If that’s your baby, I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

“Language, Dana.”

You turn to see the charge nurse staring at you with her eyebrows raised.

“This is our lovely patient from North 6. Her mom’s taking an important call so I offered to watch her.”

Dana walks up to the baby and pinches her cheeks.

“Well, you can’t blame a girl for being confused. You’ve been nearly MIA for the past six years. I didn’t know where you were or who you were with. You could’ve popped out a whole daycare by now and I wouldn’t have known.”

The itchiness is back but you bite it down.

“I was away. Helping people and seeing the world. What more is there to know?”

“A lot.”

You weren’t getting out of this conversation, you knew that. But you were gonna try your absolute damndest to delay it as long as possible.

“Tell you what, Dana. You stop smoking and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

“Deal. Now spill.”

You look at her, confused.

“What do you mean, ‘spill’?”

“I mean I don’t smoke anymore so cough up your damn secrets.”

You weren’t expecting that; you should've noticed the lacking smell of tobacco.

“Bullshit.”

“Language, missy. And I’ll have you know I have stopped. I use nicotine gum now.”

“That barely counts, you’re basically cheating.”

“Tough shit sugar plum, shoulda put that in the rules of the game.”

The itching was getting worse, you pull at your shirt.

“Why are you allowed to curse around the baby but I’m not?”

“Because I run this ER; my house, my rules.”

A tug on your earlobe brings your attention back to Maya. You wish you were like her; carefree, doted on constantly, eating all the time. It was hard to stay sad when something so precious was clinging to you so gently.

You look back at Dana, the look in her eye making you turn away in shame. It was the same look Baran was giving you.

Pity. You hated it.

“Look, a lot happened. I promise I’ll tell you more, but before then can I just enjoy my five minutes of peace?”

You put your face up to the baby’s making the best puppy dog look you could muster.

“Ow! Hey!”

The baby was yanking on your jewelry and laughing about it.

“Of course. Enjoy your ultimate relaxation time with little miss grabby hands.”

With an exaggerated bow and some jazz fingers towards Maya, Dana leaves.

“Is that your baby?”

You turn to see Baran, walking towards you with a confused look.

“You know, you are the second person to ask me that in the span of two minutes. But regrettably, no, this pumpkin is not mine.”

She coos at the baby, tickling her belly. You try to ignore the butterflies forming in yours.

“I was a bit confused, you had said you didn’t have any kids. Very literal pumpkin too, huh? Carotenemia?”

“Yep. She loves her food.”

“I can see that.”

Maya giggles as her belly is poked all over.

Why does this feel… domestic?

The flutter in your stomach annoys you. You’re holding a stranger’s baby in the middle of a germ ridden hospital; it’s not romantic at all, let alone domestic.

But still, the thought of holding a baby with the same brown eyes as the ones staring at you makes you feel a way that you are too scared to define.

“I told you, you’re a natural with kids. She’s so calm with you.”

She’s not wrong, you had always been a natural magnet for children but you were also holding an unusually happy baby.

“I think she could be in the lair of a serial killer and she’d still be clapping her hands like it's the best day ever.”

She gently bumps her hip against yours.

“Take the compliment.”

You go to ask her a question but you see her staring off into space again.

Must be thinking hard. Or all of these talks of kids remind her of her son.

Behind you, the soft click of a door shutting catches your attention. Mrs. Leroy had finished her phone call.

“Alright, baby break time is over people. Say ‘bye bye’ Maya.”

A chorus of goodbyes and baby voices follow you as you go to return the baby to her mother. It’s only out of the corner of your eye that you see Baran shake her head, seemingly coming out of a trance.

You don’t think anything of it, maybe you should.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚

You sit down with a groan, relieved to be off of your feet. A trauma had come while you were already swamped trying to clear the walls of the ED to make space for chairs. It was a man who drunkenly fell off a second story building, snapping his legs and dislocating his shoulder. You were thankful he was alive, no doubt, but you had to pull and push for 20 consecutive minutes to realign and straighten his bones before he was sent off to surgery; you felt like you had just completed a back workout.

“Tired?”

“You have no idea.”

You watch Baran walk in and place her bag at the table.

“I’ve never seen someone snap bones that badly broken back into place all by themselves before. It was very impressive.”

“I have a lot of practice, unfortunately. But now I can reward myself with my favorite time of day.”

She gives you a laugh.

“And what would that be?”

“Time to eat.”

You pull one of the many containers of food from your backup, smiling in excitement as you open up your steak and potatoes.

“What’s on the menu for you today?”

She sits next to you, reaching into her bag only to sit back with a frown.

“La’nat. Nothing, apparently. I was in a rush this morning and must’ve forgotten.”

“Do you have any allergies?”

She looks at you, confused as you pull some containers from your bag

“I got chicken and rice pilaf, lamb and quinoa salad, or you can have steak and potatoes if you don’t care about a few germs.”

She raises her eyebrow.

“As kind as the offer is, I’m not taking your food.”

“Do you think I poisoned it?”

She slaps your arm lightly.

“No. I had breakfast, I’ll be fine.”

Now you give her a look.

“Let me guess, a smoothie or some bowl of oats that was maybe 300 calories max? You need to fuel your body throughout the day. We can’t have an attending fainting from low blood sugar.”

She doesn’t respond. With a grin, you hand her a fork and she grabs one of the containers.

“Thank you.”

Her smile is soft and appreciative; you try not to stare.

“Just don’t tell Dana, I know she’s missed my cooking and I don’t want her to be jealous.”

You eat in silence for a few minutes, efficient in your moves since you know you can only afford so many minutes.

“Why do you pack so much food?”

You look up from your fork.

“I usually have a meal every three hours but I have a feeling that won’t be the case anymore; I’ve been having to supplement with snacks for the past few hours. Just means an early cut season for me.”

“Every three hours? How do you have space for that?”

You take a bite, relishing the flavor that hits your tongue.

“With a metabolism that was carved by the gods themselves.”

“Mhm.”

You flick a crumb over at her before you enjoy another strand of silence.

“Where were you before they dragged you down to the pitt?”

She sighs.

“And here I thought I finally found someone who doesn’t call it that.”

“The name will grow on you.”

“Yeah, like a rash.”

You laugh.

“I was in the VA hospital for a few years. I worked briefly with Dr. Mohan and Dr. King. Before that I was overseas, I spent a bit of time with the MSF in Kabul.”

You read between the lines; you know what that entailed.

All you can do is nod and scratch the back of your neck as you feel your heart rate jump briefly.

“Quite the repertoire you have then. Are you from Pittsburgh originally?”

She shakes her head and wipes her mouth with the napkin you hand her.

“No. I moved to the states from Iran when I was little. Spent a bit of time in Germany before I landed in New York; I did most of my schooling in California though. What about you?”

You take a quick swig of water.

“Born and raised in California. Dad was military so we moved around a good bit when I was older before he retired to work an IT job. Did my undergrad in LA but did everything else out of state.”

“Did you always want to go into emergency medicine?”

“Nope.” 

You pop the ‘p’ as you slowly begin to repack your bag, your lunches having been eaten.

“Didn’t want to go to medicine at all at first.”

She gives you a confused look.

“What do you mean?”

“I got my bachelors in engineering but after graduation, I wasn’t really happy with my job; didn’t feel motivated or passionate about anything. I had a friend on the premed track so I decided to take the MCAT with her for fun. Ended up doing pretty good and applied to med school on a whim. Which brings us here.”

“That is… quite the story.”

You smirk, entertained by her surprise.

“You’re telling me. I don’t regret anything though, since it turns out I quite like my career.”

You hear your name being called so you sadly stand up, putting your arms above your head as you stretch and ignoring the way your shirt rides up.

“Looks like break time is over. I’ll see you around.”

You walk out with a quick goodbye, not noticing the eyes trailing you as you leave.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚

“Hello, Dr. King.”

“Oh, hello.”

She looks up at you from her phone.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes. Just trying to check in with my sister.”

You hum, deciding that she keeps up enough with her work that she doesn’t really need a lecture about phone usage.”

“Alright, just checking. How’s the patient in South 15?”

“Oh he’s good, the abscess is drained and the culture was sent to the lab; it tested positive for MRSA. So, I guess, technically he’s not good but uh…”

You pat her shoulder.

“Alive is good. Despite the diagnosis, I’m sure the patient agrees with that much.”

“That’s true.”

“There’s still names on the board so when you can…”

She puts her phone away, looking sheepish.

“Right, sorry.”

“All good, try and bring Kwon or Ogilvie with you if possible. Come find me or Baran when you’re ready to present.”

You give her a smile and turn away, deciding which patient to see next.

You run into McKay, clapping your hands as you begin to trail her.

“McKay, you’re it!”

“I’m ‘it’?”

“Yep. You won the grand prize of me following you to your next case.”

“Sure thing.”

She leads you down the hall with a laugh.

“I’m checking back in with someone in Central 10. Sixteen year old, Brian Flemmings, cut off the tip of his rightmost finger down past the first knuckle. I already gave it a good clean, I just need to sew it up now.”

“No chance of reattachment?”

“No, it was cut off on a clanky table saw; way too mangled, it practically ripped his finger off instead of cutting through it.”

