🤎: Oh, this is very cute. I wonder what the project is.

🤎: Do you think it's something we bring materials for or they provide everything?

🤎: Also what does "light refreshments" mean?

🤎: Are we talking fruit and crackers or are we talking actual food? Are we expected to bring anything?

🤎: I can stop at Giant Eagle on the way home from work.

🤎: Do you think any of the kids have nut allergies? Would you please ask Kaveh?

You stare at your phone. The car behind you honks. You pull forward six inches.

you: are you fr right now

🤎: What?

you: b, it’s an art event for second graders

🤎: ?? 

you: "light refreshments" will mean a little bowl of goldfish crackers next to a juice box situation 

🤎: I already looked it up on the school website, it says "collaborative mixed media collage" which is actually really fun. Mel was just telling me how collage has such a rich history as an artistic medium—

You put your phone in your cupholder rather than finishing reading because you are in a school zone and you are a responsible adult. Also, you’re grinning so wide at the windshield that an elementary schooler who catches sight of you might shit their pants. 

You pick the phone back up at the next red light.

🤎: —and i think i have some good scissors at home so the paper edges will be much cleaner. 

you: you are not bringing your good scissors to kaveh's school 

🤎: Sure I will. They can go my purse.

you: it’s not a bring your own scissors event, b

🤎: That is why I am going to put them in my purse. 🙂

—

Saturday arrives and Baran is up before you. You find her in the kitchen at eight-fifteen in her Lululemon set, her jug of a water bottle on the counter and a bowl of fruit cut into precise little cubes beside it. Kaveh is in his chair eating cereal. There is already, somehow, a small tote bag by the door, fit to bursting with supplies.

“Oh my god,” you stop walking. "Don’t tell me you packed a bag.”

"Kaveh packed a back," she corrects, without looking up from her phone.

You glance at your son, quirking a brow. He grins toothily and shakes his head. 

"Right,” you grin, rounding the table to kiss his curls. “What’s in Kaveh’s bag?”

"Scissors and a bone folder. Oh, we also found some washi tape I had left over,” Baran lists, “Plus a few good magazine pages I pulled last night—"

"Y— Kaveh pulled magazine pages?"

"From the ones we were going to recycle anyway."

"When?” 

“Last night?” “Kaveh went to bed at 7.”

Baran frowns. “Well, I did the magazine part. I couldn't sleep."

Kaveh calmly takes a bite of cereal. "Maman also printed some pictures," he offers helpfully.

You turn to gape at your wife.

"They were reference images," she clarifies, taking large sip from the bucket bottle. "For composition."

"Baby," you say.

"Don't."

"Sweetheart."

"I mean it."

"It’s a second grade—"

"Kaveh, are you done with your cereal?" Baran asks, very loudly, in the direction of your son.

"Almost," says Kaveh.

"Take your time, azizam." She picks up her Hydroflask — truly the size of a small child, you've always thought, a gallon jug with a straw — and takes a long, dignified sip, looking at you over the rim with an expression that communicates, very clearly, that this conversation is over.

You love her so much it's honestly a little embarrassing.

—

Kaveh's school gym has been transformed, sort of. There are round tables covered in butcher paper and each table has a big tray of supplies in the middle, kids magazines, construction paper, tissue paper, glue sticks, safety scissors, stickers. A hand-lettered sign on the wall says CREATE SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL TOGETHER  and there are, as you predicted, goldfish crackers next to juice boxes on a folding table by the door. Kaveh's teacher greets you both near the entrance.

"Dr. Al-Hashimi, Dr. Y/L/N! So glad you could make it." She crouches to Kaveh's level. "Kaveh, do you want to pick your table?"

Kaveh points immediately at the table closest to the snack station.

"Fantastic choice, buddy," you tell him sincerely.

Ms. Blake straightens up and gestures broadly at the room. "So the project today is totally open, families just work together to make a collage. The theme is 'us,' so whatever that means to your family! There's no wrong way to do it. Just have fun."

"Wonderful," says Baran warmly. "Is there a particular size constraint on the final piece?"

"No constraint!" Ms. Blake says brightly. "Just whatever fits on the paper!"

"Great," says Baran. "And the adhesive provided is just the glue sticks?"

Ms. Blake blinks. "...Yes?"

"Perfect," says Baran, smiling. "Thank you so much."

You wait until Ms. Blake has moved on to the next family, then you turn to tease your wife, but her head is down into her tote back, hands already rummaging through it to pull out her own supplies.

“There she goes,” you whisper to yourself as Kaveh dashes off to greet his friends and their families who are taking their seats. “B, I need you to have fun."

Baran looks up from where she’s rummaging through the bag. "Sorry? I am going to have fun."

You put both hands on her shoulders, look her dead in the eyes, and say: "Baran. Please put the bone folder away."

She holds your gaze for a long moment.

Then she puts the bone folder back in the bag.

"Thank you," you say.

"You're lucky I love you," she frowns. You just laugh and kiss her cheek, leading her to the table by the small of her back.

—

Within ten minutes of sitting down, Baran has organized the supply tray. Not dramatically, just — tidied it. The magazines are stacked by approximate size. The tissue paper is in a small pile off to the side. She has looked through approximately forty pages of a National Geographic with the expression she wears when she's reading a lab result, head slightly tilted, completely still.

She pulls out a page. Blue water, some kind of aerial shot. Holds it up to the construction paper background she's already selected — a deep navy. Nods once, to herself.

"Maman," says Kaveh, who is on his third helping of goldfish and has crushed four capri suns, and has cut out a picture of a golden retriever with the safety scissors. "Can I put the dog on it?"

Baran looks at the dog picture, her navy paper. “Yes, fandogham. Let’s put it in the bottom left corner."

Kaveh slaps the dog picture enthusiastically in the center.

The corner of Baran's mouth tightens almost imperceptibly. You press your lips together.

"What if," Baran says carefully, "we tried it over here—" she nudges it gently toward the left— "just to give the other elements some room?"

"I like it better here," says Kaveh.

"I think the dog could stay," you tell her, rubbing a grounding circle on her back.

"The dog can stay," Baran says with a bit of tension to her voice. YOu watch her distract herself by trimming the edge of the blue water page with a precision that is making the dad at the next table visibly insecure. He has been trying to cut a straight line with the safety scissors for five minutes. 

He glances at Baran's scissors.

"She came armed," you tell him, quietly, with great sympathy.

He tsks. “Smart woman. These safety scissors are sh— crap.”

You grin. “Oh man, don’t let her hear you say that. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

A warm, amused voice from beside you, without looking up: "I can hear you."

—

Twenty more minutes pass.

"You know," you say conversationally, watching your wife hold a piece of tissue paper up to the light, "Ms. Blake said there's no wrong way to do it."

"Sure, but there is a right way," Baran replies, tilting it again. She notices a crinkle and frowns, placing it down and selecting a new one to inspect.

"Well, so, no. That is exactly the opposite of what she said."

Kaveh ignores you both, tongue sticking out as he sorts through the various little cutouts he’s made. He picks one and brandishes it to you guys.

“Is that a wheel of cheese, baby?” you beam.

"Uh-huh," he nods. “I’m gonna put it on.”

You look at Baran, who is trying so hard to fight back her grimace.

"Where are you thinking?" she asks.

