Geodeprentixx

There’s a certain quiet you’ve learned to recognize, the kind that settles into the apartment when she’s not there. It doesn't feel empty, not to you. There are so many pieces of her surrounding the space; to you, it feels like she's left her mark all around.

You're feeling that tonight when you're sitting comfortably on the couch, deep into your book, when the sound of the front door opening pulls your focus. 

Baran enters quietly, her movements slow and delicate. You slip a bookmark in between the pages and set your book down on the table in front of you. 

When she walks in, you notice something is off.

It’s the way she moves, careful and deliberate, like she’s holding herself together in places you can’t quite figure out yet.

You know something’s wrong, but you don’t ask right away. You’ve learned that about her: pushing only makes her retreat further into herself.

And Baran is not avoidant, not with you, but she lets you in slowly; she needs a second to set things down, to breathe, to decide how to say it.

“You didn't have to wait up for me.” She says softly as she puts her things away with slow movements. 

“I wanted to.” You stand and move into the kitchen, giving her space in the way you’ve learned she needs it, and pull dinner from the fridge. The quiet hum of the microwave fills the silence. 

She sits at the table, her hands folded tightly in front of her. “Kaveh is staying with his dad for an extra day.” Her voice is barely heard over the quiet sound of the microwave. 

You glance at her after she speaks; you watch the way she's holding herself so carefully.

“I'm sorry, I know you wanted time with him tonight.” You keep your voice low and steady, setting the plate down in front of her, along with a glass of water. 

You sit beside her, her hand brushing your back. “Thank you,” she mumbles quietly. You mindlessly scroll through your phone, your presence acting as silent support until she's ready.

That’s also something you’ve learned with her: that silence isn't always absence.

You sit close enough that she can reach you if she needs to, but far enough that she's not feeling suffocated.

She eats more than you expect her to; her movements are slow and deliberate. The fork scrapes lightly against the plate before she sets it down, her shoulders rising and falling with a steadying breath.

“I’ve got it." you say gently, already standing, reaching for her plate.

The second your fingers brush the edge, her hand moves too.

"I can do it.” Her voice was quiet and controlled, something else underneath it. 

She felt like she needed to still be capable of something small.

“I know you can." you say softly, stepping back instead of pushing.

She nods faintly, moving to the kitchen to dispose of the waste; the trash lid opens with a dull click. She scrapes what’s left into it quickly, moving to the sink in a few strides. 

Water runs over the plate, a steady stream that fills the room. She focuses on it, eyes fixed downward, like if she keeps her attention there long enough, everything else will stay contained.

You get up from your spot and move closer to her. By the time you reach her, she’s already set the plate aside, turning off the faucet.

She dries her hands with a towel, slower than necessary, dragging it over fingers and palms. You stand behind her for a moment before breaking the silence. “Baran.” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. 

She stills before turning to face you. There’s just a quiet pause, like she’s gathering the pieces before she hands them over. 

When her eyes meet yours, you can see the exhaustion, the dark circles that sit underneath, and the red that has stained the whites of her eyes. 

“I had two seizures today.” She says plainly, her eyes now shifting to look at something else. 

Your breath catches that. “That must have been scary.” 

Her jaw tightens before she speaks again. 

“I haven’t had one in a year.” Her voice is even, but softer now, worn thin at the edges. “I don’t know what changed.” 

A small shaky breath leaves her lips. “I’ve done everything right. I take my meds, I track everything, I'm careful,” she pauses, “and it still happened.”

You move your hands up slowly to hold her elbows; her breath stutters before her eyes meet yours again, something fragile breaking open at the surface. 

She lets the tears fall again for the second time tonight, allowing you to hold her through it rather than the cold of the leather seats in her car.

You know how hard she fights to stay grounded, how much she carries every day and if you could take the hurt from you would.

You know that she feels like she can’t lean on anyone, that this is her mess and she needs to handle it alone. Because only she can trust herself.

You close the space between you, wrapping your arms firmly around her. Your hand smooths over her curls as you whisper soft praises into her skin. 

“I know, honey, I know.” You say, your lips pressed against her temple. Her hold on you remains firm as her body trembles against yours, the tears coming harder now.

“I can’t be the one making decisions for people if my own body won’t even listen to me.” She whispers suddenly, her voice breaking into something sharper.

For a moment, it sounds less like frustration and more like fear of herself. The fear of losing everything she's worked so hard for, her not trusting the version of her that exists after today.

“I know," you say softly, your hand still moving through her hair. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

“I’m just tired of this." she says suddenly, voice hoarse and small, her tears slowing. 

You didn't interrupt her and let her continue on; the tension hangs in the air between you, your hand now working slow strokes down her back.

“I just want it to stop feeling like I have to earn my place over and over again just to keep it.” She whispers. 

Her words make your chest ache because, to you, she's never been anything less than extraordinary. To you she's a loving partner, mother, friend, doctor, and person. To you she's smart, trustworthy, and patient. To you, she's perfect. and you hate the way she has to do so much more just to be seen as an equal.

She pulls back just slightly, her hands coming up to wipe at her cheeks, brushing away the remaining tears.

You follow the movement, and your hands come up to hold her face, thumbs resting just beneath her eyes, catching what’s left before they can fall.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me," you say softly.

She leans into your hands then, letting you carry some of the weight with her. 

You pull back, your hands falling down to hold hers, your thumb rubbing soft circles against her knuckle. 

“We don’t have to solve all of this tonight,” you say softly. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

She exhales a shaky breath, her eyes finding yours as you let your words settle. 

“I'll drive you,” you add. "To work, to your appointments, to the store—wherever you need to go. And we'll adjust; we’ll figure out what you need and what makes things easier. There’s always a way forward, even if it looks different for a while.” You say softly, pausing again. 

“You’re still you, and whatever comes next, we'll handle it together," you add, softer now.

A long, quiet exhale leaves her, the grip she held on your hands now loosening.

“Okay,” she murmurs, barely audible.

You press a soft kiss to the top of her head, pulling her just a little closer.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper, guiding her into another hug.

The two of you stand there for a few seconds before you pull back and speak.

“Hey,” you murmur softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, your fingers lingering there for just a second. “Let’s get you into a shower, yeah? Then we’ll go to bed.”

She huffs a quiet breath, a small laugh breaking through. “So now I smell?” she murmurs, a faint, teasing edge breaking through her voice. “That bad, huh?”

You smile softly, brushing your thumb once more along her cheek. “Devastating, actually.”

She shakes her head and lets out a quiet, but real, laugh at that. 

Her smile lingers just a moment longer before it softens into something more. 

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

You lean in, pressing another soft kiss to her forehead.

“Always.”

-

also I want to add a minor discussion. I do think that baran drove herself home that night. im sure most of you have seen the interviews where she talks about the scene that was cut from that shot, since she denied help from her ex husband, I really think she pushed everything down again after she cried and just slowly drove home.

-

If you were a less selfish person, the baby in this crib would make you nervous. 

She would remind you of how cruel the world is. That people can leave babies in bathrooms and just leave, hope for the best and make a run for it, that infants can be admitted to hospitals with no known home to go back to. That sometimes people are given a bad hand and are just that desperate for help. 

But this baby — nameless, tiny hands reaching up for you, oblivious smile on her face — doesn’t remind you of any of that. Instead she reminds you of the good in this world, the blind innocence of childhood, that there is purity somewhere on this planet so intent on destroying itself. She is so happy despite the circumstances, because she doesn’t understand yet that there is so much to be worried about. 

You’ve been visiting her periodically throughout the day. You want to make sure there is always someone around for her, someone that cares. You’ve taken up that responsibility naturally, like it’s second nature. You are there. 

But this visit is more selfish than the others. This visit is not for her sake but for yours. 

You did everything you could. You were patient, you attempted to diffuse the conflict, you were more gracious than you probably should have been in hopes that the aggression would be a passing thing. But the situation had only gotten worse, you’d been made to switch cases, and now you have a pile of forms waiting for your signature back at the nurses’ station. 