“Yikes. I’ll observe the procedure and assist if you need me.”

“Thanks. Emma is in there already, too.”

You head into the room after grabbing some hand sanitizer, sitting in front of the sullen boy who has his hand wrapped in bloody gauze.

“Hey there, I’m just here to take a peak. Mind telling me what happened?”

You unwrap the gauze, gently rotating his hand to get a good look.

“I was messing with my grandpa’s old table saw and turned it on by accident. My hand got caught.”

“Were you using any proper PPE?”

“What’s that?”

You give him a look, moving over to look at his x-rays.

“Yeah, I don’t see reattachment happening. We’ll need to get the bone trimmers in here first to create a proper flap.”

“Already have ‘em here.”

“Perfect.”

You stand with a jump.

“All yours, Dr. McKay.”

You stand to the side as you watch her work, impressed by her soft but diligent moves.

“Okay, I just need to bandage you up then you should be all good.”

“Great, I can’t wait to be called a freak.”

You frown, stepping towards him.

“You’re not a freak, you got into an accident. Even if you were born missing your whole hand, you still wouldn’t be a freak.”

“Tell that to literally everyone else.”

“Do you think I’m a freak?”

“What?”

He stares at you, confused by your words.

“Do you think I’m a freak?”

“No, why would I?”

You hold up your hand.

“Because I’m in the same boat as you, Romeo. And you didn’t even notice until I pointed it out.”

He quiets down, an apology in his eyes.

“Look,”

You sit next to him.

“Kids can be mean, but that reflects on no one but themselves. An injury like this doesn’t inhibit anything but your mind; and that’s only if you let it, okay?”

He nods, slowly starting to believe you. You stand.

“Besides, in terms of amputations, you got pretty damn lucky. Wear it with pride and pair it with an interesting story. Some people think it’s badass.”

“How did you lose your finger?”

The scent of blood becomes strong in your nose, vanishing just as quickly as it came.

“I played a bit too much Assassin's Creed."

“What’s that?”

“Find me if you need me, McKay.”

You stand and leave the room, shaking your head.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Water slides down your throat as you take a few gulps from your water bottle to quell the headache that’s beginning to form. You figure that you can find some pain meds after you check in with one of your patients with Mel from earlier in the day.

Trying to bring back some of your energy, you give yourself a few slaps on the face as you head over, grabbing some hand sanitizer before you enter.

“How are we feeling, kid?”

She looks up from her tablet with a smile, her tongue peaking through her missing teeth.

“You ready to breathe normally again?”

“Yes!”

Every breath she takes is paired with a whistle.

“How long will the procedure take?”

You look over to her dad, who’s standing worriedly.

“It’s pretty quick and an overall harmless procedure.”

The door opens behind you.

“Just checking in before she’s wheeled off.”

You watch with a bit of surprise as Baran walks in. You had been bumping into her more and more throughout the day.

Probably just because the ED’s less busy now.

“Dr. King, care to give Dr. Al a quick recap?”

“Lena Morris, 8 years old. Came in for persistent dry cough and whistling when breathing. Says she inhaled a peanut while she was hiking.”

She places her stethoscope across the girls back and chest.

“How did you do that?”

“I was with my troop and I was hungry so I started eating trail mix while we were going up the hill.”

You laugh softly.

“That’ll do it.”

“Dr. King, what’s the treatment plan?”

“OR is coming down soon. They will use a rigid bronchoscope and forceps to remove the foreign body that’s lodged in her right mainstream bronchus. Otherwise, she could develop lipoid pneumonia from the air trapping.”

You look over to the dad who’s chewing off his fingers.

“That’s just a fancy way of saying the peanut is causing a bit of irritation and they’re going to use a camera to remove it. Like I said, it’s a very minor procedure.”

A knock catches your attention.

“We’re ready to take her up now.”

You turn to Lena.

“Alright kid, you got this okay?”

You hold up your hand to give her a high five, which she slaps eagerly.

“I’m not worried.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

She looks back at your hand.

“What happened to your finger?”

Lovely.

“I got hungry.”

“Liar.”

“Guess we’ll never know then.”

You shrug as the OR nurses get her ready to move.

“Well what happens if you get married, where are you going to put the wedding ring?”

“I still have a whole knuckle left, it’ll fit on there. I think.”

You notice Baran watching you, eyes flickering to your hand.

She didn’t notice it before.

You try not to let the sudden self consciousness get to you as you watch Lena’s bed be pushed out of the room and down the hall, shouting out a last ‘knock ‘em dead, kid.’

You turn back, watching the father gather his things with tears in his eyes. You place your hands on his shoulders.

“She will be fine, I promise you. And I don’t say that a lot around here.”

“I know. She’s brave, braver than me. She’s also the only family I have left and I’m terrified I’ll lose her too.”

You pull him in for a tight, brief hug.

“You’re her parent; it’s your job to worry about her. She’s damn lucky to have a dad who cares for her as much as you do.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course. I’ll show you up to the post-op waiting room real quick.”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚

You head over to the nurses station, looking around for some excedrin, your search in the break room having been fruitless.

The headache had been slowly building for hours, but you only noticed how bad it was getting after you finished escorting the father upstairs. 

You sit down with a groan, giving up on your search and rubbing the sides of your head.

“You okay?”

You look up to see Emma giving you a concerned look.

“Yeah, just have a bad headache.”

“Can I get you anything?”

You sigh.

“A drink and a gun, but whatever lands in my hands first wins.”

The resounding thwack nearly knocks you off your chair.

“Ow! What the hell was that for?”

You recoil from the slap against the back of your head, your ache now becoming a throb. You turn around to see Dana with fury in her eyes.

“Don’t say shit like that in my ER.”

The seriousness in her eyes has you slinking in your seat.

“Sorry, I was just being pissy about my headache.”

“Yeah? Well I hope it's feeling a lot worse now. And Emma,”

She turns to the nurse, who is staring at the scene with wide, scared eyes.

“For your sake, stay away from this pinhead. Besides, you’re a nurse, not a handmaiden.”

“I was just trying to be nice.”

“And it’ll be the death of ya. We’ll work on toughening up your skin, don’t worry.”

As Emma leaves, eager to be anywhere else, Dana turns back to you with her hands on her hips.

“I thought I told you I didn’t want another Robby around here.”

“I promise I was just joking. It was a bad joke, I’m sorry.”

She nods, seemingly understanding that you’re serious.

“I was worried sick when Robby went on sabbatical; I was convinced he was going to kill himself. I only started being less worried when he told me he was going to a mental health clinic first.”

You still; you hadn’t known.

She walks up to you, grabbing your face in her hands so she can force you to look at her.

“I need you to be honest with me and yourself. If, at any point, you start losing yourself, you need to tell someone and you need to get help, okay?”

You swallow, the smallest frog having formed in your throat.

“Okay, I promise.”

“Good. Those are rare to give out around here so you better keep to it.”

She pats your cheeks, standing with a fresh smile.

“Alright, enough mush, get off your ass and back to work. You’ve got ass’ to wipe and lives to save, missy.”

“Wait,”

She turns back from where she was walking away. You point to your head.

“Does this mean you won’t kiss it better?”

She flips you off, grabbing a stack of paper as she goes.

“Eat a bag of dicks, sweetheart.”

You call after her.

“I really thought you knew me better than that Dana, because that is not, and never will be, on the menu.”

You smile, thankful to know that, despite her sometimes harsh nature, Dana really cared about you.

Your smile quickly fades when you see a flash of lights in the ambulance bay, jumping to your feet and rounding the corner.

When the gurney enters, you feel your feet stumble, your eyes staring at the small body on the stretcher with hands desperately pumping at her chest.

The smell of copper and gunpowder burn your nose, the fluorescent lights seem to hum at the frequency of a gunshot.

“What happened?”

Baran appears next to you.

You snap out of it; or at least as best as you can.

“Twelve year old female, single GSW to the left precordium. Accidental discharge of a 9 mm.”

“We lost her pulse three minutes out.”

You turn to the other paramedic, grabbing the table and pushing it into trauma 2.

“We’ve been in CPR for five minutes, two rounds of epi in the field. She was agonal at the scene, then went flat. We’ve got a bilateral needle-D in place to rule out tension but she hasn’t responded.”

You can’t stop the flash in your eyes; the sound of screaming that rings in your ears.

Deep breath in.

Now isn’t the time.

Deep breath out.

You finish snapping on your gown, blinking away the last bits of your visions.

Now’s not the time.

You look at the portable monitor, grabbing your flashlight to look into her eyes.

“Vitals are still non-existent, pupils are fixed and sluggish. Kwon,”

You turn to the med student.

“I need you to head upstairs and bang on every door and yell at every person you see until you can get someone from surgery down here. Go. NOW.”

Baran steps next to you.

“We need occlusive dressing on the exit wound. Whitaker, take over for compressions. Santos, get her vein hooked up.”

The chaos of the room briefly makes your head spin as you head towards the patient's head to begin intubating. It’s the sound of crunching that brings you back.

“I can’t get a peripheral line, her vasculature is collapsed; she’s empty.”

You turn to the resident.