Kaveh points to the upper right corner.

"Next to the moon?" Baran asks. Her task of the past ten minutes has been cutting out planets and stars and asteroids from a cosmology magazine she found in the stack. She’s been planning an elaborate sky.

"No, it is the moon," Kaveh says. “Like the story with the cow where she's playing the fiddle and jumps over the cheese moon.”

You pull a face. “I’m 90% sure that was a different story.”

"Interesting," Baran responds to him, elbowing you in the ribs, but she's smiling now. "Making it a celestial body. Kaveh, that's very creative."

Kaveh accepts this as his due. "I know," he says, and reaches for more goldfish.

—

About forty minutes in, you have, collectively: the aerial water shot, the cheese moon, a golden retriever and two dobermans, Spiderman next to a cutout of red carpet Lady Gaga (Kaveh really liked her outfit,) a cutout of that the tsunami from that one famous panting, some random house from that one realtor show with the twin brothers — all framed by four strips of washi tape that Baran has placed with a level of care that you find both ridiculous and deeply attractive.

You are in charge of the text elements, which means you are cutting letters out of magazine headlines. You are doing this badly. Your hand slipped cutting out the B so it looks like a 3. Your A is missing the crossbar. 

Suffice to say, you can feel Baran sweating next to you.

"You can say it," you tell her, very focused on cutting out an H for Kaveh.

"You're doing great," she says, very carefully.

You hold up your jagged P. "I think I nailed this one."

She just hums, eyes not leaving your hands, and you decide to take pity on your wife.

"My love,” you say pleasantly, “Would you like to do the letters?”

Her hand is already out.

You grin “Wow, so you actually think I suck. I didn't even finish the thought.”

"Oh, you were going to offer me the scissors,” Baran teases, wiggling her fingers. “C’mon, we’re on the clock here.”

You put them in her hand. She's already reaching for the magazine before they've fully left your fingers, flipping through with the same focused efficiency she brings to everything, and within about thirty seconds she's found a headline she likes and is cutting clean and even. You try to absorb what it is she’s doing that you obviously were failing at, but aside from the fact she rotates the paper rather than the scissors, it seems just to be her. Naturally composed, completely absorbed, dedicated to the job.

Kaveh has pressed flower stickers up and down her sleeve at some point in the last twenty minutes. She hasn't said a word about it. She finishes the letters, wipes the dried glue off Kaveh's hands before her own, and then holds the collage out to him at arm's length, tilting it slightly.

"What do you think?" she asks him. "Is it good?"

“I think it’s okay,” he nods, “But look at what I found!”

He holds up a children’s magazine from the 1990s that has the three little pigs on the front. “It’s us!”

Your eyes giddily shoot to Baran’s, half expecting her to self-implode, but you’re surprised to find she’s grinning.

“I think you’re right,” she replies warmly, finger tapping the book. “I think that one is Mommy.”

You squint toward the one she’s pointing at. “What, why?”

“Because those two are doing labor,” Baran gestures to them, then lowers her voice to whisper in your hear. “Your piggy isn’t doing shit.”

“Woah!” you grin, “Hey, I’ve been trying to help but I keep getting benched.”

This is true. After Baran took over cutting you suggested adding some pretty little flower stickers on the “grass” (represnted by a thick strip of green paper Kaveh had pasted down) and were met with two resounding, disgusted Nos.

"Mmhm. Excuses, excuses," she tuts, already reaching for the magazine. You watch her carefully cut out the three little pigs with the same scissors she used for the letters, clean around every curve.

She hands the cutout to Kaveh, who immediately glues them down slightly crooked, but Baran just laughs.

You lean in and press your nose to her temple, just for a second, and she tips her head toward you without thinking about it. 

"For what it's worth," she murmurs, "I think your piggy is very cute."

“That sounds like a terrible euphemism.”

She pulls back, scandalized, and slaps your arm. “We’re in our son’s second grade classroom.” “He doesn’t know what that word means,” you defend with a beaming smile, then turn back to your son. She huffs, but she's smiling, and she stays leaning against you.

“Kav,” you prompt. “What do you think, bud? All done?”

He tilts it a full 360 degrees, mimicking his Maman, then nods. “All done.”

—

You carry the collage out to the car. Kaveh runs ahead to press his nose against the car window, which he does every single time, without fail, despite the fact that it is his car and he knows exactly what is inside it.

Baran falls into step beside you. Tote bag over one shoulder, Hydroflask in her other hand. The October air is cool and bright and the trees on the block are just starting to turn.

"Fun?" you ask.

She considers it the way she considers everything, properly, all the way down. "Yes," she says. "Really."

You look at her. The small smile she's not bothering to hide. The flower sticker still on her sleeve, right where Kaveh put it two hours ago.

"You know," you say, "the collage is really beautiful, B."

She glances at you sideways, a little pleased, trying not to show it. "Kaveh did most of it."

"Kaveh did the cheese moon and the three little pigs," you say. "You made it beautiful."

She's quiet for a moment. "It was a good morning," she says, simply, and you can hear everything she means by it.

You take the tank of a bottle from her so you can take her hand instead, and she lets you without comment, fingers finding yours easy and warm. You stop walking. She takes one more step before she realizes, and turns back to look at you, brow lifting slightly in question. 

You answer it by stepping forward and kissing her, free hand wrapping around her waist. She makes a small sound against your mouth, warm and soft, tilting her head to make it deeper.

When you pull back she's looking at you with sparkly eyes and a pleased quirk to her lips. "What was that for?”

"You are a very good mom," you tell her. "And I had a really good day."

She holds your gaze for a moment, then pulls you back in by the front of your jacket and kisses you again, slower this time, high on happiness.

Kaveh peels himself off the window and turns around with a smear of grime across his forehead, a toothy grin on his face.

Baran pulls back, smooths your collar down with both hands, and goes to get the keys. She wipes the grime off with her sleeve, the flower-sticker side, and says absolutely nothing about it.

The morning light slips through the curtains of your shared apartment, soft and golden, catching on the rainbow flag draped across the window. The colors spill over the walls, over the dresser, over the pile of clothes Emery swore she was going to fold last night before promptly falling asleep on the couch with her glasses still on.

June has always felt different in your home.

Not just because of the flag in the window or the little rainbow magnets on the fridge or the Pride calendar Emery made with her aggressively neat handwriting and color-coded plans. June feels like a reminder. A celebration, yes, but also a marker of time. Proof that the two of you made it here.

Together.

You stir awake slowly, tucked beneath the sheets, warm and comfortable in the quiet of the room. For a few seconds, you don’t move. You just listen to the soft hum of the fan, the distant sound of traffic outside, and the steady rhythm of Emery breathing beside you.

Then you open your eyes and find her already watching you.

She is propped up on one elbow, dark hair loose around her face, eyes soft in a way most people never get to see. At the hospital, she is Dr. Walsh. The attending surgeon with the sharp voice, sharper focus, and the ability to make residents straighten their posture just by walking into a room. She is brilliant and stubborn and more than a little terrifying when someone ignores protocol.

But here, in your bedroom, with morning light on her face, she is just Emery.

Your Emery.

The girl who loved you before either of you had the courage to say it out loud.

“How long have you been staring at me?” you murmur, voice rough with sleep.