“Everything okay in here?” asks a voice from the doorway, a voice you are familiar with. It is soft and warm and reminds you of home — bedsheets that smell like lavender, candles always burning and flickering their golden light onto the walls, heavy crocheted blankets and a basket of yarn in the sunroom. 

“She’s fine,” you say. “Awake and apparently very happy to be here.” 

Baran — or Dr Al-Hashimi, as you have to call her here — steps further into the room. She comes to stand at your side, looking down at the baby in the crib. “And how is her favorite nurse?” 

You swallow hard. You lie because it is easy and it keeps you safe from the truth, and by extension from breaking down in this sterile, unfriendly place. 

“I’m okay,” you say. 

She doesn’t seem satisfied by your answer. She drifts a little closer to you, placing a gentle hand at the small of your back. “I know we have to keep things professional here, but you can still talk to me. Dana told me what happened.” 

“I’m sick of the gossip that goes through this place.” 

“It’s not gossip. I’m an attending, it’s my job to know these things. To help make sure you’re safe.” She leans in a little closer. “And that goes double when you’re my wife.” 

Your throat tightens. You try to breathe deeply but you can’t, your lungs have constricted with the rest of your body to the point where just standing here and existing feels like it requires tremendous effort. 

“We don’t have to talk,” Baran offers. Blindly, she’s trying to offer you whatever you need. “We can just stand here for a second.” 

In the crib, the baby begins to fuss. Instinctively you take her out of her crib, careful to cradle her as gently as you can, and hold her close. 

Baran takes a step back. She doesn’t like taking peds cases or being anywhere near them — there are too many bad memories associated with them. Even something as simple and harmless as her son getting a scraped knee at home can send her into a spiral under the right circumstances. 

You know some of what makes her anxious. You’ve heard stories about Kabul, though not all of them, and usually only in the shaken aftermath of panic attacks. 

You also know that Baran gets worried about the bigger picture, especially with babies — how long until they’re back in an emergency room? Will they come in in five years sick and helpless like she did as a child? Seven years with a broken leg? Seventeen with injuries from a drunk driving accident? 

The baby doesn’t calm in your arms, though. If anything she becomes more upset, features contorting and tears springing in her eyes like the world is ending, and you think your own panic might be to blame — babies seem to have a way of sensing these things. 

“I can take her,” Baran says, resigned. “Here, give her to me.” 

Your heart drops. “It’s okay, you don’t have to.” 

But she’s already reaching out. She takes the baby from your arms and holds her in her own, blinking back and holding at bay her own flood of emotions since one of you has to be stable enough to calm the baby. She rocks her gently, whispering comforting phrases in Farsi that you’ve heard her repeat before to her son. 

You calm a little, watching Baran hold her. Something in you softens, releases, and you wish you had the grace to offer to take the baby back, but you want to cling to this moment just a little bit longer. 

“There we go,” Baran murmurs once the fussing stops and the baby has been lulled to sleep in her arms. “Go to sleep, dream that you’re somewhere better. You will be, soon.” 

“That sounds a little cryptic,” you manage. 

She glances up, meets your eyes briefly. “I didn’t mean for it to be.” 

“I know.” You step closer, looking down at the baby in her arms. “Doctors can foster in cases like this, right?” 

She sees where you’re going with that. She huffs out something of a laugh. “We are not bringing home a baby.” 

“But she’s cute, look at her. Kaveh would like her, and he would have a sister if we ever adopted her. We’ve always wanted a daughter.” 

Baran lays the baby down in the crib again. She knows you aren’t going to like what she’s about to say. “You can’t use this child as a way to escape what happened today. At the end of the day, she’s a patient that will pass through here like all the rest. You need to acknowledge what hurt you and look it in the eye.” 

The words come out before you can stop them, sharp and defensive and bleeding with the day’s stress. “I didn’t know you were a fucking therapist.” 

For a moment, she’s taken aback. You don’t curse at her, it’s just not something you do, and she doesn’t curse at you. Only in the worst of arguments is that unspoken rule broken. 

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly. “I shouldn’t have—” 

Her voice is raised. “I’m just trying to help.” 

“I didn’t mean it.” 

“I don’t give a fuck if you meant it,” Baran says. She starts walking toward the door. “Don’t say it.” 

“Baran, don’t go.” 

“I have patients to see. I’m going to have to try hard enough to catch up already, given how much time I’ve spent here with you. I’m not going to stay if I’m unwanted.”  

“I do want you here,” you try, your voice rising to the same level as hers. “It was a lapse in judgement, it’s been a long day.” 

“Lower your voice,” she says hypocritically from the doorway. “You’ll wake the baby.” 

And with that, she’s gone. On cue, the baby starts crying again. 

— 

You meet her later in the parking lot after your shift with dinner from her favorite restaurant that you paid way too much to have delivered to the hospital. 

You always get to the car a couple minutes before she does. It’s easier for you to slip away and you usually wait in the car, just like you do now, for her to get in on the passengers side and sigh so heavily, offer you a tired greeting. 

Right at the usual time, she slips into the car. But she doesn’t sigh, doesn’t greet you like she normally would — until she sees the food in the bag on your lap. 

“I’m sorry,” you say for the second time today. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you earlier, it wasn’t fair.” 

She reaches out for the takeout bag and sets it in her own lap. “It would’ve been cheaper to pick this up on the way home.” 

“I wanted to surprise you. It’s your favorite, and there’s extra sauce in the bag because you’re always complaining about how they get skimpy with takeout orders.” 

Despite herself, she gives you a small smile. 

“Are we okay?” 

Baran nods. She’s still not quite over how you snapped at her, but she also feels like you’ve paid the price for it, and it’s not something that came out of the blue — today was rough for both of you. 

She reaches for your hand and you let her take it, holding onto her like a lifeline. “Are you finally ready to talk?” 

You hesitate. You don’t want to relive the day you had today, the patient that completely ruined it for you. You don’t want to repeat the things that were said to you or the measures that had to be taken in order to get you out of the situation. 

Then you remember that she already knows. That for her it is probably just as sickening a prospect to hear from your lips the story she has already heard from Dana’s, Robby’s, everyone else’s. But she is doing this for you, because she knows the price of holding onto too much alone. In a strange, backwards way, she is sacrificing some of her wellbeing for yours. 

She looks so tired. You notice it in little hints: the dullness of her soft brown eyes, the frizz in her hair that she’s too exhausted to complain about, the way she slumps down into the passenger seat in a way she only does when she’s completely spent. 

“It’ll eat you alive,” she says quietly. “You can take my word for it.” 

You don’t like the sound of that, though you know it’s true. You’re able to tell where bits of her have been whittled away by the world. You’ve seen her anger and identified the things that are able to trigger it, bring it on sharply and suddenly and in a full-body way that sometimes scares you, though it’s hardly ever directed at you. You have witnessed bouts of depression where she has struggled to get out of bed in the morning or simply can’t bring herself to, and you have been there to help her into the shower and wash her hair and keep her fed when she can’t bring herself to go through the motions. 

But it’s not the threat that makes you open up, the terrifying possibility of sinking — it’s her patience, her love, the warmth of her hand in yours. And sure, you’re also counting down the minutes until the food in her lap gets cold. 

So you tell her everything. You sit with her in the car and repeat everything that led up to your horrible encounter today, and everything that led you into that room with the unnamed, smiling baby. You express your concerns and hopes and anger that things aren’t different, and she listens. 

When you’re done, it feels like a weight has been lifted. Baran was right that it helps to talk. 

“This is what I wanted,” she says after a long silence. “There are going to be patients like that. It’s the world we live in, as much as I wish things were different. But we don’t have to sacrifice ourselves to that pain.” 

It’s your turn to listen. Your hand is still in hers. 

“I’ll always listen to you,” she continues, “whenever you want to talk. And I know you’ll listen to me.” 

You nod. It’s true, and you’ve proven it in the past. 

She leans over the center console and presses a kiss to your temple, then reaches a hand to grasp your chin so she can tilt your head up and kiss you. 

The box of takeout nearly slips off her lap, but she catches it. 