“Then stop fishing. Get an IO and drill the proximal tibia. We need volume, not a roadmap.”

You finish the intubation.

“I’m through the cords, CO2 detector is yellow. What’s the rhythm?”

“Still PEA.”

“Fuck.”

Your eyes burn; you ignore the blood you smear across your face as you wipe your eyes while Baran moves around you.

Can you help me find them?

Her voice sounds in your ears.

“She’s not circulating. We’re just moving stagnant blood.”

Baran looks at you.

“She’s not going to make it to the OR at this rate.”

I’m scared, what if they got to them?

Flashes of red infiltrate your vision but you shake your head, the itchiness becoming unbearable.

“Fuck it.”

The others look at you confused.

“Crack the tray and bring me betadine—don’t worry about the sterile field, just dump it. Whitaker, stop compressions I’m going in.”

Princess slams a clamshell tray next to you; the clink of the rib spreaders hitting the tray vibrates your skull.

Baran reaches for a scalpel.

“I’m making the initial incision. Left fourth intercostal space.”

She drags the blade in a wide, sweeping arc from the sternum to the armpit. There is no bleeding from the skin; a sign that the girl’s blood pressure had tanked so far.

You move in with heavy trauma shears, cutting through the sternum with a series of wet, rhythmic cracks.

You glance down at the small body tucked against your side; the one you had sworn to help and protect.

“Rib spreaders! Langdon, get in here and crank it.”

He fits the heavy metal crank into the incision. The girl’s chest is forced open, the trauma from CPR having made it easier. You ignore the sound of the ribs giving away with a wooden snap.

You shove your hands into the cavity.

“I’ve got a massive hemothorax, I need suction! I can’t see the hilum!”

Santos jams two suction tips into the chest, a deep, guttural slurping sound coming from the machine as it begins to evacuate liters of dark crimson.

“I’ve found the heart, it’s empty. I need another round of epi, but make it intracardiac. Someone hand it to me in a long needle.”

You take the needle from Princess without a word, jamming it into the left ventricle of the exposed heart. You watch the syringe empty, hoping for a flicker of movement but only getting a single twitch from the muscle.

“She’s still EPA.”

Whitaker’s words barely register to you.

“Keep the blood coming; level 1 at max rate. I’m going to cross clamp the aorta to keep what little volume she has left in her brain.”

You reach behind the heart, fingers slick with blood, as you feel for the pulsating tube of the aorta. You nearly miss it; it’s lifeless and flat body struggling to keep alive.

“Aorta is clamped. Santos, get in here and start an internal massage.”

You step back from your spot, watching as Santos steps into your place and begins pumping away at the child’s heart.

“How many units of blood are we at?”

You turn to Princess.

“This is the fourth one.”

Fuck.

Your ears popped but all you could see was the look of fear in her eyes.

Your heart is pounding and you can barely see from the tears swimming in your vision.

Ten more minutes and two rounds of epi pass. You watch Santos’ arms continue to pump, pain from the cramps evident in her face.

“Santos, keep the rhythm or step back.”

She looks at you.

“It’s been too long, we need to call—”

“No.”

You push her out of the way, taking her spot as you frantically continue to manually pump the girl's heart.

Your abdomen stings.

More minutes pass, more epis are injected.

“I need another round of epi. Or someone, get me the damn bicarb.”

You continue to pump relentlessly, not noticing the hot tears that have finally escaped your eyes.

You reach for the next needle, not even noticing the way your hands are violently shaking.

“Hey.”

A hand finds its place on your shoulder. You stop, feeling the heart beneath your hand. It didn’t quiver; it didn’t flicker. It was gone, she was gone.

You tried so desperately to keep it from spilling out of her little body, but you couldn’t tell where her stream stopped and yours started.

“She’s gone.”

You step back but Baran tries to block your path.

“We did everything we could; her heart was shredded, it couldn’t handle the blood loss.”

You blink, barely acknowledging her.

“What was her name? The patient?”

“Marley.”

I’m sorry.

You walk around her, looking nowhere but away.

“Time of death, 12:07 p.m.”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚

You don’t know where you’re going, your legs dragging you as far away as possible. You had ditched your gown and goggles at some point; you don’t remember when.

You stop in front of a door, the on-call room and step inside—standing and staring at a wall as every emotion you’ve tucked away comes rushing out.

“Fuck.”

The tears are blinding and you can hardly breathe, leaning over with your hands on your knees as you gasp for air.

“Fuck, fuck, FUCK.”

And you yell, you yell and you cry and you punch the wall, not noticing the indent you make or the stinging of your fingers.

You don’t notice the door opening either.

“Are you okay?”

It falls on deaf ears.

“Hey,”

A familiar hand touches your shoulder and you whirl around in surprise.

“Wha—”

“You ran out of the room, I was worried about you.”

The worry and the pity in Baran’s eyes make you choke out a sob.

“I can’t… I can’t...”

The air fails to catch in your throat and you claw at your throat, desperately trying to suck in something.

“Hey, hey, you’re having a panic attack right now. I need you to try and breathe, can you do that for me?”

She grabs your arms and tries to get you to match your breathing to hers.

“In…And out. In….And out.”

Minutes pass—maybe it’s just seconds, you can’t tell—and you slowly begin to calm.

“That’s much better, can you tell me what happened?”

You step back, putting your hands above your head as you begin to pace around the room.

“I just…I um.”

You look at her, cursing at yourself for breaking down.

“Does this have anything to do with earlier?”

She had taken note of your offness when the other patient had died.

You nod.

“And this has happened before then?”

“...Yeah.”

She steps closer to you.

“Are you okay?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.”

You let out a sigh and walk over to the wall, leaning your head back against it.

“Do you know what triggers it?”

You pause.

“Everything.”

She looks at you.

“I don’t-I don’t do well with death. I never have.”

You rub at your head, your headache back in full force.

“They kept telling me it would get easier but it never did.”

Silence permeates the air as you weigh your next words.

“It—these episodes—didn’t get bad until after I left this place. I had months straight of horrible shifts; people dying in volumes I had never seen before. I felt like I was being suffocated by their ghosts every time I walked in these doors.”

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

“So I left. I left because I thought the walls were keeping the death in and I joined the DOTW. I traveled, everywhere I could, helping those I could. I was in Haiti, Kenya, the Philippines, Yemen, Lebanon; everywhere, just constantly running around.”

You stare at the wall in front of you.

“And then I was in Kabul.”

You hear the sharp inhale, nearly undetectable.

“I had no idea.”

“I don’t exactly advertise it. Besides, I wasn’t there the same way you were; nowhere near as long, especially.”

You sniff, scratching at your chest as the itchiness in your chest becomes unbearable again.

“I witnessed death in the other places; death so sickening it made me reconsider my entire career path. But Kabul…”

Your left hand finds its place on your abdomen, lining up with the scars beneath your shirt in a way you’ve done so many times.

“You don’t have to talk about it if it’s too much for you.”

You swallow, your heart pounding. You would get there eventually. But now? Right now you could barely think let alone breath. You’re thankful for Baran; sweet, understanding Baran who doesn’t need any more words to understand what you need.

The silence that settles in the room is thick. You can’t tell if you’re choking on it or the ghosts that are swarming you. It takes everything in you to keep talking.

“I can’t help but take it personally when someone dies, as if I could’ve done something more. So I cry. I cry for the tears they’ll never get to shed; for the air they’ll never breathe, and the dreams they’ll never achieve.”

You look at her, the sadness in her eyes making you turn away in shame but her hands grip yours tightly. It takes her a second to speak, as if she was weighing her words.

“You feel deeply, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

She stands directly in front of you, trying to get you to look at her.

“You have been hurt deeply too; you are scarred from the evil this world carries and the evil you witnessed.”

Deep breath in.

“But this, this empathy, this love you feel for your patients,”

Deep breath out.

“It is what sets you apart from other doctors; it is your greatest strength.”

Deep breath in.

“But if you let it consume you, if you let yourself internalize every death and every injury that comes through these doors, it will also be your greatest weakness.”

Deep breath out.

In and out.

In and out.

In and out.

You breathe, because it’s the only thing you know how to do right now, and you grip her hands tighter before you feel yourself calm again.

“You know,”

You finally look her in the eyes, too overcome with your own emotions to notice the distraught in hers.

“I remember their names. Every single patient I’ve lost—even the ones I never spoke a word to—I remember their names and their faces. It’s like they haunt me; in my dreams, in these halls, in every patient I treat and in every breath I take.”

You pause, another frog forming in your throat.

“I know I can’t save everyone, I know that. I know that people die and it’s not my fault. But if this sadness I feel is what keeps their memories alive and keeps others from suffering from their same fates, then so be it. It’s a responsibility I’ll gladly take.”

The pressure on your chest takes you by surprise. It's not sudden; it’s gentle and slow—almost unnervingly so—but the sincerity of the action catches you so off guard that you don’t register what’s happening until you feel a pair of hands rubbing your back.

“Don’t let this place destroy you.”

You squeeze back, burying your face in her hair as another tear slips free.

“I won't. I promise.”

A/N:

Take a shot every time I mention hand sanitizer.