Emery’s mouth curves into that private smile, the one she saves only for you. “Long enough to know you drool a little when you sleep.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“You are a surgeon. You are supposed to be trustworthy.”

“I am also your wife, which means I am legally obligated to humble you.”

You laugh softly, reaching up to push a strand of hair away from her face. She catches your hand before you can pull it back and presses a kiss to your palm.

The gesture is small. Easy. Ordinary.

It still makes your chest ache sometimes.

There was a time when even this would have felt impossible. A time when every touch had to be hidden, every look measured, every I love you swallowed until it was safe to say. Now Emery kisses your hand in your shared bed beneath a Pride flag, with sunlight pouring through the window like the world itself has decided to bless the morning.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask.

Her thumb brushes slowly over your wrist. “Pride.”

You smile. “That explains the staring?”

“I was thinking about us,” she says. Her voice gets quieter, but not sad. Just thoughtful. “About how different it all feels now. How much easier it is to breathe.”

You know exactly what she means.

Every June, the two of you look back, whether you mean to or not. You remember the versions of yourselves who were sixteen and terrified, sitting too close on a park bench but not close enough to touch. You remember the years of careful distance, the secret smiles, the fear of being seen. You remember the first Pride festival, the first time Emery reached for your hand in public and held on like she was choosing herself at the same time she was choosing you.

But now there is joy in the remembering too.

Not because the past was easy.

Because it is over.

Because you got through it.

“Want to go to the park?” you ask. “Our bench?”

Emery’s expression softens immediately. “Yeah,” she says. “I’d like that.”

“Coffee first?”

“Obviously.”

You grin. “Romantic.”

“I am deeply romantic. I just also require caffeine to function.”

“That might be the most Emery Walsh sentence you have ever said.”

She leans down and kisses you, smiling against your mouth. “Get up, then. We have a whole day of being sentimental ahead of us.”

The park looks brighter than you remember.

Maybe it’s the summer sun. Maybe it’s the rainbow flags tied to lampposts along the walking path. Maybe it’s the fact that you are here with Emery’s hand clasped tightly in yours, her thumb brushing your knuckles like it belongs there.

Because it does.

The bench is still beneath the same tree, though the tree has grown taller over the years, its branches spreading wide enough to cast a generous patch of shade across the grass. The bench's wood has been replaced at some point, and someone has carved initials into one corner, but to you, it is still the same place.

You sit side by side, shoulders pressed together.

Fifteen years ago, this bench felt like the edge of a cliff.

Now it feels like home.

“Do you remember junior year?” Emery asks.

You tilt your head. “I remember a lot of junior year. You were very dramatic.”

“I was not dramatic.”

“You once told me you were going to fail chemistry and have to flee the country.”

“I got an eighty-nine on that test. That is basically a near-death experience.”

You laugh, leaning into her side.

Emery smiles too, but her gaze drifts toward the sidewalk in front of you. “I meant that day after school. When we sat here for almost an hour.”

The memory settles between you, gentle but clear.

Of course you remember.

You had been friends for months by then, but friendship had stopped being the right word somewhere along the way. It had shifted in quiet ways. Lingering glances across classrooms. Knees bumping beneath library tables. Emery stealing fries from your lunch tray and then smiling like she knew you would let her. Your heart doing something strange every time her hand brushed yours.

That day, you had walked to the park together after school, both of you pretending there was no reason for it. You had sat on this bench, close enough to feel the warmth of her beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched every time one of you moved.

You had wanted to hold her hand so badly it hurt.

“I kept thinking about doing it,” you admit. “Just reaching over. I must have talked myself into it about ten times.”

Emery looks at you. “I wanted you to.”

“You did?”

“So badly.” She lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “But every time someone walked by, I panicked. I thought if they saw us, they would know everything.”

“We weren’t subtle.”

“No,” she says, smiling now. “We were painfully obvious.”

You grin. “You used to stare at me during English class.”

“I was admiring your dedication to pretending you had read the assigned chapter.”

“You loved me for my confidence.”

“I loved you because you smiled at me like I was not impossible to love.”

The humor softens into something quieter.

You rest your head against her shoulder. Emery’s arm comes around you naturally, pulling you closer without hesitation. A couple walks by with a dog wearing a rainbow bandana. A child speeds past on a scooter, laughing as their parent calls after them to slow down. No one stops. No one stares.

The world continues.

It is such a simple thing, being held in public.

It is everything.

“I wish I could tell those girls they were going to be okay,” Emery says.

You look up at her. “They figured it out.”

“They did.” She kisses the top of your head. “Took them a while.”

“They were busy being melodramatic.”

“One of them became a surgeon. The melodrama was inevitable.”

You laugh again, and Emery’s face lights up in response.

For a while, you sit there together, letting the past and present overlap. You think about the two teenagers you used to be, hands carefully apart, hearts racing over the smallest almost-touch. Then you look down at your fingers threaded through Emery’s now, her wedding band catching the sunlight.

You aren’t hiding.

You aren’t pretending.

You are here.

And that still feels like a miracle.

The coffee shop on the corner has changed just enough to make you feel older.

The walls are a warmer color now. The menu has gotten fancier. There are plants hanging in the windows and a little rainbow sticker on the front door that says All Are Welcome Here. The same bell still jingles when you walk in, though, and the scent of espresso and vanilla still wraps around you the second you step inside.

“This place got cuter,” you say, looking around.

Emery hums. “Or we got more sentimental.”

“Both can be true.”

You order your usual drinks without having to discuss it. Emery still pretends she doesn’t want a pastry and then eats half of yours. You still let her because some traditions are sacred.

You take the small table by the window.

Years ago, you would have avoided it.

You used to sit in the back booth, tucked in the corner where the light barely reached. It had felt safer there. Away from windows. Away from curious eyes. Away from the possibility of someone from school or Emery’s family or your neighborhood seeing too much.

Now Emery sits across from you in full view of the street, her hand resting openly on top of yours.

“I used to think this table was terrifying,” you say.

She follows your gaze toward the back booth and nods. “I remember. We treated that booth like it was a part of the witness protection program.”

“You were very committed to looking casual.”

“I was bad at it.”

“You were terrible at it. You once dropped your entire coffee when my knee touched yours.”

Emery groans, covering her face with her free hand. “I had blocked that out.”

“I hadn’t. It was adorable.”

“It was mortifying.”

“It was both.”

She lowers her hand, smiling despite herself. “I was so nervous around you back then.”

“You were nervous around everyone.”

“True. But with you it was different.” She looks down at your joined hands, her thumb tracing the back of yours. “I wanted everything. I wanted to hold your hand, kiss you in the hallway, take you to dances, and tell people you were mine. But I was terrified that wanting it would make everything fall apart.”

You squeeze her hand.

The fear hadn’t ended after high school. It had followed you into college, into medical school, into residency. Emery had loved you fiercely in private, but the outside world had remained complicated for a long time. She was building a career in medicine, trying to survive impossible hours and impossible expectations, and she had convinced herself that being open would make her vulnerable in a way she couldn’t afford.

There were years when people at the hospital knew everything about Emery except the person she came home to.

You had understood.

You had also hurt.

Both things were true.

“I know I made it hard sometimes,” Emery says softly.

You take a breath. “Sometimes, yeah.”