“You better not drop that,” you warn. “I really did pay a horrible amount to get it here.” 

thank you for reading <3 tried super hard to get smth out this week because I hit a bit of a slump but I feel like I’m bouncing back a bit and that’s maybe visible in my writing. anyway. trust I’m always writing something even if it’s not always fics.

Baran hears the ping of two text messages from the end table, but it isn’t your text tone, so she ignores it. It’s a Thursday night, and she’s curled up on the couch with a blanket and a memoir she’s been meaning to read for a while, a mug of tea close by. 

The house is emptier than usual. Baran’s son is with his dad for the weekend, and you’re at a bar with Shen and Ellis. The three of you try to go out semi-regularly. First it was to blow off steam with fellow “night crawlers” — a name Baran found distasteful but liked the way you said it low in her ear. But then Shen and Ellis started dropping by for dinner, and Baran was grabbing lunch with Shen without you, and before any of you realized it you’d all become friends. 

Still, going out is more your thing, and Baran rarely drinks, so she gave you a lingering kiss goodbye and told you to be safe and have fun. 

Your text tone sounds in the quiet living room, and Baran sets down her book, reaching over to grab her phone. You usually send her a selfie or two when she’s not out with you, something Baran always looks forward to. Reading the texts on her lock screen, however, draws a frown. 

9:24 pm

John Shen: I fucked up 

9:25 pm

John Shen: It’s probably fine 

9:28 pm

Azizam: do you still love me? 

Worry and irritation well in Baran in equal measures. She taps the call button, feeling you probably need to hear the answer in your ear and not from a screen. 

9:29 pm

Outgoing call: Azizam

Call declined.

Baran’s worry grows, and her fingers fly. As an emergency medicine doctor, she’s adept at remaining measured and logical in almost any situation, but when it comes to you or her son, something much more urgent and primal fights for dominance. 

9:29 pm

You: You know I love and adore you very much.

You: Is everything OK? 

9:30 pm

Azizam: can’t talk they’re playing party in the usa 

9:30 pm

You: And that’s more important than finding out if I still love you?

9:31 pm

Azizam: needed to hype myself up in case 

This does not ease Baran’s worry. She knows you know, on some level, this is silly. If Baran were ever going to say something so devastating — and she had no plans to — she wouldn’t do it over text while you’re at a bar. But you are in your head enough to type it out and send it, which twists in Baran’s gut. 

9:31 pm

You: Please call me when your song is over, so you can hear me say it. 

Azizam reacted with: ❤️ 

Baran opens her thread with Shen, her irritation now simmering into something resembling a rubber band pulled taut right at his head. 

9:31 pm

You: Are you the reason my girlfriend is asking me whether I still love her?

9:33 pm

John Shen: Shit

9:34 pm

Incoming call: Azizam

“Am I being needy?” are your first words to her, nearly shouted over the club music blasting through the earpiece. 

Baran takes the phone an inch away from her ear, blinking, a weary hum catching in her throat. She’s not a fan. And neither are you — too chaotic and overstimulating. Probably Shen’s choice in venue tonight. 

There have been times that Baran’s had to keep a steady, grounding hand on the nape of your neck and another on your knee to keep it from bouncing. You’re a good sport — always wanting to be supportive of Shen’s favorite spots, a quality she loves about you — but there are nights the two of you just go home. And in the quiet car, you hide your overwhelmed and embarrassed tears in the window as Baran rubs the top of your thigh. 

It’s something you perceive as a contradiction to how cool and collected you are as an emergency medicine doctor. Baran recognizes it as rooted in control because she too needs it in certain ways to feel safe. You’re a skilled physician — you expect all possible scenarios, and you’re prepared for each one. You know how to mentor because you know how residents work, what they need, how they learn. It’s all planned and logical and built from years of experience and practice. Outside of work, things are more unpredictable. And loud crowds are one of your more sensitive spots. You’re ashamed of it, but Baran has never once made you feel that way. 

You sound anxious and unsure on the phone. Baran takes a breath and settles deeper into the couch. She wishes she were there with you. 

“Honey, where is this coming from?” she asks softly, carefully. 

“That’s not a no.” 

Baran presses her lips together. We’re not doing logic tonight, she sees. 

“Asking me one time if I love you does not make you needy. But it does make me worry,” she says with so much love and gentleness. It seems to break through to you. 

“I’m just anxiety spiraling,” you groan, the sounds of the club getting a degree quieter. Baran frowns and circles her fingers soothingly around her forearm, imagining it’s yours. 

“Walk me through it.” 

Talking through your thought process doesn’t always make you see a situation more clearly, but it’s the best Baran can do so far away. 

“It’s stupid. This club is too loud. It’s crowded, and I’m hot, and I’m, like, trying not to make the walls close in by taking shots. And I just…is me being on nights hurting us? Are we okay? I feel like you’ve been distant lately, and —”

“Azizam, pause. Take a breath,” Baran cuts you off, firm but tender. It’s exactly what she suspected was happening, minus taking shots to quell a panic attack, which is something she’ll address in more depth with you later. “If I weren’t happy with any aspect of our relationship, I would tell you. You’ve never had to guess how I’m feeling. That’s still true.” 

Baran pauses, listening, but you’re quiet, and she thinks there may be something hot clawing up your throat. So she just breathes evenly on the phone with you, and when she thinks you’re okay, she speaks. 

“I love you. More than words.” 

“I love you,” you sigh, the tension gone from your voice. There’s her girl. A small smile tugs at Baran, and she’s itching to hug you and kiss your skin where your neck meets your shoulder.  

“Are you satisfied?” she teases lightly. 

“Can you say it again?” 

Baran smiles lazily, chewing her lip. She likes when you ask for what you need. 

“Kheyli dooset daram. I love you very much. With all my heart.” 

“Mmm. Okay, I’m satisfied,” you hum happily, and Baran’s heart swells. 

“Enjoy the rest of your night, drink water, call me if you need me, and come home to me soon.” 

“I love you so much.” 

When you end the call, Baran takes a deep breath and opens her texts with Shen. 

9:41 pm

You: What the fuck did you say to her? 

9:43 pm

John Shen: She was saying how she wants to feel closer to you since you’re on opposite shifts, and I told her not to stress it. Everyone goes through rough patches

9:44 pm

You: Are you kidding me?

You: What would possess you to say that? 

Especially in a place already known to make you anxious, Baran thinks. 

9:45 pm

John Shen: Like I said, I fucked up

John Shen: I wanted her off the trail! 

John Shen: 💍💍💍

Baran laughs humorlessly, shaking her head as she types, a scoff under her breath. 

9:45 pm

You: ???

You: She wasn’t ON the trail.

9:55 pm

John Shen: I thought you were planning something or whatever??

9:56 pm

You: Yes, and I would prefer she not think I’m breaking up with her when it happens. 

Baran told Shen she’s planning to propose specifically so that he could tell her if you started to suspect — not for him to actively make you think Baran is harboring ill will toward you. Most of your shifts were together, so he saw you more than most. He would have a fairly accurate read on your mindset.

You and Baran have talked about your future together several times, and you’re both on the same page. A proposal wouldn’t be unexpected, but Baran wanted it to be a surprise. She didn’t want you coming home one day already knowing. None of this, of course, stops Baran from being terrified you’ll say no. She loves you so much it hurts sometimes, and she cannot imagine doing the rest of this life without you. And asking you to marry her puts that all on the line.

Baran takes a breath and tosses her phone to the other side of the couch. She tries to focus back on her book with little success and wonders if she should get Ellis involved to run interference on Shen. No, that would be an even worse idea. 

Her phone pings, and she grabs it. 

10:02 pm

John Shen: Well, she seems fine now

Baran rolls her eyes and stands up. She needs a long, steamy shower. 

10:35 pm

Azizam: parker is being disgusting

Azizam: she knows i’m yearning and she’s being cruel by making out with someone right in front of me

Baran sees the text when she’s doing her skincare routine and chuckles, the mirror still fogged up. She finishes rubbing lotion into her leg before replying.  

10:42 pm

You: I highly doubt it’s malicious, my love. 

You: You’re yearning?