Jk, don't do that you'll probably die of alcohol poisoning. But anyways....

What do we think??? Is it too cringe...I'm worried it's cringe IDK.

This chapter dealt with a lot heavier of topics which was hard to write; both in the sense of trying to build up to the panic attack in a way that you guys could digest without too much confusion but also in trying to be respectful and well-mannered when delving into topics as serious as (accidental) gun violence and PTSD/panic attacks. I truly hope my writing here wasn't too off-putting or incomprehensible.

It's revealed that reader has some sort of PTSD regarding death which she explains to Baran. Out of curiosity, what do you guys think the cause is? What do the hints I've given you lead you to believe?

Other than that, if you enjoyed or have any thoughts/critiques, please feel free to leave a comment! Any and all messages are welcomed and deeply appreciated.

Dana's hum is low. "Careful you don't fall asleep. I saw you dozing off."

"I wasn't dozing off," you mutter, nose scrunching. "I was just resting my eyes."

"Sure, hon." Her voice thickens with a drawl. She looks up as you're turning, her mouth quirked. "I'd set an alarm if I were you."

You roll your eyes and briskly make for the doors.

The ambulance bay is blissfully empty. You trudge over to the wall and lean your back against it, sighing as you palm your cigarette pack from your pocket. The heat of the bricks seeps in through your scrubs, a nice reprieve from the frigid cold of the ED. Your eyes flutter closed, a long, clean breath winding into your lungs.

The rush in your head falls away, patient names and dosages and diagnoses all flittering with the wind, leaving you in merciful silence. Easing out your exhale, you press the base of your spine against the wall, thumb out a cigarette, and slot it into your mouth. Another brief dose of relief pangs low, the dry paper sticking to your lips as you reach into your other pocket, drop the pack in. You're flicking on the lighter when the doors roll open.

Great.

You hold in the groan, keeping your eyes shuttered against the newcomer as you light the cigarette. A faint hiss sounds; the scent of singed paper hits your nose, then the hot, acrid burn of tobacco. You pull the lighter away, inhale deep. 

A silken elbow brushes against yours. 

You open your eyes, helpless against the way your chest warms when your gaze meets Baran's. 

Baran. You so indulgently call her that in your head, so different from the polite Dr. Al-Hashimi you often call her, the short, drawled Dr. Al when you can't help yourself. She's told you to call her by her given name, she has. You just don't know what it'll do to you if you will.

Your lips twitch as you blow out the smoke. "Hi."

Her eyes are not unusually bright. They crinkle at the corners, make you burn hotter. "I didn't know you smoked."

You smile placidly. "Only occasionally." You lie.

Baran returns your smile like she sees through it. It's a gorgeous thing, her lips pressed, dimple shy in her cheek, a flurry of cramps ripping through your gut. You take another long drag, flitting your eyes away before they can find the dewy sheen of sweat on her collarbone.

"You holding up okay?" She checks in.

"Mhmm." You hum, tilting your head away to blow out the smoke. The cigarette is really all but useless now. There's another rush filling your veins, adrenaline threading into your blood. An itch soothed and another one flaring wild.

It's especially embarrassing to be so aware of your body's reaction to her, to understand why your pulse speeds, why your pupils are undeniably widening, physically needing to take more of her in. Embarrassing to feel the hitch in your own breath, feel fight or flight kick in just from her heat at your shoulder.

"How about you?" You turn to her, clearly interrupting a thought as it works through her head. She gives her head a minuscule shake, her eyes widening, smile fixing back in place where it had begun to slip. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm good." She says softly, a note of pleasure in her tone. It rings like a bell, makes your fingers tighten around the cigarette. Heat crawls to your cheeks as you dust the ash off of it, keenly watching the gray descend onto the floor beneath, flickering out of existence. 

Baran lightly clears her throat. Your eyes snap back to hers.

Here's that thought.

"I don't want to…impose on your personal time," she begins, "but it doesn't help the hospital's image if you're seen smoking out here. Maybe you could take it somewhere else, away from potential patients?"

She says it like she says anything, gentle but firm, sure even if she's hesitant. You can see that she doesn't like having to do it, but you're not an exception to any rule. You like this particular ritual of yours—you know you're not even the only one who indulges in it, far from it. But you don't feel strongly enough about it to rise up against her.

God, if anything, your heart just fucking stumbles.

"Whatever you say, beautiful." You hum, dropping the cigarette and crushing it beneath your heel. Baran's cheeks are a rosy shade of pink when you look up.

A thrill crashes into you, hooks sinking deep into your flesh and burrowing there. You're unable to stop yourself from grinning as she swallows and fiddles with the baby hairs at her temple—perfect, sweat-darkened baby hairs, as irresistible as the rest of her. 

You shove your hands into your pockets to stop yourself from doing something stupid.

"Thank you." She eventually says, tight and prim, eyes holding yours for shorter than usual.

You try to somewhat contain your smile. (You fail). "Join me on the roof?"

She hesitates.

"It's not off limits, is it, Doc?" You hedge, a little teasing.

The color deepens on Baran's cheeks. It spreads heat under your own skin, your fingers sweat-dampened in your pockets, your heart thrumming into your thin scrubs. She clears her throat again, scratches absently along her forearm.

"Just make sure no one sees you."

"You got it," you say. You try to chew down on your cheek, but you can't help yourself—"But will you join me?"

"Dana's already about to have your head," she murmurs, her familiar smile tugging at her lips. "Best get back before she comes gets you herself."

"I'm well protected." You tell her, feeling yourself slip and fall into deep, deep brown. You wonder, not for the first time, how it would feel to kiss her. If she would kiss back, if she would be slow to respond, if she'd respond at all.

You look at the still blooming red on her cheeks, and you think maybe—maybe—she would.

This is smut with a hurt/comfort vibe and big feelings, many of which are difficult for Baran to digest and crack her open to reveal a gaping maw into her biggest insecurities. minors dni.

I haven’t posted smut online in a longgggg time, so I’m kind of nervous! Baran Al-Hashimi — the woman that you are — has me wrapped around her finger, so I’m thinking of drawing this out into a multi-chapter. This is also posted to ao3 @ seven_of_cups.

Also, here's a song for the hell of it: "The End of Love," Florence and the Machine.

Some warnings: little bit of drinking, explicit smut, no toys, very light mentions of kink, high-emotion sex in sort of a negative way

—

Free tonight? 

You see the text 23 minutes after you receive it, still grinning from the firework display, still feeling it in your chest as you hold a sweating bottle of beer to the side of your neck. It’s a hot, sticky sort of night, and someone’s playing Whitney’s “America the Beautiful” over a speaker. You’re with people who find it deeply ironic, and you’re inclined to agree considering the state of things. Still, part of you is stirred by the tremendous power of the explosions, smoke drifting in the warm breeze, and the way “amber waves of grain” is being collectively belted, someone’s arm draped around your shoulders. 

we’re all free tonight from the cruel shackles of the redcoats 

You think you’re hilarious, taking a swig of your beer. It’s the fourth, and you’ve had a little to drink, and you know Baran just well enough not to think twice about sending it. You can picture her rolling her eyes, parting and then pressing her lips into a line with a sigh. It’s fun, you think, to say stupid shit like that because she always retorts with something exasperated but vaguely suggestive. And it’s just so easy you can hardly help yourself. Baran is a decidedly serious person, oftentimes oblivious to your more subtle jokes. Which, for you, makes it all the more entertaining. 

And anyway, that’s just how you text. One of you asks the question. The other says something lightly teasing — a pattern you established after you started getting twitchy at how clinically Baran texted, even for a no-feelings hookup. You establish a time and a place. Then radio silence. A quick back and forth, over and over. Free tomorrow? When are you available this week? I’m off at 7. Meet me tonight? Come over later? 

And the response is always, five minutes should be enough, right? Need some stress relief? I’m free then. Again already?? Or, simply, Yes. Which holds its own weight and is usually reserved for bad days and the kind of need neither of you are prepared to admit to each other. 

The teasing eases the vulnerability — that you don’t acknowledge but deeply feel — of the real question. Will you fuck me until my legs shake? Can I fuck you against your front door? When are you free to finger me in the shower?  

You’ve been doing this for several months, over six maybe. You haven’t kept track. It started on a cold Friday night, snow swirling in the breeze. She was sitting alone at one of your favorite dive bars, a finger circling lazily around the rim of a glass of whiskey. You’d made eye contact twice, and that was more than enough of an invitation for you, drawn in by her heaps of curly hair and ramrod posture and sharp jaw. But as soon as you walked over and her deep brown eyes met yours, everything clever or smooth you were going to say died on your lips. She had a look on her face — dangerous and restrained but pleased — that told you you’d fallen right into the intricate web she spun for you. 

The way she flirts, you learn, is careful, built on teetering, sly words, lingering looks, the brush of fingers. When the tension builds too high, she gets direct, telling you something disarming like you have beautiful lips right before she kisses you. And she chuckles when your eyes flutter and you have nothing in the whole world to say afterward. 

Until you realize she never gave you her name. 

“It’s Baran,” she says easily, your elbows touching on the sticky bar. 

“No last name, Baran?” you ask, knowing already she’s not intending this to last beyond the night. And you’re fine with that. 