Her eyes lift to yours immediately, full of apology but not defensiveness. That is one of the ways she has changed. She doesn’t run from hard truths anymore.

“I hated hiding,” she says. “But I think I was more afraid of losing control. At work, I knew who I was. I knew how to be excellent. I knew how to make people respect me. But being open about us meant trusting people with something precious.”

“With me.”

“With you,” she says. “And I was not always brave enough to do that the way you deserved.”

You let the honesty sit between you.

Then you smile gently. “You got there.”

“I did.”

“And for the record, watching you correct a resident who referred to me as your roommate was one of the great joys of my life.”

Emery laughs, her eyes brightening. “He looked so scared.”

“You said, ‘My wife, actually,’ like you were announcing a diagnosis.”

“I was very calm.”

“You were terrifying.”

“He never made that mistake again.”

“No, he did not.”

The laughter lifts the heaviness from the memory. That is how it is now. The past can still sting, but it no longer owns the room. You can talk about it, touch it, even tease it, because you survived it.

Emery picks up your hand and kisses your knuckles, right there by the window.

No hesitation.

No checking to see who is watching.

Just love, simple and visible.

Your heart squeezes.

“I like us now,” you say.

She smiles. “I liked us then too.”

“I did too. But this version gets pastries and public hand-holding.”

“And tax benefits.”

You laugh. “Very romantic again.”

“I told you. Deeply romantic.”

Your first Pride together had been five years ago.

You remember almost every detail.

You remember the way Emery changed outfits three times before finally settling on jeans, a white t-shirt, and a denim jacket because she said it was “neutral” and you said it was “gay enough if you stood near a rainbow.” You remember how quiet she was in the car, her fingers tapping against her thigh the whole drive downtown. You remember parking several blocks away because she wanted time to breathe before you reached the crowd.

You had told her you didn’t have to go.

You had meant it, even though part of you had wanted that day so badly.

“Just to watch,” you had said when you first brought it up. “We don’t have to march. We don’t have to take pictures. We can leave whenever you want. I just want to be there with you.”

She had looked at you for a long time before nodding.

“Okay,” she had whispered. “I want to try.”

The festival had announced itself before you could see it. Music carried down the street, bright and pulsing. People walked past in glitter and flags and shirts with loud, proud messages. Couples held hands. Friends wrapped arms around each other. Someone had rainbow paint across their cheeks. Someone else carried a sign that read, Still Here, Still Queer, Still Fabulous.

Emery had walked beside you stiffly at first, shoulders high, eyes scanning the crowd like she was waiting for danger.

Then her hand brushed yours.

Once.

Twice.

You had looked over. “We don’t have to.”

She stopped walking.

People streamed around you, laughing and talking and calling out to friends. The city was alive with color. Emery stood in the middle of it, breathing like she had just run miles.

Then she reached for your hand.

Her fingers shook when they laced through yours, but her grip was firm.

“I’m tired,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’m tired of acting like loving you is something I have to survive.”

Your eyes had filled immediately.

“I love you,” she said. “And I want to be proud of that. I am proud of that. I am proud of you.”

You had kissed her right there on the sidewalk.

It hadn’t been a movie kiss. Your noses bumped. Both of you were crying. Someone nearby cheered, which made Emery laugh into your mouth and hide her face against your shoulder.

But it was perfect.

That first Pride had been overwhelming in the best possible way. Emery held your hand through the whole festival. At first, she gripped it like a lifeline. By the end of the day, she swung your joined hands between you as you walked. She smiled at strangers. She accepted a little rainbow sticker from a vendor and stuck it on her jacket. She let you take a picture of the two of you beneath a rainbow arch, her cheek pressed against yours, both of you glowing with nervous joy.

That night, back home, she had stood in front of the bathroom mirror peeling glitter off her face.

“I didn’t know it could feel like that,” she said.

“Like what?”

She looked at you in the mirror, eyes shining.

“Like breathing all the way in.”

Coming out at the hospital had been a different kind of bravery.

Pride had been strangers and celebration. The hospital was Emery’s world. Her reputation mattered to her. Her work mattered to her. She had spent years proving herself in rooms where people already underestimated her for being young, for being a woman, for being sharper than they wanted her to be.

Letting people know about you meant letting them see something softer.

That scared her more than she wanted to admit.

“What if they treat me differently?” she had asked one night, pacing the living room in socked feet. “What if patients refuse care? What if the residents stop taking me seriously? What if—”

“What if they are happy for you?” you asked gently.

She stopped pacing and looked at you.

You had smiled from the couch. “What if the people who love you just keep loving you?”

“I want to believe that.”

“I know.”

“It is not that I am ashamed of you,” she said quickly, almost desperately.

“I know that too.”

And you had.

Still, knowing didn’t make waiting easy.

In the end, it had been Robby who opened the door.

Dr. Michael Robinavitch had been Emery’s friend, colleague, and one of the few people who could challenge her without making her bristle. He had invited both of you to a hospital barbecue with a casualness that made Emery suspicious.

“He said partners are welcome,” Emery had told you, staring at the text like it was a riddle.

“That sounds nice.”

“It sounds like a trap.”

“A barbecue trap?”

“He knows.”

You had raised an eyebrow. “Emery, half the hospital knows. You have a photo of me tucked into your badge holder.”

“That is subtle.”

“It is a picture of me kissing your cheek.”

She had stared at you for three full seconds before saying, “Fine. Less subtle than intended.”

On the day of the barbecue, Emery was more nervous than she had been before the surgical boards. Her hand was clammy in yours when you walked into Robby’s backyard.

Then Robby saw you.

“Emery!” he called, face breaking into a grin. “You made it.”

He hugged her, then turned to you without missing a beat.

“And you must be the famous wife.”

Emery froze.

You blinked.

Robby’s smile widened. “I have heard excellent things. Mostly that you are far too patient with her, which I believe.”

That startled a laugh out of Emery, and just like that, the world did not end.

Cassie McKay came over next, bright and friendly, introducing you to her girlfriend and immediately asking how long you and Emery had been together. Dana Evans gave you a hug like she had known you for years and told you to come to the next fundraiser. Heather Collins asked if you had any embarrassing teenage stories about Emery and looked delighted when you said yes.

No one looked uncomfortable.

No one made it strange.

They cared, but only in the way that mattered. They welcomed you. They teased Emery. They made room.

You watched Emery change throughout the afternoon. At first, she stood close to you but not too close. Then her arm found your waist. Then she introduced you to a nurse from the trauma floor as “my wife” with only the smallest catch in her voice. By the end of the barbecue, she was sitting beside you at a picnic table, relaxed and laughing while Robby told a wildly exaggerated story about her first month as an attending.

On the drive home, she was quiet.

You thought she might be overwhelmed.

Then she said, “I cannot believe I was scared of that for so long.”

You reached over and took her hand.

“It mattered,” you said. “That’s why it was scary.”

She nodded, looking out the window. “I wasted time.”

“No,” you said. “You took the time you needed.”

She brought your hand to her lips and kissed it.

After that, the changes came slowly, then all at once. Emery mentioned you at work. She put a framed photo of the two of you on her desk. She brought you to hospital events. She corrected assumptions without apology. The first time a patient asked if she had a husband, she said, “A wife, actually,” and kept reviewing the chart as if it were the most ordinary sentence in the world.

Because it was.