You get cute when you’re drunk, clingy and sweet. A little too loud, a little chaotic, but you always come back to Baran and give her the softest, most pathetic eyes as your hand slides places it shouldn’t be in public and you kiss her cheek and her ear until Baran shivers and pulls you reluctantly away.

Your next text comes through as Baran settles on top of the covers, resolved to stay up a while longer and wait for you. She doesn’t always, but you’re dipping into a neediness Baran can never resist. 

10:47 pm

Azizam: can you send me a pic of your lips? 

10:47 pm

You: No?

10:47 pm

Azizam: pretty pretty please, sweetie

10:48 pm

You: You have many, many pictures of me on your phone. 

10:49 pm

Azizam: i want your lips

Azizam: i want to kiss you

Baran’s stomach flips, and when it settles, there’s heat swirling low in her core. She licks her lips, sitting up in bed. 

10:49 pm

Outgoing Facetime: Azizam

As soon as the call connects, Baran sees your flushed, grinning cheeks as they come closer to the screen. You give it several exaggerated, smacking kisses before pulling your phone back a respectable distance. Baran hums, a lovesick smile on her face, eyes hooded. 

“You know, you can come home and kiss me yourself,” she says, lolling her head to the side as she watches you. 

“You are so pretty,” you say, singular and simple and full of adoration. 

“You’re drunk,” Baran counters, taking you in, the haziness of your eyes, the sheen of sweat on your brow, how deliciously warm and soft you look. But it’s moments like these that Baran feels the weight of the ring box heavy in her work locker — the only place she thinks you won’t find it.

“Am not. Still true, though.” There’s a slight slide to your words that you clearly don’t hear. You frown. “Did you shower without me?” 

Baran’s hair is damp, and her skin is glowing with various oils and creams that you always tell her smell wonderful right before you dip your nose into the skin behind her ear, lips skating. And the only thing Baran can think about is how she wants you in her arms. 

“It’s almost 11 pm, azizam. Yes, I showered without you.” 

“Baby, no!” You look urgently devastated, a dramatic groan leaving your lips, petulant in a way you only are when you’re disinhibited. Like when you match her son’s early morning grumbles over a healthy breakfast instead of pancakes, Baran shouldn’t, but she finds it endearing.

You love showering with Baran — for more than just the obvious reasons. There’s something reverent in the way you often insist on taking a soapy washcloth to Baran’s body, trailing over her curves as you pull her close and leave delicate kisses to her shoulder. Or, you just watch her with the most loving, steady eyes. And when she lets you wash her hair, you dig expert fingers into her scalp, and she always leans back into you, humming contentedly. You don’t even have to touch her, and Baran has never felt more worshipped than when she’s naked with you. 

Before Baran can tell you she’ll shower again if it’ll wipe away that sad puppy dog look, Ellis is sliding up next to you. 

“You are bringing down the energy in this whole fucking club,” she accuses playfully, wrapping an arm around you and squeezing. “B, no offense, but your girlfriend is kind of codependent and sappy when she’s drunk.” 

“I am not drunk!” you insist, looking at Ellis, who raises her brow and glances between you and Baran as if looking for backup. 

“You are, eshgham,” Baran agrees easily. Ellis grabs the phone from your hand. 

“Byeee!” she grins at Baran. The call ends. 

Both Ellis and Shen have an ease to them that she doesn’t see in the day shift. They have their flaws — both a little too unsympathetic in the ED for Baran’s taste — but they have firm boundaries and shed their work personas like snakes each morning, something she respects. And around the dinner table, they’re funny and easy to be around, and Baran knows you’re in good hands. 

11:02 pm

Azizam: [image attached]

It’s a photo of you, Ellis, and Shen in a new, quieter looking bar. Shen is sipping something fruity looking, waving at the camera. You’re grinning, and Ellis is holding up two stiff-looking drinks. Baran knows without a doubt you’re going to be hungover tomorrow, all grumpy and far away and disheveled. Good thing Baran enjoys taking care of you. 

You reacted with: ❤️

11:07 pm

Parker Ellis: [video attached]

Parker Ellis: down bad

It’s a short clip of you talking animatedly with Shen. Ellis zooms in on your face and then pans down to your hand, where your phone is open to a selfie of the two of you curled up on the couch last month. 

Baran feels her heart swell and contract in her chest, and she pulls up the same photo on her camera roll. She’s molded into your side under a blanket, her head tucked under your chin, her hand around the back of your neck. And you’re smiling like you just won the lottery. 

11:21 pm

Azizam: i need you so bad right now

Baran’s scrolling through instagram, missing you next to her, when the notification appears. She smirks, wondering when you’d finally start getting like this. 

11:22 pm

You: Oh?

11:23 pm

Azizam: fuck

Azizam: what are u wearing?

Baran rolls onto her back, sighing, hair splayed out. She can picture you, breathing measured, maybe pressing your thighs together. Feeling hot and desperate thinking about her. And Baran loves making you ache. 

But you’re also out with friends, and Ellis has already ragged on you for being clingy twice tonight. Do you really want to do this right now? 

11:24 pm

You: Shorts and your t-shirt.

11:24 pm

Azizam: looking at a pic of ur neck rn

11:25 pm

Azizam: fuck you. sext me for real

Baran raises her brow and settles deeper into the bed, one hand skating over her belly absently. She knows what photo you’re probably looking at. It’s innocent enough. Baran wasn’t paying attention, smiling and craning her neck to look behind her at a dinner party. If she let you, she knows you’d leave dark marks up the length of her every chance you get. It does something maddening and insatiable to you. Baran, of course, uses this to her advantage. 

11:27 pm

You: You want me to tell you my fingers are on my neck, wishing it was your mouth?

You: Running over my chest.

You: Up my inner thigh.

11:27 pm

Azizam: yes

Azizam: are they?

They are. Dancing and light but enough to start setting Baran’s nerves on fire. She spreads her thighs and slides her fingers down over her underwear. 

11:27 pm

You: Maybe.

11:28 pm

Azizam: show me

Azizam: need your mouth on me

Baran hums. One hand slides under her shirt — your shirt — lazily, teasing a nipple that pebbles too easily. Her breath catches, and clarity descends on her. You’re out with friends. You deserve to enjoy it — while staying in the present moment. 

11:31 pm

You: You should focus on Parker and John. You’ll have me all to yourself when you get home.

11:32 pm

Azizam: [image attached]

It’s a photo of you in a bathroom stall. Your hand is holding up your shirt and bra against your sternum, chest exposed to the air. Your nipples are hard, and Baran’s lips part, her previous text completely wiped from her memory. On instinct or some base need, her fingers slide under the elastic of her underwear. Of course she’s wet. 

11:33 pm

You: Baby… 

You: You are so fucking gorgeous. 

She stares at the photo, jaw slack. What she wouldn’t give to have her hands on your breasts, your nipple in her mouth right now. Baran’s fingers circle her clit, gathering wetness, working herself up as easily and thoughtlessly as breathing. 

11:35 pm

Azizam: thinking about u

Azizam: [image attached]

Baran moans. It’s a photo of your hand in the low bathroom lighting. A stringy slickness connects your middle two fingers. She can practically taste you on her tongue, feel how your hand would grip her hair, feel the way your hips would rock into her mouth. And she can feel that familiar tension coiling in her, her muscles tensing. 

11:36 pm

You: Oh, sweetheart. 

You: That wet and desperate just from thinking about me? 

You: I’d get on my knees for you right there in the stall. 

You don’t reply right away, and Baran has a sinking suspicion you got pulled away from your phone. She groans, closing her eyes and feeling unfairly frustrated and horny. She should stop, wait for you like you have to wait for her. But you’ll be too drunk for her to fuck you when you get home, and you’re going to throw yourself at her anyway. And she’ll feel less pent up and guilty about it if she’s not hot and bothered when you walk through the door. So, Baran stares at the photo of your fingers and slides two inside of herself. 

Her phone pings again when she’s sweaty and twitching and catching her breath, fingers slick as they rest on her stomach, careful not to touch the sheets.