“Do you need it to fuck me?” she asks, her voice lilting, head cocked as her eyes flit across you. Something hot and tight pools in your belly, and, oh god. And she’s waiting, and you realize she’s serious, and a smile spreads across your face, entirely amused by her. You shake your head wordlessly. “Good,” she breathes, standing. 

Three little dots appear below your text much quicker than you expected, and it’s then you check the time on your phone.

Never mind. 

The smile falters on your lips. You expected her to say something like, You weren’t calling them cruel last time. Or, You’re not as funny as you think. Or even, Come celebrate with me, which would have stretched her strictly enforced “no feelings” rule. 

Baran’s declined you a handful of times and you her for various reasons. Unfortunately, work, life, whatever just gets in the way of a great orgasm sometimes. She never tells you why, but she always keeps the door open. Not tonight. Tomorrow? Or, Too busy this week. Ask me again later. Or, once it was, I wish I could, which definitely pushed the boundaries of “no feelings” and had you touching yourself at the aching want she could imbue into a few words over a screen. 

This is odd. It’s uncharacteristically capricious and dismissive. And it registers that this is an absurd time and day for Baran to text you. It’s a holiday, and it’s well after 9 pm, two lines she’s never crossed before. Not even on a ridiculous non-holiday like President’s Day. Baran has a thing about booty calls, and despite you insisting that’s exactly what you’re both doing, she shakes her head, humming distastefully. It’s only a booty call if the text comes in after 9 pm, apparently, and she hasn’t said this, but you think she dislikes them so much because it betrays too much desperation, need, desire. 

Yet, with Baran, planning 8 hours, a day, or even a week in advance on occasion doesn’t detract from the sexiness, the anticipation, the excitement of a hookup. And her careful, straight-forward, earnest nature — her rules — make it so much more fun to uncoil her, to work her until she’s putty in your hands. And for her to do the same to you. 

Once, you texted her at 8:59 with a classy, u up? just to see what she’d say. 

Don’t be bratty.  

The reply, sent only a few minutes later, made you grin, something bursting in your chest as you bit down on your lip. 

Is that a yes? 

She typed and stopped and typed. 

Good night. 

You didn’t reply, the exchange playing over in your mind as you got ready for bed that night. You imagined a smile tugging at Baran’s lips, wanting to say yes but not wanting to give you the satisfaction. The next time you saw her, you dialed it up all the way to obnoxious until she pinned your wrists behind your back and told you you were getting far too comfortable pushing her buttons, but there was no real bite to it. 

It’s been maybe three weeks, almost a month, since you’ve seen her, which is longer than usual. You’d been busy with work and life, and you don’t know what Baran’s been up to — she doesn’t tell you — but you hope the same. The alternative is that this thing between you is fizzling out or slowly running its course. There are, of course, no expectations. You meet, you fuck, you go your separate ways. But you don’t want it to be over. 

The point is, you’re decidedly not free tonight, but you can be for her.

yours or mine? 

Her response, again, is quick. 

Mine. 

Something sparks in you, twists and ignites, and you down the rest of your beer. After saying goodbye to the host and reassuring the friends you came with that you’re fine to drive — you are — you hop in your car. The road is chaotic, drunk people ambling dangerously close to the street, cars zipping by like they’re being chased by the devil himself, horns honking at a traffic jam from a careless fender bender. Your hands twist on the steering wheel. Baran’s a doctor, and you’ve heard about full moons and never saying the q-word and holidays. It must have been a lot today. 

It’s a fact you only know about her because you saw unopened mail on her kitchen table one night early on from the VA Medical Center that said, “Important Tax Documents Inside” and Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi on the front. 

“Dr. Al-Hashimi,” you murmured curiously, your fingers ghosting the envelope as Baran poured you a glass of wine. She stiffened at the title, growing uncomfortable and irritated, her lips pursed and eyes flighty as she slid an outdoorsy magazine over top of it. You tried to find her eyes as she handed you your glass, confused why her job was such a sore subject. “Afraid I’ll come stalk you at work?” 

“No,” she sighed heavily, her finger tapping anxiously on the glass. “I like to keep… this separate from the rest of my life.” You hummed, thinking it a bit extreme but ultimately unoffended. 

“Shame,” you mused, taking a sip of the wine, red and dry. “I would’ve played doctor with you.” 

Her eyes flit over you, surprised, and the barest hint of a smile pulled at her lips as she swayed toward you. At the time, you’d only recently started sleeping together, and you were both still working out likes and dislikes, so Baran’s reaction intrigued you. Nothing ever came of it, and you respected that. 

You were even more discreet when you noticed the evidence of a child in Baran’s home. A toy forgotten behind the couch. Boys shoes peeking out from the entryway closet. A drawing pinned to the side of the fridge with a magnet. A glimpse at Baran’s lock screen, a young boy, maybe 10. You never once brought it up, careful not to draw attention to your curiosity. She’s made it clear that these parts of her life are off limits, and you don’t intend to cross that boundary. 

You’re less careful with your personal life, sharing details now and then about your brother or a friend’s birthday party if it’s on your mind. But because Baran doesn’t offer anything of her life, you don’t think she has much interest in yours, so you tend to limit yourself. Which, for the most part, is fine. 

When you pull into Baran’s driveway, you notice her car isn’t there. You knock on her door, and it’s only a moment before she opens it. 

“Hey, your car okay?” you ask, stepping through the threshold. She closes the door behind you with a soft click. “It’s not in —” You don’t finish because she’s backed you against the door and kissed you, taking a deep, slow, centering breath against you. 

Her mouth is soft and pliant against yours, and all thoughts melt away when her hands come to rest warmly on your waist, your eyes fluttering closed. Her tongue brushes the underside of your top lip, and the way she tries to melt into you quickly spills over into urgency. When she tilts her head the other way, noses brushing, you notice a tightness in her brow. Her hands squeeze and push you harder against the door. 

You sigh, one hand coming up to cup her jaw, feeling it work against your mouth, the other wrapping around her shoulders. She’s warm and solid and smells like cardamom and plums. After nearly a month without seeing her, everything feels sharper, more sensitive, and you’re entirely consumed by her. Her lips slide to your jaw and your ear lobe and your neck, nipping and soothing and sucking. Your fingers dip into her unruly, curly hair, hoping to keep her there, and a quiet strangled sound lodges in your throat. She hums, slender fingers edging under your shirt. 

“Buy me a drink first,” you mumble, trying to keep some semblance of composure. Her thigh wedges between your legs, and you seek out her lips, exhaling a shaky breath as she presses up into you, so close you can feel her chest rising and falling against you. 

“You’ve already had one,” she counters matter-of-factly into your mouth, tasting the beer on your tongue. 

“So have you,” you reply, tasting whiskey on hers. “More than me.” One hand slides up bare skin to your ribs, taking your shirt with it, and her other presses low into your hip bone. Your hips roll slightly against her, your stomach exposed, heat spreading. 

“Does that bother you?” she asks, pulling away just enough for your eyes to flutter open, lips brushing. Her thumb is pressing up into your bra. She’s tipsy, her eyes shining, a little looser than normal. You shake your head, and she digs her nails into you, dragging them down to your other hip, pressing her mouth to yours again. 

She directs you against her thigh, and the friction, the pressure, is more than you’re used to right away from her. Usually she likes sitting in the tension of before, and she especially likes dragging it out so deliciously that you break first, a little unspoken game. Other times she’s more utilitarian, but she’s rarely like this — so singular and aching right out of the gate. 

Something tight coils in your core, hot and demanding, and you slide a hand from her neck to rest just below her collarbone, your fingers edging under the V of her neckline, grazing soft skin and pulling her closer by her shirt. You try to kiss her jaw, but she chases you down with her mouth, and her hand comes up to grip your chin, holding your head still against the door. It’s a warning, you think, her eyes unreadably wild. And then she kisses you once, open-mouthed, her hand sliding to your throat, and kisses you again. She doesn’t squeeze, but her lips part, her eyes flying across you. 

You want to tell her yes, do it, but her hands are already sliding down to your pants, unbuttoning them, watching your reaction. You’re dazed, stuck in the magnetism of Baran’s commanding actions, leaving you little room for any of your own. Her hand slides beneath the confines of your pants, fingers cool compared to how hot and wet you are, which you can feel immediately. 

“Fuck,” you sigh, and Baran kisses you, wrapping her other arm around your waist. She finds a rhythm that makes you rock your hips against her, fingers clicking and sliding against your clit. It’s almost embarrassing as you moan into her mouth, and she catches it with a soft groan of her own, which sends you gasping, your hips bucking. 

It’s when she kisses down your jaw and marks your neck that you know you’re in trouble. The arm around her shoulders draws her impossibly closer, and the fingers beneath the V of her neckline dig into her collarbone, tension building.

“Baran,” you gasp, a warning. “Oh my god.” Her lips slide up your neck, and she nips your earlobe. 