Because she had made it ordinary.

Because she had finally allowed herself to live in the open.

This year’s Pride Festival is the biggest one yet.

The city seems to vibrate with color. Rainbow flags hang from storefronts. Music pours from speakers. Vendors line the streets with pins, shirts, stickers, art, and enough glitter to permanently alter the local ecosystem. People move through the festival in groups, couples, families, and chosen families, each one adding to the bright, joyful noise of the day.

You and Emery walk through it hand in hand.

She is wearing jeans, sunglasses, and one of the hospital Pride shirts admin had ordered for everyone. Her hair is pulled back, and there is a tiny rainbow painted on her cheek because Cassie ambushed her with face paint five minutes after you arrived.

“You look adorable,” you say.

“I look professional.”

“You have a rainbow on your face.”

“A professional rainbow.”

You laugh and lean into her side as she wraps an arm around your shoulders.

That is one of your favorite things about Emery now. Not just that she is out, but that she is comfortable. She holds you without thinking. She reaches for you in crowds. She kisses your temple while waiting in line for lemonade. She no longer scans every room for who might be watching.

She just loves you.

Openly.

Naturally.

Happily.

“Emery! Over here!”

Cassie waves from near a group of hospital staff gathered under a large sign with the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center logo decorated in rainbow colors. Her girlfriend stands beside her in matching sunglasses, both of them looking like they walked directly out of a Pride brochure.

Dana is there too, handing out buttons from a tote bag. Heather is taking pictures. Robby stands in the middle of the group, wearing a rainbow hat that is so bright it can probably be seen from space.

“There they are!” Robby calls. “Our favorite power couple.”

Emery points at him. “If you say that during the march, I will deny knowing you.”

“You wound me.”

“You will recover.”

Robby grins and hands you both small rainbow flags. “Glad you made it. Wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Emery’s smile softens. “Thanks for organizing this.”

“Are you kidding?” Robby gestures to the group around him. “This is one of the best things we do all year. We say we care for everyone. This is us showing up and meaning it.”

You glance at Emery, and you can see how much that lands with her.

The march begins a few minutes later.

At first, you are surrounded by your hospital group. Robby waves dramatically at the crowd. Cassie cheers at every dog she sees. Dana somehow knows half the people lining the street. Heather keeps making everyone stop for photos, which Emery pretends to hate and then smiles beautifully for every single one.

Then the crowd widens around you, and the full sound of the festival rises.

Music. Cheering. Laughter. The flutter of flags. The sharp pop of someone opening a confetti cannon. People clap as your group passes, some recognizing the hospital logo, others simply cheering because everyone is cheering for everyone today.

Emery’s hand stays locked in yours.

Halfway through the route, she leans close and says, “Sixteen-year-old me would not believe this.”

You smile up at her. “Sixteen-year-old you would pretend not to care and then write about it in her journal.”

Emery’s eyes widen. “You know about the journal?”

“You hid it in a shoebox labeled ‘Calculus Notes.’ You were not as mysterious as you thought.”

“I was protecting sensitive material.”

“You wrote my name with hearts around it.”

She looks horrified. “You read it?”

“No. You left it open once.”

“I am never telling you anything again.”

“You tell me everything. It is one of your better qualities.”

Emery tries to glare at you, but she is smiling too hard for it to work.

A cheer rises ahead of you. Someone in the crowd points at the hospital group and shouts, “Thank you.” Dennis waves both arms like he is accepting an award. Dana laughs so hard she has to stop walking for a second.

Emery squeezes your hand.

“I love you,” she says.

She says it clearly. Loudly. Right there in the middle of the street with thousands of people around you.

You turn toward her, heart full.

“I love you too.”

Then you kiss her.

It is not your first public kiss. Not anymore. But it still feels special. A little celebration all its own. Emery smiles against your mouth, and someone nearby cheers, and you both start laughing before the kiss even ends.

This is freedom, you think.

Not just the absence of fear.

The presence of joy.

After the march, the hospital group spreads out across the festival.

Robby insists everyone needs a group photo before anyone is allowed to escape. Cassie buys rainbow cotton candy and somehow ends up with half of it stuck to her fingers. Dana finds a booth selling handmade earrings and immediately starts buying gifts for people. Heather makes Emery pose with a sign that reads "Proud Healthcare Worker," and Emery only complains twice before holding it up.

You wander from booth to booth with Emery, stopping for lemonade, then stickers, then a little enamel pin shaped like a rainbow heart. Emery buys it before you can reach for your wallet.

“For you,” she says, pinning it carefully to your shirt.

You look down at it, smiling. “You know I could have bought it myself.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

She finishes fastening the pin, then smooths her hand over your shoulder. “Because I like giving you things.”

“You bought me coffee this morning.”

“That was survival. This is romance.”

You grin. “You are learning.”

“I am excelling.”

You spend the next hour just being part of the crowd. You listen to music, browse the vendors, and share a plate of fries that Emery claims she doesn’t want but absolutely helps finish. At one point, a young resident from the hospital spots the two of you and waves shyly.

“Dr. Walsh,” they say, smiling. “I didn’t know you were marching today.”

Emery’s hand settles comfortably at your back. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The resident glances between you, then smiles wider. “That is really cool.”

It is such a simple moment. So brief that anyone else might miss it.

But you don’t.

You see the way Emery stands a little taller afterward. You see the quiet pride in her face. You see how far she has come from the woman who once feared being known.

Later, when you sit together on the grass near the edge of the festival, Emery leans back on her hands and looks out over the crowd.

“I used to think being out meant making some huge announcement,” she says. “Like I had to be ready for everyone to have opinions.”

“And now?”

“Now I think it is this.” She gestures gently around you. “Wearing the shirt. Holding your hand. Introducing you as my wife. Letting a resident see me here and not feeling like I need to explain myself.” She looks over at you. “It feels less like a declaration now and more like just living.”

You rest your head on her shoulder.

“I like living with you.”

Her smile is immediate. “Good. Because we signed a lease.”

“Again, very romantic.”

“I am consistent.”

You laugh, and she kisses your temple.

The afternoon stretches golden around you, full of music and warmth and the kind of happiness that does not demand anything from you. You think about the first Pride, about Emery’s trembling hand in yours. You think about the park bench, the coffee shop booth, the hospital barbecue. All those moments that once felt huge because they were hard.

Today feels huge because it is joyful.

That difference means everything.

By the time you get home, both of you are exhausted in the best way.

Your feet ache. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Emery has glitter on her collarbone and no idea how it got there. You have three new buttons, a sunburn on one shoulder, and approximately forty pictures on your phone that Robby took while claiming he was “capturing history.”

The apartment welcomes you back with quiet warmth.

The rainbow flag in the window moves slightly in the evening breeze. The kitchen still smells faintly like the coffee you made that morning. Emery kicks off her shoes by the door and immediately groans.

“I am never walking again.”

“You’re a trauma surgeon.”

“I said what I said.”

You laugh, dropping your bag onto a chair. “Couch?”

“Couch.”

You change into comfortable clothes and meet her in the living room. Emery is already sprawled dramatically across the cushions, one arm over her eyes like a Victorian woman overcome by emotion.

“You are taking up the entire couch,” you say.

“I marched for justice. I require space.”

“You marched four blocks and then ate fries.”