11:44 pm

Parker Ellis: stop engaging with her!!!! you’re intruding on girls night

Parker Ellis: whore 

Baran groans and closes her eyes briefly, embarrassed and just about fed up with Ellis and Shen. She just wants her baby in bed with her. 

11:49 pm

You: Inappropriate. I am an attending. 

12:03 am

Parker Ellis: rolling my eyes rn

Parker Ellis: not My attending

Parker Ellis: don’t be bitter. bar bathrooms are gross. i’m saving her from a yeast infection

Baran decides to ignore that and pointedly not think about what Ellis interrupted you doing. 

12:06 am

You: Isn’t John with you?

12:08 am

Parker Ellis: he’s one of the girls

Baran is drifting between waking and sleep when her phone pings and jolts her out of it, her face smashed into a pillow and her bedside lamp still on. She swallows and drags her phone to her face. 

12:39 am

Azizam: Parker found me texting :( 

Azizam: we’re at a new bar

Azizam: need you to fuck me slow to this song on repeat btw. it was on the radio

Azizam: [Spotify Link] Southland by Lindsay Lou

This wakes Baran up a little, and she’s selfishly happy to know you didn’t get too far in the bathroom. She opens the link and listens as she replies. 

12:44 am

You: Noted, baby.

You: Are you drinking water?

12:45 am

Azizam: i’m not a pussy

12:45 am

You: If you want me to go down on you when you get home, you’d better be drinking water.

It’s a ruse, and Baran thinks you know it, but your response is cute. 

12:45 am

Azizam: on it boss

Baran is woken up from a deeper sleep to another ping. The song you sent is still playing softly on repeat, and you stop it. Baran can see why it turns you on and already has plans on how she’s going to fuck you to it.

1:21 am

Azizam: r u sure ur ok that m on nights?

The spelling and insecurity in your text tells Baran you have not, in fact, been drinking water. She exhales slowly, an unfair sort of annoyance twinging in her sleepy mind. Not at you, with whom she’s never truly annoyed. It took a long time — some unlearning and careful assurances — for you to be so raw and honest with Baran about your more prickly anxieties. And she took that vulnerability very seriously. No, Baran’s just tired, impatient you’re not with her, and feeling a little needy herself. 

1:24 am

You: Yes. But if you want to talk more about it in the morning we can. 

1:25 am

Azizam: what if u stat reesnting me

1:25 am

You: Do you resent me for being on day shift? 

1:25 am

Azizam: no

Baran rubs her eye and yawns. You’re drunk, and she’s half asleep, and she doesn’t see the point in either of you pursuing such a delicate subject any further. 

1:26 am

You: I love you.

1:26 am

Azizam: I LOV Y

Baran smiles, her eyes dry. You’re easily distracted. Giving up on sleep until you’re home, she goes back to scrolling on social media, too tired to pick her book back up. 

1:47 am

Incoming Facetime: Azizam

“Baran!” you smile. 

“Hi, honey,” Baran coos, her voice raspy and low, her head resting on her bent arm over the pillow. If you were more clear-headed, you would have started fawning over it. Despite how tired she is, Baran loves that you want to talk to her so much while you’re drunk and away from her. It sparks something fond and possessive in her. 

“Would you love me if I were a worm?” You’re definitely slurring now. 

“What?” Baran is caught off guard. 

“If I turned into a worm, would you still love me? Shen said I should ask you.” 

She opens and closes her mouth, unsure what that even means, when a familiar voice drifts to her ears, the equally familiar face following quickly into view. 

“Dude, you can’t just leave me at the bar. You’re supposed to be my wingman.” 

“Dr. Santos?” Baran asks incredulously, shocked into formality. She’s wearing smoky makeup and a swooping top and talking to you with the ease of good friends — a connection Baran is sure just happened tonight. 

“Oh, shit,” Trinity hisses, ducking out of view. You blink at Santos, confused, and she slowly, sheepishly returns to the camera. “Hi Dr. Al-Hashimi.” 

More awake now, Baran raises an eyebrow. 

“How’s your 102-degree fever?” she asks humorlessly, sitting halfway up to offer herself some semblance of authority as she reprimands her resident while laying in bed at two in the morning. 

“Better, yeah,” she winces, and you laugh suddenly. 

“You didn’t tell me you called out sick,” you blurt, and Trinity glares at you. 

“I didn’t want you telling my boss I’m here,” she accuses, motioning to your phone. 

“So, you thought I’d go home to my future wife and not tell Baran I saw you and Whittaker at the gay bar?”

Baran’s ears ring, something sharp and hot shooting through her. She remembers the first time she brought up marriage to you, you were watching Bridesmaids together. You’re a few years younger than Baran, and unlike her, you’d never been married before. You didn’t have a kid to think about. Though, you loved Baran’s son dearly, and she loved that you loved him — and that he loved you back. 

Have you ever thought about it? Marriage? She asked carefully as your head lay in her lap, and she played absently with your hair. Your fingers stilled on Baran’s thigh, and in the few seconds of silence, Baran thought she might throw up. 

Are you asking? You murmured, turning to look up at Baran with unreadable, sparkling eyes. 

Yes, she said easily, and then blinked, understanding too late what you meant. I mean, yes, I’m asking if you’ve — 

Yes, you cut her off. With the right person. Yes. 

She can’t believe she ever for one second doubted you might say yes if she got down on one knee. Baran shouldn’t have then, and she certainly doesn’t now that you’d called her your future wife. The shock quickly melts to a steady warmth that seems to blossom throughout her entire body, an easy sureness she knows is there for good. 

“You’re really fucking irritating,” Trinity says to you emphatically, working her jaw, but she knows this situation is her own fault, so there’s no real bite to it. It brings Baran back to the present. 

“Whittaker’s there, too?” she drawls, knowing Dennis is definitely on the schedule tomorrow. 

“Ooooo, Dr. Santos, you are in so much fucking trouble. I gotta go, babe,” you say, pressing your fingers to your lips and then the camera before the call ends. Truth be told, Baran isn’t really irritated, but she can’t let Trinity know that. 

She looks back down at your contact card, a soft, sweet photo of you greeting her. A wave of affection sweeps over her so intensely it knocks the breath from her. Her future wife. Baran swallows down the lump of emotions building in her and focuses on texting you. 

1:52 am

You: Be safe. Make good choices. Come home soon. I love you. 

1:52 am

Azizam: 😍❤️👅🐱

Baran lays back down, setting her phone by her head and staring at your contact photo like a lovesick teenage girl. She doesn’t wake up this time when Shen’s text comes through. 

2:09 am

John Shen: ETA 20 min

John Shen: BTW, I think she’s onto you

Baran is stirred awake by the bed dipping next to her and quiet curses. A groggy noise rumbles in her chest, her limbs too heavy to move, her eyelids like lead. 

“Back to sleep, honey,” you whisper, your words coming out a little slurred still, unsteady as you crawl toward her on the soft mattress. 

Baran forces herself to turn over, another incoherent, almost whiny noise rising in her. She licks her lips and swallows, her eyes blinking open to see you settle next to her in a t-shirt and underwear. 

“Azizam,” Baran mumbles happily, and you grin, leaning over to kiss her. 

Instinctually, Baran fists the front of your shirt and drags you closer, her other arm wrapping around your shoulders. Your lips slide against hers, both of you uncoordinated and sloppy from alcohol and sleep but content in it. The thick, sweet smell of the bar lingers on you, along with the faint familiar tang of your sweat, and your tongue dips between Baran’s lips. She moans faintly, and you scoot closer so you can intertwine your legs, your hips pressing into hers. 

“I drank water,” you breathe against her mouth, sliding your kisses to her jaw and her neck, wet and open. Baran sighs, more awake now, her core muscles twitching. One thing that really gets Baran going is sleepy sex, and you are definitely using this to your advantage. She remembers her faux promise to you and smiles, tangling a hand in your hair. 

“Sleep, eshgham. We have three days together. Just you and me,” she sighs, tilting her chin to limit your access to her neck. You hum softly, dipping your face to her shoulder. 