“I know,” she says, low and broken, and you whine, connecting your lips in a sloppy kiss. Your breath is shaky, and your core is clenching around nothing, aching and wet and flushed. And you can feel it, building and tipping and breaking. A low, desperate moan rolls through you as you cum, Baran’s arm tightening around your waist as your legs shake, her fingers slowing as her own breathing stutters against your mouth. And then she’s dipping two fingers into you without resistance, and white hot pleasure shoots through you. She moans. 

“Ah, god,” you groan, but it’s sharper, almost a hiss, as she curls her fingers, hitting a very soft, very sensitive part of you. She likes dragging a little extra pleasure out of you, but you don’t think she realizes how close you are to getting roped into another orgasm, so you gather as much will power as you can, enough sense, and open your eyes. “At least let me take my shoes off before you make me cum again,” you say, your voice shaky and weak, a breathy laugh escaping you. 

Baran’s eyes flutter, and her jaw is slack, pupils blown wide, lost in this just as much as you are. It doesn’t even pull a smile from her. She kisses you, softer but no less urgently, and slowly slides her fingers out of you. Barely moving away, she holds them to your lips, and you suck them clean while she watches, her mouth a breath away from yours and something heady and primal in her eyes. When she’s satisfied, she holds your chin with slick fingers and kisses you deeply, tasting you. 

Pulling away, she slides her arm out from around you, her fingers lingering on your hip. She licks her lips and hums, eyes drinking up the sight of you, ruffled and flushed and fucked, and she’s so far from done with you tonight it makes a new throbbing start up between your legs.

“Drink?” she asks evenly, pulling back to usher you past the entryway. 

“Jesus fucking christ,” you breathe, toeing off your shoes — a rule in both your homes — and walking ahead of her. 

“Not quite,” you hear her mumble with a punctuated lilt, and you glare at her as she rounds the island and tries to contain a smirk. 

You sit at a barstool there as she grabs another glass, not trusting your wobbling knees. The whiskey she drinks is middle shelf, which surprised you at first, and as she pours you a finger, you finally get a moment to look her over. Her hair is frizzy and wild, not from your fingers in it, and there are dark circles under her eyes. She looks tired, heavy, and a little distant, but when she slides you the glass, her eyes soften, a hesitant smile pulling her lips. 

“I wasn’t aware you’re so patriotic,” Baran teases, her hands pressed to the countertop. You tip the glass, watch the amber liquid tilt, and huff. 

“Well, I was hoping for a whittier response,” you muse, eyes dragging up her. There’s a question hidden under your words, one you don’t ever ask. Are you okay? Her reaction is odd, avoidant, lips parting then closing as she looks down and takes a drink.  “I was at a party. The fireworks just finished. I tend to get a little, I dunno, swept away,” you shrug then, watching her. 

She hums. 

“What about them moves you?” 

You take a drink, considering it. Does this count as pillow talk if you’re sitting in the kitchen? You and Baran don’t talk much beforehand, small nothings that serve only to build tension. It’s afterward that the conversation comes. 

Did you just use a move from that freaky new lesbian movie on me? You asked once, sweaty and out of breath. I wanted to see if it would actually work on anyone. It was a dig, but a playful one. And it started you on a tangent about queer cinema, to which Baran had a surprising amount to contribute. 

Did you see the protest yesterday? Biggest in Pittsburgh’s history. You asked, glancing at her on her stomach, hair splayed over her back. Yes, I was there. It was quite moving, actually. You turn on your side, propping your head up. Me, too. I can’t believe we still have to march for this shit. It wasn’t exactly lighthearted post-fuck talk, but it kept you occupied for a while about politics and social issues, and you learned a lot about Baran then. Even if it wasn’t exactly about her “personal” life, it was nice to understand her world view a little better. 

One time, she brought up music, as you’d put some on before she came over, and it was still playing when you were lying in bed next to each other. Is this what you usually listen to? Your lips quirked up. You mean is this my sex playlist? She gave you an exasperated look. I meant in general. You learned you and her have wildly different tastes in music, and while you offered teasing judgments about her top artists, she met yours with placid acceptance, even curiosity. It was one of the only times you thought she was cataloging you, taking note of something and filing it away. 

You don’t always talk, though. Sometimes one of you simply cleans up, dresses, and leaves — you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve woken up next to her. And sometimes it’s more about aftercare than speaking, which when it’s needed is given tenderly but only to the degree necessary. Baran is adept at pulling away when she feels something tipping over into affection. 

You suppose this counts as pillow talk as much as any of your other conversations do. 

“I like that I can feel it in my chest like a drum beat. I like how they shimmer and sort of rain down into nothing. The quick succession and overlap. There’s always something interesting to look at. I don’t know, it just demands to be felt, I guess. But the weeping willow is my favorite,” you smile, your hands loosely around your glass. “As an art form, it’s ancient, and I like looking over at the people I love in awe and knowing someone 2,000 years ago felt the exact same way.” 

The way Baran’s looking at you, good god. You feel a blush creep up your neck. More hungry than you’ve seen her in a while and softer, maybe, than you’ve ever seen her. If you dare to think about it, there’s even a tenderness in her eyes. 

“Cheesy,” you dismiss, swallowing. 

“No,” she shakes her head, tilting it to the side. “I think that is a beautiful way of viewing it.” Then she blinks, sighing. “I’m not fond of fireworks. I spent time in Kabul with Médecins Sans Frontières. One simply does not get used to the sounds of war.” 

Her eyes are briefly distant, and you don’t know what to say, if anything. It’s another fact about her that you file away, except this time it’s given freely. Another oddity tonight. 

“I worked with the US Forest Service for a while as a park ranger. I’ve seen a lot of injuries, some of them stupid, some of them just tragic. But I can’t imagine doing what you do,” you shake your head. It’s the first time you’ve really talked about Baran’s job, and you can feel her tensing across from you. 

“The Forest Service?” she inquires softly, raising her brow as she sidesteps your comment.

“Yeah, I was younger. More agile,” you chuckle. 

“You are still quite agile,” she muses, fighting a much too pleased with herself smile, and you laugh, happy to be sharing something flirty and easy with her. “Show me a photo.” 

“In uniform?” you laugh again, surprised, and she nods, a faint pink heating her ears. Maybe she’s only asking because she’s tipsy. “Only if you show me one of you,” you challenge, and it certainly is a big ask of Baran, who sobers briefly. 

You’re curious to know if she wants to see you in a past life badly enough — something she’s never expressed interest in before — to cross her own no-work-talk boundary. Maybe it’s unfair to ask, but there’s something in the air tonight, a little dangerous. And you do so like pushing her. Her eyes search yours, which are light and amused, waiting. 

Then she downs the rest of her drink and walks back to the entryway. You hear keys rattle, and when she comes back, she’s holding a key card on a retractable lanyard. Oh, you didn’t think she’d actually agree. Your heart lurches, and a grin splits your cheeks against your will. 

“At least try to contain yourself,” Baran grumbles, standing next to you and handing it over. But six months without a peep about the contents of her work or personal lives has you unapologetically giddy. 

The badge has different cards behind it, one of which says “Doctor” in big bold lettering, but it’s the top one that captivates you. It’s from Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, with “Baran Al-Hashimi, MD” below it and “Attending Physician” below that. She has her hair half-up and curly, and you can barely see the V of her scrubs the photo is so close up. 

“This is not what I had in mind,” you complain, holding it closer to examine the faint, distant smile of the ID photo. She knows you want to see a full-body picture of her in scrubs so you can drool over it, and she snatches the badge away. 

“Well, it is all you’re getting,” she enunciates. 

“Not at the VA anymore?” She tenses. 

“No,” she says curtly and doesn’t elaborate. “I held up my end. Your turn.” 

You pull out your phone to several texts from drunk friends and ignore them, opening your photos. Baran is polite enough not to snoop, taking the moment to put away her badge. When she returns to stand next to you, you hold your phone out to her. She takes it gingerly. 

You’re 23, grinning in front of a giant redwood tree, a shovel in hand, ranger hat resting on the end of the handle. It was a bright day, and the photo is a little grainy, but the gray short-sleeved button down, army green khakis and work boots on full display are the kind of uniform reveal you had in mind over Baran’s head and shoulders ID badge. You watch the corner of her lips quirk up, her eyes dancing as she bites her lip. Absently, her fingers graze your back and slide up to hold the nape of your neck. She hums low, and you feel heat swell in you. 

“You like a woman in uniform?” you tease, your hand sliding gently up the back of her thigh. 

“You look absolutely delicious,” she breathes, setting down your phone, her gaze turning to you, so singular. 

Your hand slides briefly between the back of her thighs — her eyes flutter — so you can hook your fingers around her leg and pull her to you, your legs parting so she can settle between them. She leans down to capture your lips, fingers tangling in your hair, while your hands slide up her waist. It’s a slower kiss than against the door, and her hair falls forward, curtaining your face. You’re engulfed in the warm smell of her, her breath light on your cheek, just the sound of your lips between you. 

“Should I dig it out of storage for next time?” you mumble against her mouth, and you feel a small smile blossom there. Her hand tightens in your hair, pulling just enough to feel some pressure on your scalp. Your fingers dig into her. 

“And what would you do to me, Ranger?” she asks, her voice growing playful. You pull at her bottom lip, and her grip on you loosens. She kisses you harder back, starting a slow push and pull. Your mind goes horrifyingly blank.