“Justice fries.”

You climb onto the couch anyway, nudging her until she makes room. She pulls you against her with a contented sigh, wrapping both arms around your waist. Her chin rests on your shoulder, and for a while, neither of you speaks.

The quiet feels different after a day so loud.

Peaceful.

Full.

Emery’s fingers trace lazy patterns against your side.

“Thank you,” she says eventually.

You tilt your head. “For what?”

“For today. For the park. For remembering with me without letting me get stuck there.” She pauses. “For loving me through all the versions of myself it took to get here.”

You turn in her arms to face her.

Her eyes are soft again. The same softness from this morning. The same one that still feels like a secret even though she does not hide it anymore.

“You don’t have to thank me for loving you,” you say.

“I know.” Her voice is quiet. “But I want to.”

You cup her face in your hands. “You were not easy to love because you were perfect, Emery. I loved you because you were you. Even when you were scared. Even when it was complicated. Even when we were figuring it out one step at a time.”

Her eyes shine.

“You were always brave,” you continue. “Maybe not in the way you wanted to be right away, but you kept moving toward it. Toward us. That matters.”

She closes her eyes for a second, leaning into your touch.

“I think about those girls on the bench sometimes,” she says. “I wish I could sit beside them and tell them what happens.”

“What would you say?”

She smiles, eyes opening again. “I would tell them they get the life they were afraid to want. That one day they wake up in an apartment with a rainbow flag in the window. That they go to Pride together and kiss in the middle of the street. That the terrifying surgeon one of them becomes is secretly very clingy at home.”

You laugh. “Secretly?”

“Selectively.”

“You are literally holding onto me right now.”

“And thriving.”

You brush your thumb along her cheekbone. “I would tell them they don’t have to be fearless. They just have to keep choosing each other.”

Emery’s expression softens even more.

“We did that,” she says.

“We did.”

“We still do.”

“Every day.”

She kisses you then, slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that feels like a promise renewed rather than made for the first time. Her hands settle at your waist. Yours slide into her hair. There is no urgency, no fear, no need to prove anything. Just the two of you, together in the home you built, surrounded by all the ordinary evidence of your life.

Two mugs in the sink.

Shoes by the door.

A photo from your wedding on the bookshelf.

A Pride button sitting on the coffee table.

A rainbow flag glowing in the window.

When Emery pulls back, she rests her forehead against yours.

“How far we’ve come,” she whispers.

You smile. “How far we’ve come.”

“And how much further we get to go.”

“Together?”

She kisses the tip of your nose. “Always together.”

Outside, the city is still celebrating. You can hear faint music somewhere in the distance, the last echoes of the festival carrying through the warm evening air. Inside, Emery pulls you closer, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, your lips.

“Stay with me,” she murmurs.

You smile because it is such an Emery thing to say. As if you haven’t spent years choosing her. As if there is anywhere else you would rather be.

“Always,” you promise.

And you mean it.

You mean it the way you meant it at sixteen, even when you were too afraid to say it. You mean it the way you meant it at your first Pride, with her hand shaking in yours. You mean it the way you meant it at the hospital barbecue, watching her introduce you as her wife. You mean it now, in your shared apartment, older and braver and happier than either of you once knew how to imagine.

Pride is the parade. The flags. The music. The people cheering in the streets.

But it is also this.

The quiet after.

The home you return to.

The woman holding you like loving you has always been the easiest truth in the world.

The journey from fear to freedom didn’t happen all at once. It happened in small brave steps, in trembling hands, in whispered promises, in first introductions, in public kisses, in every ordinary morning where you woke up and chose each other again.

You have come so far.

And the best part is that neither of you is finished becoming.

Emery holds you tighter.

The flag moves gently in the window.

you thrive in the silence. when she comes home from work and can barely hold a conversation, you don’t force anything out of her. you coax her into a hot bath and wash her hair and let there be nothing spoken between you that she doesn’t initiate, just a mutual understanding of what is needed and what is given.

baran lets herself be guided for once. she allows you to make her food and she trusts you to stay with her when she lies down in bed and closes her eyes, and you are all too willing to take her into your arms when she rolls over and sets her head on your chest.

the silence ends when she speaks into the darkness. “do you think it will get better?”

you don’t ask what. you figure she is past wanting to give long explanations, whether about work or her seizures or any of the other trials she faces on the daily. “I know it will.”

she seems to sink into you a little bit more. she slides a hand under your shirt to rest on your abdomen just so she can feel you, the warmth of your skin beneath her tired hand, the softness of her palm flat against your body.

the first time she lied down with you like this, with nothing expected from her except to be loved by you, it nearly made her cry. it had been so long since anyone had took her into their arms like that that she had felt suffocated by the comfort in all of the right ways, and she had kept you there for so long that the next morning her back ached from keeping herself locked around you for so long.

“are you okay?” she asks suddenly. she feels bad for not asking about your day earlier, but hers had left her so drained that she could barely stand.

“I’m fine,” you say. you slip a hand into her hair, still slightly damp from the bath, and massage her scalp softly. “really, don’t worry.”

she accepts that. she will ask you for more details in the morning, when the gentleness of the weekend gives her a chance to rest and she can finally think again. “okay.”

“get some rest.”

sometimes she doesn’t sleep well after long shifts. work sticks to her on those days and cases run through her head, what-ifs and regrets. she thinks back on patients she has saved and those she has lost and what she could have done differently had she been more perceptive or better-prepared.

it’s why she used to use those ai models before you made her stop — they made her feel as though something could fill the gaps in her logic, check the validity of her steps before she took them. she has always struggled with trusting herself.

she always trusts you, though. sometimes she thinks she trusts you too much, but you haven’t done anything yet to warrant that trust being revoked. and luckily tonight is one of the nights she feels sleep coming to her more easily, the pull of it growing steadily stronger, and she allows herself to sigh contentedly against you.

suddenly, she remembers. “fuck…”

“what?” you ask. “what’s wrong?”

“I didn’t call him,” she says, sitting up. she reaches over you and picks her phone up off the nightstand, unlocking it and scrolling through her contacts. “I didn’t call my fucking son, and I always call him when he’s at his dad’s before he goes to bed.”

you know that. you always give her space during that nightly ritual, taking your time to clean the dishes while she disappears onto the back porch or into the living room, voice low and soft. you have both become accustomed to the ritual of it, and you’re sure baran’s son has as well.

“I have to do it now,” she says. “fuck, I can’t believe I forgot.”

“wait,” you say, placing a hand on her shoulder that prompts her to look at you, wild-eyed and so tired. “it’s almost midnight, baran. he’s asleep by now.”

“he’s probably so disappointed,” she murmurs. “I only miss calls when I’m sick or—”

“you might as well have been sick tonight,” you interrupt. “you walked in and you looked on the verge of collapse. you aren’t disappointing anyone, and as soon as you get up tomorrow you can call and tell him you weren’t well.”

she looks down at her phone, thumb still hovering over the contact of her ex-husband, and you half expect her to call and demand that he put her son on the phone no matter what.

eventually, she turns her phone off. she hands it over to you and you set it on the bedside table again, then pull her back into your arms and ease her down again.

2:00 PM

You had been practically drowning in paperwork for weeks. Days filled with the endless streams of words and numbers on a screen, phone calls and minor mental breakdowns. Just when thought you were ready to start on this set of files you had been putting off. You noticed something about the charts. Or lack there off.