“Dooset daram,” you mumble into Baran’s skin. You know a few phrases in Farsi now, but according to you, this is the most essential, the one you learned first. And every time you say it, it makes Baran weak in the knees. 

Her hand tightens in your hair, and she kisses your head, holding you firmly against her. She can feel you drifting off to sleep already, muscles relaxing, breathing even. And Baran feels that stubborn tightness in her throat again now that she finally has you in her arms. 

She and Kaveh had sprinted under the metal awning of the rec center, already soaked through in their lounge clothes, socks sopping, hair a mess. Kaveh, particularly, wasn’t pleased.

“You said it was just drizzle,” he said.

“The weather app told me it was just drizzle,” Baran huffed. “This is insane.”

“You trusted the app?”

“It’s the weather app, baba. Yeah I trusted it.”

Kaveh considered this, rain running off his nose. “That was kinda dumb, Māmān. We should’ve taken the car.”

Baran just sighed. They technically could’ve walked back, but the rain was falling so hard it would probably hurt a little bit and they were both already shivering because of the cold. Also, she had no interest in sending her son back to her ex-husband’s home with hyperthermia or pneumonia. 

Baran looked at her phone and looked at the rain and made a decision. Your contact was already the first name that popped up in her phone app, because you had called her that morning before work. It wouldn’t be an issue to call you right now, she hyped herself up. She was well within her rights to call you.

So she clicked, and the little chime sounded out three times before she heard shuffling, as if you had scrambled to pick up your phone and were still getting your grip on it.

“Baran! Hi,” your voice crackled through, surprised and confused. “Everything okay?”

“Hi,” Baran breathed. “I’m so sorry to be calling you this late. I’m, uh, I’m out with Kaveh. We went for a walk,” Baran started. 

A pause on your end, Baran assumed, from you trying not to laugh. “In this? It’s a monsoon. I’m pretty sure I just saw a mailbox floating down my street the flooding’s so bad.”

Baran laughed, clicking on speakerphone so Kaveh could hear too. “Well, we didn’t know that twenty minutes ago. Kaveh can hear you now, by the way. Say hi, Kav.”

“Hi!” Kaveh waved at the phone, even though you couldn’t see. “Māmān made us come out.”

Baran scoffed in amusement, pulling the phone’s speaker next to her mouth. “Not true. We’re looking for Pokémon.”

"Where are you??"

"Fowler Park. Under the awning by the rec center." She hesitated, hating how much she hated asking. "I wouldn't call, except Kaveh's soaked and I don't love the idea of walking him home in it."

"Say no more," you said, and Baran heard keys already. "Ten minutes."

You hung up before she could tell you not to rush.

Kaveh looked up at her. "That was the museum doctor right?"

"Yes, azizam. You know her name."

His whole face lit up so much Baran almost took offense. Just the mention of you and he was buzzing, he hadn’t looked nearly as excited when Baran poked her head into his room, held out her phone with the Pokemon Go app pulled up and quirked a brow. "Is she coming here?"

“She’s going to pick us up,” Baran nodded, pulling his puffy hood up over his little face. “Probably right over there, since she can’t drive in the actual park. You ready to run?”

Kaveh’s grin turned ecstatic.

–

Baran had to give credit where credit was due: you showed up with still two minutes to spare.

Baran had still been adjusting Kaveh’s coat when a horn blared so loud the two of them jumped out of their skin, and then a familiar face thrust itself out of the window, beaming at the two of them standing under the failing awning and said, with enormous satisfaction:

“You guys look like drowned cats!”

“DOCTOR L/N!” Kaveh screamed, little legs already kicking even as the rain pummeled him. 

Baran cursed under her breath, wrapped her nice coat (ugh, it was going to smell wet now and she hated the smell of wet clothes) and scurried after him.

“Thank you,” Baran said, breathless by the time she actually reached the car, “For coming.”

“Thank me later, get in, get in—”

Baran opened the back door for Kaveh first and that was when she saw them. Two blankets on the back seat, soft and folded. A travel mug in the cupholder she didn’t recognize. A paper cup with a lid in the holder beside it.

“Blankets,” you said, already signaling your merge back onto the street even though not a single car was outside right now, “hot chocolate for the Kaveh, tea for you — I didn’t know how you took it so it’s plain but I’ve got—” you reached into the door pocket one-handed without looking and produced two sugar packets and a small container of milk, “—options.”

Baran stared at the sugar packets and the little cup of almond milk, smirking. “You keep milk in your car?”

“No, B, I grabbed it,” you laughed. “Kaveh, heads up bud, the chocolate’s kinda hot because I just made it so be careful.”

“Woah!” Kaveh said from the back seat, blanket already around his shoulders, cup in both hands. “It smells really good.”

“I agree,” Baran smiled softly, watching him in the mirror puff out of his cheeks to blow on it. “Did you hear what Dr. L/N said?” “She said she made hot chocolate!”

You giggled as Baran sighed. “No, baba, she said be careful. We don’t want you to burn your tongue.”

“Okay!” he smiled, still huffing and puffing at the drink. 

You squinted in the rearview mirror as you rolled up and slowed at the stop sign. “Is he blowing on the lid?”

Baran spun around in her seat. Sure enough, the lid was still on. 

“The f–” Baran whispered. “Kaveh. Take the lid off, honey.”

“But you said it was hot!”

“It is, but the blowing won’t work if it’s on the lid.”

“Why?”

Baran turned back around to stare at you, nonplussed, and you just shrugged, totally tickled but as confused as her.

“Hand it here, joonam.”

“But I want to drink it!” “I’m going to let you drink it,” Baran replied, wet and cold and getting increasingly more baffled by her son. “Would you please let me see it so I can cool it down for you?”

Kaveh’s eyes lowered to the tumblr in consideration, before reluctantly passing it to Baran in the front seat, who immediately uncapped it to let the steam out, making eyes at you and mouthing Holy. Shit.

You were still laughing in the driver's seat, totally unbothered. “He’s a thirsty guy.”

“He’s ridiculous,” Baran murmured just for you, Kaveh’s legs were already pumping against his seat in the back, singing something happily to himself. “Question, though, while we’re at it.”

“I have a feeling this is going to be a dig—”

“Why is your car a moving Home Goods?”

“You mean why is my car totally awesome and super comfortable?” you hit back, smirking. “I know you aren’t hating, Dr. Al-Hashimi, when you’re cruising around in a Volvo.”

Baran’s head turned to you in challenge. “What about my Volvo?” “There’s nothing in there!” you giggled. “It’s like a mobile sensory deprivation chamber. Kaveh, back me up here. Tell me what your Māmān has in her car.”

“You can’t use Kaveh to bolster your—”

“Um,” Kaveh was already thinking out loud from the back, pulling at his thumb in consideration. “A steering wheel?”

Baran hung her head to rub at her temples as you cackled. 

“Boom! A steering wheel, he says. Wow, this must feel like the Ritz to you guys, then. I’ve got blankets, I’ve got scents, I’ve got snacks in the trunk…”

“And milk, apparently,” Baran hits back, but she can’t help the smile on her face. She finds, funnily enough, that she’s having fun. In a car ride home. Who would’ve thunk. “I feel like I’m in a Costco.”

“Woah,” you gasped, head turning both ways as you turned into her neighborhood. “Hey, I was trying to be considerate and get both of your core temps up after you decided to Lewis and Clark it up at nine p.m. But, hey, if you’re not digging it I can totally drop you off right here and go on a joyride with my man back there.”

Kaveh lifted his hand to give you a thumbs up from the backseat. 

“I’m fine,” Baran faux-sighed. “I guess I’ll survive.”

“I’m real glad,” you smiled, just as You Can't Always Get What You Want came on the radio.

Baran watched in fascination as your entire face lit up from the inside-out.

“No way,” you glowed, hand already shooting up for the volume dial. “Oh, absolutely.”

The Rolling Stones started blasting in your tiny car at a volume completely inappropriate for nine on a Tuesday night, but Baran watched with private wonder as you started dancing in your seat at the opening notes of the choir and your throat opened to sing with them. Except they were singing about two octaves too high for your voice, so really what started echoing in the car was your squawking.