“I catch you,” she hums against you, her free hand high on your thigh, “littering.” 

She falters, and then she’s grinning, giggling against your mouth, her throat bobbing as she breaks your lips, the hand in your hair falling lightly to your shoulder. 

“Littering?” Baran tries to be serious as she gazes down at you, but it’s like something has taken root in her, and she can’t stop. You feel a blush rising to your cheeks. 

“In a National Park that’s a federal crime,” you attempt to justify, but she chews hard at her lip, her shoulders shaking, mirth sparkling in her eyes.

“Were you going to issue me a citation next?” she asks, choking back a laugh, and you stand up defiantly, pinning her to the island. 

“Maybe I was going to tie you to a redwood and fuck you,” you counter, and she hums, a smile still on her lips as she kisses you. After a moment in which you think you can continue, Baran sputters out another — admittedly endearing — giggle against your mouth, and you pull back, annoyance prickling at your mouth, your brow betraying your self-consciousness. 

“Wait, I’m sorry,” she breathes, grabbing the waist of your still undone pants and pulling you back before you can fully step away. She sighs your name, her eyes dragging up the length of you then fluttering across your face, your eyes, your lips. It sends heat straight through you, settling low in your belly. “This is going to sound unkind, but I do not mean it to be in the slightest.” She rests a careful hand against your cheek. “I needed a laugh today.” 

Suddenly, Baran looks incredibly weary as she leans forward to kiss you, her fingers sliding to your neck. You wonder again what happened today for her to text you after 9 pm on a holiday. To tell you about Kabul, a profound and likely traumatic detail of her life. And to kiss you with so much feeling — decidedly breaking every one of her rules. You want to tell her she can talk to you about it, if she wants, but you know it would sour the mood, and she wouldn’t tell you anyway, so what’s the point? 

“I can’t remember hearing you laugh like that before,” you mumble, hesitant, and Baran’s grip on your neck loosens, mentally pulling away. It was less contained and careful than usual, more free, more girlish. You like it very much, and the thought unsettles you a little. 

“Maybe you’re not as funny as you think,” she counters, and you roll your eyes. She kisses it right off you, and then again, and again more deeply, until you forget to be irritated. She slides her finger and thumb down the shell of your ear, her other hand at the small of your back. “Now that your shoes are off…” she breathes against you, and a faint moan is your only response. 

In the hallway before you get to Baran’s bed, you press her lightly up against the wall, your hands on her waist, shirt bunching up. And when you kiss her neck this time, she lets you, sighing and tilting her head back for you. There’s a spot just below her ear, right at the edge of her jaw, that makes her moan. You kiss it, lips sliding, sucking, soothing. Her hips roll into yours, face dipping to your cheek, your neck, as you slide one hand down to the small of her back, encouraging. The other trails up to her chest. Her breathing stutters, leaving open-mouthed kisses on whatever skin she can reach. 

You love seeing her like this, on the verge of needy, letting you work her up as she sinks deeper into that pool of aching want. Her eyes close, her lips part, and it’s like you can see when the heat between her legs becomes too much not to act on. Baran whines, nipping at the skin between your neck and your shoulder as you press into her chest. Then her hand wraps around your wrist and pulls you from her chest, using it to drag you finally to her room. 

Something in it gives you pause. Her grip is strong, silencing, and there are other ways to direct you without losing contact. In the entryway, she redirected your touches, your kisses, so the focus could be on you. She lets you take, then pulls away just when it may reach a breaking point. It’s almost like she’s acclimating herself to your touch, to what it does to her.

Baran is vocal — more than you — and she’s not shy about telling you what she wants. She’s also a good communicator, letting you know boundaries before they’re crossed. So, you find yourself undeterred, sure she’d tell you if something were off. 

At the foot of the bed, Baran’s hands are snaking up your t-shirt, pulling it higher. Lifting your arms for her, she slides it off, tossing it somewhere before her lips are back on yours. One hand falls to your waist, the other sliding up to palm your chest, and you sigh, arching into her. Your bra is thin, and it doesn’t take much for your nipple to pebble under her touch. 

“Fuck,” she sighs, pressing her forehead into yours. The noise that leaves your lips is breathy and aching, and her hips roll into yours. You’re starting to feel hot, and there are far too many clothes on between you. Your fingers edge under her shirt, pressing low into her belly. 

“Take it off,” you whisper. The air feels delicate. She kisses you once, and then slides it over her head in one fluid motion, dropping it. “Lay down,” you tell her, and her eyes grow dark. 

Even when you’re the one with your face between her legs, Baran is often the one in control. She likes fighting for it, pushing back on your occasional brattiness, telling you you’re cute when you pin her down. It’s fun for you, but it flips over to really fucking hot when she starts encouraging you, praising. It’s all, yes, like that. Harder. Fuck, that’s good. Or, good girl, sometimes. The first time she praised you in Farsi — so blissed out and shaky with her hand in your hair — you could have cum. At the very least, she likes pretending to relinquish control. It’s less common for her to actually do it. 

But she lays down on the bed and scoots back without argument. And you crawl toward her, chasing her down like prey. You start immediately on the clasp of her soft linen pants, and she cants her hips up to help you pull them down and kick them away. Spreading her legs gently, you kiss the inside of her knee, and up a few inches on her warm, silky thigh. She cocks her head to the side on the bed, hair splayed out around her, and watches you. Her hand drifts slowly to her own chest, the other to your hair. 

She’s so full of contradictions tonight it’s starting to make your head swim. She takes you immediately against her front door, looks at you like she wants to devour you whole, but when she’s being touched, she’s quiet, unhurried. 

Your mouth bypasses her underwear completely, which makes her groan your name faintly, instead kissing her stomach below her belly button. When you slide your tongue all the way up to her bra, though, her hips roll. You settle yours between her legs, and a foot comes to rest easily over your calf as she pulls your lips to hers. One hand holds yourself over her while the other slides up her stomach to her chest. 

“Take it off,” she whines, and she arches her back so you can. Her nipples are hard, and you take one easily into your mouth, your tongue circling. “That feels good,” she sighs, the hint of a moan. You’re starting to think she may need something softer from you tonight, even if she’s more than happy to tear you apart afterward. 

You kiss your way to the other side of her chest as your free hand slides down to her thighs, pushing them farther apart. Teeth scraping over her nipple, she moans, her hips twitching. Her hand finds your head, pushing gently down. She wants you between her legs. Instead, you take her wrist and pin it to the pillows above her head, rising to look down at her. You intend it to say, let me take care of you, but Baran stills in a way you don’t like and didn’t anticipate. Her pretty doe eyes are caught in headlights you can’t see, and you let go of her wrist. 

“Baran,” you say, almost a question. 

Usually, she likes being pinned down. Her eyes go dark and lovely, and she gets this look, daring you to keep going. Instead, something twists in her, and she flips you over before you can stop and investigate. In the entryway and the hallway, it was like she pulled away before you crossed a line, but this feels distinctly like crossing a line. One you don’t know about, can’t foresee. And that scares you a little. There’s something she isn’t communicating. 

She kisses you hard, and you place your hands on her biceps, steadying her. 

“Baran, wait,” you insist, and she pulls back, her hair falling into her face. She’s breathing heavily. “What was that? Talk to me.” 

You specifically avoid asking if she’s okay, and she specifically avoids telling you. 

“It’s been a long day. Please let me fuck you,” she breathes, something a little desperate in her tone. Like she needs this. She had broken all of her rules already tonight — booty calls and personal details and work talk. 

“Only if you’re sure —” She cuts you off with a bruising kiss. 

“Yes. Shut up,” she breathes against your mouth.

You kiss her back, slow at first, but she knows how to disarm you. Her mouth slides to your neck, nosing your head to the side. She’s straddling you, and her hips settle into yours as she pins your own wrists above your head, preventing you from touching her. Your concern, in gradual degrees, turns foggy, and by the time she’s sliding her hands under you to unclasp your bra, you understand that in some way this is cathartic for her. Still, you wish she’d just talk to you. 

Her mouth is around your nipple, sucking and kissing, and you sigh, keeping your hands where she left them. Your hips cant up into hers, and she hums, grinding down in response.  

“Feels good?” 

“Yes,” you sigh as her tongue swirls around your other nipple. “Oh, yes.” 

She kisses your sternum and slides off of you, spreading your legs and kneeling between them. In slow, deliberate moves, her fingers dig under the band of your panties, and she pulls them off, kissing your leg. She slides her hands up your shins, over your knees, and up the insides of your thighs, stopping short of where you want her. You groan, tilting your head back, and she smiles.

“I like you like this,” she says, taking back some of the control she enjoys. Your hips roll, and she meets you at the swell of it, her thumb sliding between wet folds. “So needy.” You can’t help but moan, a hand coming down to your chest, rolling a nipple between your fingers. “Where do you want me?” she asks, her voice low. If you were any more clear-headed, you would have noticed how unmoored the question made her sound.

“Oh, god,” you groan, her thumb swirling softly around your clit. She hums, waiting, the nails of her other hand scraping your inner thigh. She likes it when you talk to her, when you’re direct. “I want your mouth on me.” Just saying it makes you moan, and you can hear how wet you are on Baran’s thumb. 