With all your extra work, you had completely forgotten about your earlier memos, which had clearly gone unnoticed. It’s not like you fully expected them to be received, the Emergency Department is always busy with something new. And with all your work piling up, you were really not as on to of things as you should have been.

The filing deadline was fast approaching and it was already after lunch. Your only reasonable option now was that you had to make a personal visit downstairs and search for the assigned physician yourself. You had not been lucky enough to meet her face to face yet, but you have heard of the reputation of Doctor Santos. Tricky and abrasive, with a confident personality of the biggest dick in the locker room. Despite the rumors her overall patient satisfaction has all been mostly positive from what you had seen.

When you finally slipped through the doors of the Emergency Department, and made a beelline for the most trusted face in the room.

“Knew I heard those fearsome finance footsteps, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Dana greeted you as she continued to read the tablet in front of her.

“C’mon Dana, if she swam all the way downstream…What we really should be asking is who is the next victim?” Doctor Langdon added.

“Well unfortunately it’s not you.” You flashed him a sickening customer service smile. He gave you a playful middle finger, inconspicuously hidden close to the top of the desk.

“And actually, I’m looking for Doctor Santos.” You turned to Dana and offered her a real smile, knowing she would help you out.

Doctor Langdon didn’t bother to hold in his cheerful laughter.

“This day keeps getting better.” He smiled brightly to Dana before pushing off the desk. “I hope you have a field day with Doctor Santos.”

Your eyebrows crunched in confusion, staying silent and allowing Doctor Langdon to go return to his patients.

“Good Lord,” she sighed as she watched him walk away. “Santos is in with a peds burn in North 2.” Dana answered.

Your eyes floated around the stream of curtains and empty medical beds before returning to her with a puzzled look.

“That one.” She pointed with a laugh.

“Thank you.”

You waited idly by the curtains Dana pointed to, shifting your weight on your feet to ease your idle jitters. Each minute wasted down here had you only visualizing your work upstairs backing up higher and higher your plate. After seven agonizing minutes Doctor Santos had finished talking with the family inside about care instructions for the wound and exited the bay.

“Doctor Santos,” you grabbed her attention. She turned to you with a puzzled look, eyes turning to read your hospital badge. You introduced yourself regardless before you began to explain your visit.

“I’ve sent a few reminders about charts all addressed to you this past week and I don’t want to believe that all five were unseen or accidentally lost, but I know it could be possible-”

She cut you off with a snort. “So you’re the Piranha?” She asked completely disregarding what you had just stated.

“I have a name.”

“Piranha.” She stated like you were hadn’t just shared your actual name with her.

You blinked twice, lips slightly parted in surprise.

“I need your charts submitted by 4PM.” You snipped.

Someone from across the room shouted for Doctor Santos’ help. She began walking in that direction, leaving you to frustratingly follow her steps.

“I’ll be sure to put it at the very top of my to-do list.”

You sighed quietly, not wanting to give too much attitude with your next statement. Your words came out softer, less bite to the words. They came out scripted and bored.

“If I do not receive them today, I will be reaching out to the attendings to see how we can fix this issue going forward.”

Her steps halted.

“Wow…” She said slowly, expression sour. “tough crowd.”

“By 4PM, please, Doctor Santos.” You give her a customer service smile.

“Yes, Miss Piranha, ma’am.” She gave you a salute with a playful smile.

“Thank you.” You quickly shuffled your way out of the Emergency Department, not exactly privy to witnessing some gruesome scene on accident.

4:00 PM

Nothing.

4:30 PM

Still no updated forms have been submitted by Doctor Santos.

As if you didn’t have an enough work to finish up, you spared the time to go back down to the Emergency Department. This time your steps were fast and pointed, irritation clearly oozing from you like a gloomy toxic cloud.

“Uh oh.” Dana’s voice echoed as you bypassed the desk completely.

“Watch out.” Another voice echoed.

“Doctor Santos!” You caught up to her.

“Little Miss Piranha.” She greeted, not slowing down her pace. You ignored the name and kept up with her steps.

“It’s past 4PM.”

“Sorry, I’ve been kind of busy.” She floated her hands around the bustling room.

You waited only a moment to steep in your irritation before continuing to speak.

“I understand that you’re kind of busy, and I kind of have deadlines to maintain in order to not compromise patient’s care based on an easily avoidable financial hiccup with an insurance claim. All because their physician was too busy to give them the time.” You sighed dramatically. “Or maybe somewhere in your eight years of higher education you never learned how to time manage as well as you thought.”

“Wow. Ouch,” She stopped to turn and face you now that she was at her station. “Has anyone told you that you’re kind of a bitch.”

“All the time.” You nodded, peachy expressions still in tact.

You were constantly being berated by unhappy patients and families and working with patient advocacy. You had grown very thick skin.

“And for your information, I do know how to manage my time.” Doctor Santos informed.

“I just wanted an excuse to get you back down here.” She admitted with a small smile.

“You wasted more of my time on purpose?”

“Only a waste of time if you choose to see it that way.” She shrugged.

“Is that not what I just said?” Your eyes darted down to your watch. “It’s taken me six minutes to get down here- six minutes back up, that’s almost a quarter of an hour alone on travel time.”

“Okay well, your line of thinking is kind of a nightmare.” She pointed out with a look of surprised disbelief.

“Noted. Why are you holding me hostage Doctor Santos? Have you updated the forms?”

“Oh yeah!” She pulled them up on her screen.

“So, submit them?”

“First.”

Your eyebrows raised.

“You have to agree to have drinks with me after work.”

Your entire system seemed to malfunction. Thoughts shut off as you read her expression for any evidence of a jest or mockery. She looked like she hesitated for just a moment, but didn’t back down.

“… Unless you don’t drink.”

You cleared your throat.

“That is very forward of you, Doctor Santos.”

“Trinity; and is that a no?”

“No...” You hummed in thought, trying to regain control of the situation. “but if you submit your charts you can ask me again later. When my brain stops feeling like it’s going to start melting out of from my eyes.”

Trinity clicked the submission button where her mouse had been hovering without another thought.

“Deal.”

7:00 PM

You could even feel your own anger bouncing off the walls of the elevator as it traveled back down to the ground floor. You were out of the doors before they had even fully opened and began your very direct walk to the Emergency Department for the third time today. Ahmad just so happened to be at the doors, immediately clocking the energy and opening the door for you.

“Everybody look out!” Robby chuckled lowly as he watched your speedy steps travel into the Pitt.

“Piranhas in the water!” Doctor Langdon announced.

Boo! It’s the evil billing department again! You didn’t mind the pointed attitude you received, Someone has to do the job. Surgeons did the real cutting, but nothing really cut quite as deep as the final bill.

Only today the stupid nickname irked you even more. By now, you were well into overtime for the umpteenth day in a row and your eyes felt like cotton balls from staring at your screen for so long, blue light glasses be damned. The look on your face could only be described as something resembling homicidal.

You took the direct path you remembered that lead to Doctor Santos’ station, hoping to see her colleague and roommate hovering somewhere nearby.

“Look who it is,” doctor Santos greeted as you approached. “I really hope that unhappy face isn’t for me.”