Kaveh looked up from his hot chocolate, face splitting into a grin. “What is she doing?”

“I’m singing!” you laughed. “You know this song, Mr. Kaveh?” 

“Nope,” Kaveh said.

“Rolling Stones,” you replied. “Nineteen sixty-nine. Definitely in the top ten best driving songs ever written.” You then turned to Baran, whose mouth was already open in anticipation of your comment.

“I know–” she was already saying, hand going up to stop you. “It’s just that–”

“You haven’t showed him the Rolling Stones?”

“I know Pokémon songs!” Kaveh offered happily from the back.

“He knows some Rolling Stones songs,” Baran defended. “He likes the one about getting up.”

“Getting up?” 

“It’s one of their most famous song,” Baran raised her brows at you. “Wow, true colors are coming out now. Are you a Rolling Stones poser?”

“Baran, I will literally bet you a thousand dollars there’s not a single song in their entire discography that talks about ‘getting up.’”

Baran immediately was pulling her phone out of her pocket, whipping open Google and pulling up a new tab, typing furiously. 

“Sing it,” you prompted Kaveh as Baran grew increasingly more frustrated at the lack of results. “How’s it go, bud?” Kaveh started wiggling in his car seat. “If you dun-dun-dun, if you dun-dah-duh you’ll never stop!”

Baran’s brows furrowed and you could see her start making the connection in her head.

“And what do you think he’s saying in the dun-dun-dun part?” you asked, already beaming, and even though the words were for Kaveh your eyes were twinkling and trained on Baran, googling furiously, phone screen throwing pale light up onto her face, and not looking up.

"Baran."

"Give me a second, I'm looking for it."

"Baran.”

"There has to be something, it's not like Kaveh invented the melody himself."

"Baran," You were grinning now, cheshire-wicked, "Is the song called 'Getting Up' or is it maybe — and I'm just spitballing here — Start Me Up?"

The furious scrolling halted, and you definitely did not miss the way Baran’s eyes squinted and the lines next to her mouth deepened as she lowered the phone an inch, clearly realizing she had been confidently wrong in front of both her child and her… whatever you were to her these days. "Oh. Shit."

“This has been the best car ride of my whole life,” you were laughing next to her, head tipped back against your chair as you drove the final stretch to her house. “Man, I’ll become your personal Uber if this is what car rides with you guys are like.”

If it were anyone else Baran would’ve been mildly annoyed, more at herself and her shitty song-recollection than her partner, but you were giggling next to her and her son, despite clearly having not a clue in the world what that conversation had been about, was laughing right along with you.

It was nice to just exist in a space with someone that was happy. Yeah, gag it up, call her corny, but it’s true. She had some funny ass co-workers, sometimes gets a quick-witted patient, but working in the ED is historically not fantastic for one’s mental health. She even saw it on you at work, the strain of it all, the toll it takes. But here she had you alone and away from it all, warm and driving her and and her son around, stocking your car up with drinks to make them comfortable, singing along to the radio. 

She suspected she might be feeling something a little stronger than just joy, but it was a Tuesday at nine pm with her son right behind her, and that was way more of a stare-at-the-ceiling-in-her-empty-bed type of pondering, so she let the thought melt away.

What she did instead was open and close her hand a few times over your gear shift, grabby hands, and the second you noticed and took her hand in yours she lifted it up to kiss your knuckles.

You smiled at her then, eyes soft and twinkling from the passing cars. She let herself sink back into your comfy seats, and hummed along with you (But if you try sometime, you'll find, you get what you need) letting the streetlights slide gold across her knuckles where you still held her hand against your thigh.

—

It stays, glued to your memory.

"Hey." Her voice startles you, piercing through your thoughts—as if she knows. You blink and find her standing next to your bed, her hair mussed from where she'd lain on it, hospital gown crumpled and loose around her shoulders.

You blink again.

"Get back under your blanket, Emily," you say wearily.

She doesn't, instead leans against the rails of your bed and peers down at you. Her eyes are dark, concerned. You feel them pick you apart.

Your mouth dries up. You swallow. "Emily."

She makes a tiny noise of acknowledgement. It's soft, from the back of her throat; you'd felt something similar pressed to your shoulder just hours ago—only far more feeble.

You look away. She lingers in your peripheral vision, her voice, when she speaks, stripped bare.

"Can I get in?"

Your eyes snap back to hers. You stare at her for a beat too long then sit up, a little frantically, the blanket falling down to pool at your waist. "Yeah. Yeah, of course—come here."

You don't ask why. You just let her in and shift back to make more room, your back hitting the edge, not realizing, until she slides the rail back in place, that your breath comes fuller. A long, proper inhale fills your lungs as she settles on her side.

Your legs tangle together. You're reaching for the blanket before you can stop yourself, guiding it up over her shoulder, tucking it loosely around her side.

Her mouth curls at the gesture. It's hardly a smile, but you've exposed yourself. You drop your hand and tuck it under your chin, trying not to notice how, in doing so, your elbow finds a cushion on her chest.

"You should get some sleep—"

"I want you to—"

The both of you go silent. You pause, your fingers curling into the collar of your gown.

"What?"

Emily looks at you for a long moment. Her eyes are so clear now, so sharp. Probing. All the fog has been melted off.

"I'm going to ask you how you are," she murmurs, muffled low into the space between you, "and I would like you to answer me honestly."

A scoff worms its way past your mouth. "How do you expect me to be?" You roll your eyes. "Cold, I'm cold."

"I said honestly."

"And I said I'm fine. It's—" You exhale. "Well, nothing happened, did it? I'm fine."

"But it did," she says softly. "You're…" her voice trails off into silence, and you shift on your back to escape her eyes.

It only works for a few seconds.

"Hey." She's quiet, her hand still a chilled thing on your cheek. You can't really fight it when she tilts it back, the scratchy hospital pillow chafing against your skin as she guides your eyes back to hers. Her thumb splays on your cheekbone; the entire length of it burns into your skin. "Tell me."

There's a small lump in your throat. Possibly, you could stop breathing.

You came close to it. She did.

"I hate that you were with me," you say, too roughly. "I hate that I couldn't do anything to stop it, and you were—you were starting to slip." The words force themselves through. "And I couldn't do a single thing."

"You were there."

Your eyes go hot. You've been under these blankets for hours now, and still the sensation of tears is jarring. The heat, glossing your eyes, nearly shockingly warm as it makes contact with your skin.

"Honey." Emily murmurs. Her hand shifts on your cheek, fingertips brushing against the corner of your eye. They're faintly chilled, raising a shiver on your skin.

She's already tugging you back into her, asking, quietly, "Cold?"

"No." You rasp, but you go, letting yourself be encircled in her feeble warmth. "You?"

"A little."

Her voice vibrates into you with how close you are. It makes your eyes throb, the feeling of it: tangible—alive—humming through your skin and bones, ringing truer than the cold.

Emily had never really had a home. Houses, yes, plenty of them, though few could actually be called hers. Even when she did have her name on the lease, she didn't have the warmth burning at every corner, the full, heavy air of a house lived in—a house inviting, a house that was a home. There was always just silence, or tension, or disagreements echoing off the walls.

There was never this.

The faint sound of your humming, music pouring out from your phone and into the hallway; your touch in the decor, the furniture—your blankets draped over the couch and a million candles lit on tables; the palpable warmth of home-cooked food, the bits of you in every corner, crowding her lungs. Rushing home is a still-fresh novelty to Emily. The reason sits flitting about the kitchen, your hair a little frizzed around your face, two pans and a pot sitting on the stove-top.

Emily's mouth pulls.

"Hey, stranger."

You turn, your mouth parting in an O. Faint surprise lights up your face. A smile follows.

"Hi." You step back from the stove and meet her halfway, twining your arms around her neck. Emily presses a kiss to your cheek. She tugs you into her, hugging you flush. Her hands slip around you and settle on your waist, your warm, bare skin spilled wide under her palms.