Wordlessly, she settles between your legs, kissing each thigh, marking you there. You bite your lip and look at her through hooded lids as she wraps her arms around your legs. 

“You are intoxicating,” she mumbles, kissing dark hair. Your breath catches, and when she dips her tongue down, a sharp, urgent noise forces its way out of you. She hums, and you feel it, and god, you are so wet. 

Your hand slides down your stomach but stops short at touching her, unsure. Her tongue swirls your swollen clit, and then her hand is sliding up, her fingers pulling at yours, encouraging. So, you slide a gentle hand into her hair, her curls wrapping around your fingers. You don’t direct her, just hold, and you can feel her head moving against you, and that is so sexy you can barely stand it. 

You’re breathing quicker, your hips jerking, and she stills you, pressing into the crease at the top of your thighs. Her tongue dances around you, and you moan, loud and desperate. 

“Baran, please,” you gasp, and she kisses you there. 

“Say it again,” she moans against you. 

“Please, god, Baran, don’t stop,” you stumble, your head falling back, and her mouth is on you, her tongue lapping and swirling. Your hand tightens in her hair, your other hand fisting the sheets at your side. “Fuck, fuck,” you moan desperately, and you cum with her name on your lips, hard and deep, your core tightening, stuttering. 

You ride it out on her mouth, and as you come down she keeps going, slow and so soft. Her mouth, covered in you, finds your thigh, and she kisses it, then sucks. 

“So sexy,” she mumbles, kissing you just above your clit and then dipping lower to kiss you there too. You gasp, trying to control your breathing, eyes still closed. “The way you moan.” 

Her tongue drags over you, flat and soft and hot, and you sigh. Then her lips come down over your clit, and she’s sucking. 

“Oh, fuck,” you groan, inhaling sharply. Your fingers tighten again in her hair, and she hums, tongue working, fingers digging into your thighs. You jerk, too much, and Baran pulls away carefully. And then she blows a stream of cool air on your clit, and the moan that rips out of you is frankly obscene. 

“You’re sensitive,” she comments, amused. Heat builds in you so quick it’s astonishing. 

“Baran, I’m…” you can’t even finish, choking as she lightly drags her wet lips over your clit. She kisses you lower, dragging her tongue up from your entrance so slowly as her nails scrape down the back of your thigh. You’re breathing shallowly, your whole body tense, so engulfed in the feeling of another orgasm surfacing. You cum with her tongue barely touching you, moaning with such abandon it’s embarrassing, your legs stuttering closed against her head. 

She says something in Farsi, mumbled into your clit, and you absolutely cannot have her down there anymore, so you pull her up, your legs shaking. Her nose, her mouth, her chin are all covered in you, slick and stringy, and you’re so drunk on it you laugh, wiping her face and licking yourself off her mouth. Her kisses are deep and aching, and you hold her cheeks, looking at her. 

“You are a sight to behold,” she whispers, eyes drifting across your face, and you just throb and tremble beneath her. 

The come down has you feeling sort of emotional suddenly, something prickling at your eyes, and you think Baran is feeling it too — though in a different way — because she’s swallowing, her jaw twitching, so you kiss her. Softly. 

“Let me taste you,” you whisper against her mouth. She doesn’t answer right away. “You made me cum three times tonight. Let me return the favor. Please.” 

“The night is still young,” she mumbles, her eyes fluttering, and you nip at her bottom lip. 

“I want to make you feel good,” you say, your hands falling to her collarbones, searching her eyes. You know she wants it. You can see it in the way her eyes grow sort of soft and hazy at the thought. What’s holding her back? Why did she flip you earlier? You’re ready to drop it, but then her mouth covers yours. 

And she’s kissing you, and she must be as wet and worked up as you are because when you touch her chest, she groans. You’re careful with her, moving gently, and when she kisses you again, she lingers. 

“Please,” she affirms then, curtained by her hair, her eyes finding yours through long, dark lashes. You reach up to press your mouth to hers, and then you’re pushing her back to sit up. She twists and lays down slowly, her eyes never leaving yours, but she spreads her legs easily, letting you settle between them. 

You kiss her neck with a reverence you don’t ever let her see but that you think she maybe needs tonight. And as you kiss your way down her body, leaving hardly any skin untouched, she sighs, her eyes closing. You press your lips to her underwear, soft cotton, and pause. Baran’s eyes flutter open, and she nods at you, so you slide them off. 

You love, for many reasons, going down on Baran. You love the taste of her, the heady smell of her, how many lovely moans you can pull from her, and how deeply it unravels her. You kiss her thighs, dragging your nails across the delicate skin there. She hums, almost a moan, her hips twitching. You notice her breathing, quicker than normal, her eyes barely open. You’ve never seen her this quiet and patient, soft and completely at your mercy. Your eyes don’t leave hers when you dip lower and drag your tongue through her folds, up to her clit, circling gently. She’s so wet and swollen under you. 

Baran’s eyes close, her jaw going slack, a low moan rolling through her as she tilts her head back. One hand comes to rest in your hair, her nails scratching lightly. Your lips close over her, sucking, and she whines, her hips rolling. 

“Feels good,” she mumbles, and you close your eyes, savoring her, how wet she is. It doesn’t take long to work her up, until her moans are drawn out and desperate. She says your name once, twice, her fingers tightening in your hair. You moan against her, and her hips roll gently into your mouth, over and over until she tenses, her breathing shallow and shaky. She cums with a high, broken moan. 

Your eyes flutter open, and the hand that isn’t resting in your hair is covering her eyes. You lick your lips and notice her shoulders shaking, throat bobbing just slightly. Oh god. 

“Baran?” you whisper hoarsely. She doesn’t answer, just turns her head away from you, and there’s a terrible grimace on her face. You wipe your mouth and climb up immediately, so very gently removing the hand from her eyes. 

She’s crying, tears streaming down her temples into her hair, and she can’t look at you, pressing her trembling lips together. 

“I’m sorry,” she offers wetly, held together by some enormous power of will, and your own throat tightens. 

“Hey,” you breathe, reaching up to swipe some of the tears away, and she squeezes her eyes shut, humiliated. “Baran, hey,” you sigh and settle down next to her, digging your arm underneath her shoulder and around her back, the other arm sliding around her waist. You draw her to you and hold her tightly. “It’s okay,” you whisper, and after a stiff moment, a sob wrenches its way up her throat. 

Her arms slide around you, and her legs tangle with yours as she clings to you so tightly. Baran sobs into your neck, and you feel hot tears dripping down your chest. You have no idea what’s happening, and you’re terrified and confused, and you just hold her. 

You stay like that for a long time as Baran slowly calms down, the sobs fading to shaking tears, which melt to hitched breathing and finally to a weary stillness against you. You raise a hand to brush back her hair, fingers dragging down her scalp. Baran shivers and digs her nose into your neck, her wet lashes brushing your skin. 

“Thank you,” she whispers thickly, her nose stuffy, and when she pulls away, she doesn’t go far, keeping her arms around you, every part of you touching. “I owe you an explanation.” 

“You don’t,” you assure her quickly. “But…” you hesitate. “Baran, you’re really scaring me.” 

Tears spring again to her eyes, and she swallows. 

“Today was my first day at PTMC,” she relents, blinking, and then shakes her head, her lips trembling. “It was a lot.” Her voice wavers and breaks. 

It’s all she can get out before more tears are dripping down her cheeks. You give her a moment, and she blinks them away. Her eyes are red and puffy as she takes a shaky breath, cheeks shining. 

“I didn’t intend to cry tonight,” she gasps out a laugh. “I just wanted to feel…something other than this. Which is not very attractive.” 

“I dunno, I’m kind of turned on right now,” you joke, and thank god she laughs, her eyes watery. “Baran,” you sigh then, removing the hand from around her waist and resting it on her cheek. “You can talk to me, you know. About any of it.” You hover your hand, hesitating, then set it back down on her soft, wet skin. “I want to hear it.” 

It’s a vulnerable admission. It tells her something about how you view her, this nebulous thing between you. It betrays feelings. She swallows, her eyes searching yours. And then she leans forward and kisses you, soft and slow. 

. . . 

Postscript

Eventually, Baran untangles herself from you to shower. The water runs for a long time, and when it turns off, you throw on your shirt and underwear and pad to the kitchen to make tea. It’s around one, and you both have to work in the morning. 

In the quiet, you start to understand why Baran redirected you in the entryway, the hallway, why she panicked when you pinned her down. The closer you got to unraveling her, the closer the rest of her day got to surfacing, too.

By the time the tea is done steeping, Baran is padding in, a robe tied around her waist. She’s frowning. 

“I thought you left.” 

“Do you want me to?” you ask evenly, blinking. She swallows and shakes her head, so you hold the tea out to her. She takes it wordlessly and sips, looking completely hollow and dead on her feet. 

You shower, and Baran gives you a shirt and shorts to wear. Another first. They smell like her, cardamom and plums. When she turns off the light and you lay next to her, she looks as raw as an exposed nerve. You face each other in the dark. 

“Tell me what you need, Baran,” you whisper to her.