She skims a thumb over your side. Skirting her hand up, she finds the hem of your shirt, a stretching, clingy thing, and gently tugs it back down. You shift to brush a kiss to her cheek; it catches the corner of her mouth, instead, and Emily smiles, turning to kiss you properly.

"Hi," she murmurs.

You hum, thread your fingers through her hair. "You're back early."

"Missed you." She shrugs, trailing her lips over your jaw.

You lightly shove at her shoulder, laughing.

"Sap."

Emily's chuckle is soft, unapologetic. She gives you a squeeze, her eyes cutting to the stove as she kisses your temple. "What're you making?"

"Stir fry," you say, wriggling out of her arms. She reluctantly tucks her hands in her pockets, stalking over with you to the stove. You hover above the pot of noodles, steam flushing your face, and poke them with a fork. Satisfied, you turn the heat off.

"Can I help?" She asks. Quite uselessly, but you hum and shake your head.

"I'm almost done. You go get changed." You wave her away, reaching up for the cupboard above you.

With the movement, your shirt rides up again. Your skin flashes, and the shirt is still stubbornly bunched even after you shut the cupboard and settle back on your heels. Emily's smile pulls. She steps in, trapping you before you can get closer to the stove-top. Her fingers hook into the hem of the shirt and tug it back down.

You smile at her over your shoulder, eyes squinting with it, and she drops a small kiss on your mouth, hands splaying wide on your side. She gives your waist a squeeze.

"Careful you don't get splashed," she murmurs, her lips to your temple.

Your eyes are glassy as you wipe at her cheek. "It's okay, it's Vivian," you whisper. "She's probably just hungry."

Emily nods, her chin rising, dipping, rising, dipping. Vivian. Her baby. Her infant child who'd been born without one of her parents.

Her eyes brim with tears again.

"Can I—?" She rasps, the words collapsing, her throat clenching too tight. Emily tries again. "Can I see her?"

Your chin trembles, smile wobbling as you nod and take her hand. Emily clings to it. Your fingers slot together, as perfect as she last remembers, and it takes everything in her not to crumble, not to stand here and crush you to her chest until this feeling goes, until the cracks fuse over. She feels, again, like a broken doll as you both fit yourselves side by side in the narrow staircase, squeezing through when the space closes in too small, stubbornly refusing to let go.

Vivian's cries echo louder in the landing. Emily's heart clenches tight. You push open the nursery door and lead her in, your hand slipping out of hers as you near the bassinet. She can only watch, transfixed, as you reach down for your daughter, murmuring too quiet for her to hear.

You scoop her up, cradle her against your chest, and Emily's breath catches. The room is dim, her vision blurry, and Vivian is so, so small. Just a tiny little thing, quieting as she crumples into your arms. You gently rock her, smoothing over her dark hair, whispering feather-soft into her forehead. You look so natural doing it. 

Of course. Of course you would be.

Emily finds herself stepping closer. You glance at her over your shoulder, almost as if you forgot that she's there.

"Is she okay?" She croaks out.

You nod. "Just hungry," you murmur, shushing Vivian when she lets out a little whimper, muffled into your chest. The sight thaws something in her and simultaneously presses, new pressure on her lungs, nearly crushing. She can feel her heart, thrumming as hard and frantic as a hummingbird's wings.

Emily wets her lips. "Can I…" she clears her throat, swallows, "Can I take her?"

Your face shifts, crumpling, and she hates instantly herself, for asking, for leaving, for dragging you into this big fucking—

"She's yours, Emily," you say hoarsely. "You don't…" your voice cracks, and you shake your head, swallowing. "She's yours."

Hers. This little girl, curled into your chest, her weight so slight as Emily takes her. She hardly weighs anything at all, but Emily's arms feel so boneless, entirely uncapable. She shouldn't be able to hold her up, Emily thinks. 

But she does. 

Vivian roots into her chest, immediately trusting, and Emily—she forces in a breath through her cramped lungs, trembling as she tightens her grip on her daughter. Her daughter whose age she doesn't know. She almost expects to drop her straight to the ground, but somehow Vivian stays, firmly cinched in Emily's arms, whimpering into her chest. It gears into a louder cry that snaps you out of your daze. 

"I'll go get her bottle," you mumble, squeezing her elbow. 

She nods and watches you leave, instinctively rubbing Vivian's back. She shifts her grip on her, adjusts her higher on her chest, cupping a hand to the back of her neck. Her hair is silk-soft under Emily's fingers; it dampens with the tears running down her cheeks. Similar tears wet Vivian's face, hot and slippery when Emily wipes at them.

"It's okay, Vivian," she whispers. Her voice is low and cracked and entirely unsoothing, but Vivian goes a little quieter at the sound of it. "Hi. Hey, honey. You're okay. Mommy's coming." Emily falters, looking down at her tear-soaked eyes.

Hesitantly, she presses her lips to Vivian's head. The smell of her shampoo drifts to Emily's nose, makes its way down to her lungs and stays there. She breathes in and lets her eyes fall closed.

"Good morning to you too." She hums softly. You can hear the smile in her voice—can feel it—still a little rough with sleep, gravelly and gorgeous and all yours.

"It will be," you try to speak quietly, "a good morning, if you stay put."

This time, she laughs.

"I'll be back in an hour—two, at the most." She murmurs. Her hand trails gently over the back of your head, smoothing pets on your crown. "Go back to sleep, azizam. It's still early."

"Too early for you to be up." You sigh, curling tighter around her. You haven't looked at the clock, but you're sure it's atrociously early. Exactly how she always likes it.

Baran's touch travels down to your jaw, then your cheek, her thumb idly sweeping over your cheekbone. They're sweet touches, buying you time. Lightly, she says, "You could always join me."

"And I would, baby," you yawn, letting your eyes fall closed. "Just not at ass o'clock in the morning."

Another laugh spills from her chest, gently jostling you.

Behind you, Emily stirs. None of you happen to be deep sleepers, which proves troublesome at times—the constant movement, someone or the other's blaring alarm. The bed dips, again, this time at your back as Emily slots her knee into the hollow behind yours. She presses her warmed cheek to your arm, the sweep of her lashes tickling your skin.

"Why are we awake?" She rasps.

Baran sits up a little, leans over you. You hear the sound of a small kiss, then her murmur as she says, "You have no reason to be. Go back to sleep, joonam."

You blink at the stretch of her body over you and, silently thanking the years upon years of heavy lifting at the fire department, grab her around the waist, gently hauling her down into the space between you and Emily. She makes a little oof!, gasping, and you smile, burying it in her cheek.

"Emily," you say, before you can get chastened, "tell her to stay."

Emily makes a sound, shifting to nuzzle into Baran's side. She brushes a wayward curl from her cheek, leans in to place a lingering kiss on her jaw. "You sure we can't convince you, hon?" She murmurs, coaxing. You nearly melt yourself, wrapped up in her saccharine sweetness. "Just this once."

She has strange, wondrous ways that you often fall victim to. Her voice, molten into honey, those eyes of hers imploring. Even Baran can't resist, in the best of times—and right now, her reasoning seems so flimsy.

"It's—it's a short class." She tries. "I thought I'd make the most of it, since you were sleeping."

"We're not sleeping now." You press a kiss to one of her freckles, thumbing the sliver of skin at her waist where her shirt had ridden up.

"All the more reason for you to join me—"

"But I'm so tired, love." Emily cuts in, her voice like velvet. Her eyes meet yours, still sleep-softened, hazy, but bright with the same smile that curls her mouth. "Aren't you, Y/N?"

"Exhausted." You say, and it's only a half lie. "But," you hum, kissing Baran's cheek, "I'd be more than happy to help you burn off a little energy."

"You don't even have to move." Emily murmurs.

"I happen to enjoy moving." Baran sighs. Whether it's at her defeat or Emily's attention, you don't know. You do know that her workout class is quickly fleeing her mind, her body sinking deeper into the bed, legs easily parting open to let you slip your knee between them.

"We can move plenty right here." Emily promises. She's so sweet with it, and her hand drifts under Baran's shirt, rises high; she finds the mark, and Baran's eyes drift shut, a soft exhale pouring out of her.