“No, I’m not here for you, Doctor Santos.” You gave her a small strained smile with what grace you could find.

“Trinity.” She corrected again. You sighed lightly.

“I’m here looking for Doctor Whittaker.”

Her face pulled into a grin. “Fuckleberry?”

Hearing the explicite version of the rumored nickname out loud almost made you laugh.

Like she was a saint performing a miracle, Doctor Whittaker appeared from behind you. Your unsuspecting victim politely greeted you as he approached.

“Santos, still not up to date on your charts?” He asked while laughing.

“Honey, no.” Santos gave him a very sarcastic pout, sadistic glint in her eyes.

“Doctor Whittaker, I’m here for you.” You turned back to Doctor Whittaker. His face paled, like he was next up on the execution stage.

“Me?” He looked panicked. “I’m all up to date.”

You gave him a sad smile, handing him a thin folder of charts.

“Entirely illegible.”

Doctor Santos continued to wear a smug grin, chucking behind her closed lips.

“I can’t file shit if I can’t read shit.” You explained, voice fatigued. “Punctuation is not suggested. It is mandatory.”

Trinity began to laugh.

“Nice job Fuckleberry! How bad is it?”

“Could be a NASA equation for all I know- I’m not the doctor. I need your revised version in my inbox by yesterday.”

“Yes, sorry, sorry! I-I’m on it!”

“On it, in it, over it. I’ll be here late.” You informed him. “I do expect a call when you update everything.”

“Absolutely, yes sir- ma’am- miss.” He coughed and sputtered over the words.

“Thank you.” You sighed in relief, like feeling a large weight fall off your shoulders.

“I’ll see you later, Trinity.” You offered her a softer smile before turning on your heel and heading back upstairs.

Only when you had turned the corner to exit the Emergency Department did Dennis release the tension from his body.

“What the hell was that?” He asked his roommate.

“What was what?” She kept her eyes glued onto her computer.

“That?”

“Wow,” she extended the vowel, “I can see how your notes were so illegible.” She dodged the question.

“She was totally being flirty with you.”

Trinity pretended she didn’t notice.

“Was she?” Trinity was up and out of her seat before he could say anything else about it.

Dennis might have been right, but for all she knows, he’d do something to jinx it. She just needed to finish out her shift and hope that you’ve completed enough of your own work to agree to go out.

Timothy couldn’t help the grin that spread onto her lips as she smiled at the floor. Already feeling the massive ego boost that she’d gain if she somehow managed to bag the most evil bitch in the building.

10:00 PM

The sun had long set and your paperwork seemed under control for the most part. After a sudden firing and an already planned paternity leave of your colleagues had left you and what remained of the department scrambling to keep up. A knock on your office door had you pulling your head away from your digital work calendar.

You had expected to see Doctor Whittaker, but instead Trinity stood at the door. She had her bag slung over her shoulder, clearly on her way out.

“You’re still here.” She pointed out.

“That I am.” You rubbed at your eyes tiredly.

“Huckleberry fixed his charts.” She raised her right hand. “I even double checked it myself before he submitted, 100% legible- scouts honor.”

You breathed a small sigh of relief, posture relaxing.

“Thank you, so much.”

You quickly busied yourself with double checking the submissions from Doctor Whittaker, ensuring that it gets filed out tomorrow after all the effort you went through to get it today.

“Do Piranhas sleep or?”

“I don’t want to still be here.” You groaned. “I’m salaried anyways, the overtime means nothing.”

“I’m sorry.” Her words surprised you.

“Hm?”

“Dana told me how much work you’ve been putting in this quarter.” She explained. “Almost a one woman show up here.”

There were more empty offices than those occupied on your floor.

“Nina’s been a big help.” You shrugged. You couldn’t take all the credit. “And I don’t mean to be a bitch, I swear.” You laughed.

“This job takes a backbone- I can’t bend rules and deadlines for everyone. And tripling the work doesn’t exactly help.” You sighed. “You get it- Doctoring is hard.”

“I do.” She nodded with a chuckle. “If it’s worth anything I find the bitchiness endearing.”

“That’s sweet.” You giggled, the foreign sound was infectious spreading to Trinity.

“I do believe you still owe me an answer to my question. That is if your eyeballs are still in tact.”

Your head finally dropped, shoulders shaking as you fully laughed and began shutting down your computer. Trinity watched you pack up your bag that was tucked under your desk and pull out your set of matching food storage from the mini fridge to the side. She made a mental note of it because she fully expected to take advantage of it during your work days if this date went well.

“If I’m saying yes, you have to find me a better nickname than a fish.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s kinda cute.” she plucked your lunch bag off the table, leaving you to worry about your purse and work bag.

HAPPY PRIDE 🏳️‍🌈 my goal is to post as much gay shit as i cam this month. first pitt fic,,, i have a few drafted trinity fics that might see the light of day if i’m confident enough ♡ bones

Baran had loved this museum since she was roughly fourteen years old and miserable on her middle school trip to D.C. She had gone to a nice enough school that they could afford to do an afternoon stop in Pittsburgh on the way home, and Baran had wandered into the museum half-asleep and walked back out feeling rearranged. There were many things about Pittsburgh that, now 40, she tolerated rather than loved. But this place had stayed in her bones.

Kaveh, unfortunately, was seven. He was usually a fantastic sport, but there were only so many oil paintings a child could stare at before he felt he'd seen them all.

Still, every Saturday Baran asked, “Do you want to come with me today, joonam?”

And every Saturday her sweet boy said yes.

She always let Kaveh lead when they visited the museum because there wan’t a single exhibit she didn’t enjoy and she had learned really quickly that if he felt he had control over what they were seeing, the longer he was able to last. 

Usually, this meant they ended up in the sculpture hall. Kaveh adored the tall, skinny statues there with his entire little heart.

“They look silly,” he would whisper loudly, staring up at the long bronze limbs and dramatic poses with complete delight.

And every single visit, without fail, he would eventually turn to Baran with barely-contained excitement and say, “Māmān, take a picture.”

Then he’d plant himself beside the statues and imitate them as seriously as possible, long face, arms thrown awkwardly into the air, knees bent at impossible angles.

Kaveh was bounding back to her side and standing up on his tip-toes to see. She was showing him the latest one, his nose wrinkling with pleasure at his own performance, when his head snapped to the side with the speed of a small animal catching a scent.

Baran had about half a second of confusion before he pulled in a breath and used every bit of it:

“DOCTOR Y/N!!!”

Baran jolted so hard she nearly dropped her phone.

“Kaveh—”

Too late.

Across the gallery, you turned around and Baran’s heart sunk through every floor of the museum. It seemed like an awful collision of her two worlds that she very carefully kept separate.

She knew you in fragments that didn’t belong in a place like this, your scrubs and tired eyes after a long shift that always softened when you saw her, you padding through her kitchen at night, stealing water from the fridge like you lived there too, you half-asleep against her shoulder, breath warm.

She also knew how your voice sounded when it went all high-pitched and breathy, whimpering pleas of her name in her ear as your hands scraped down her back, her kissing your neck—

And now there you were. Dark jeans, a soft cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up to your elbows, a tote bag from a college Baran had never heard you mention, rings stacked on your fingers that caught the gallery light. Your hair was different than she'd ever seen it. You looked soft.

She watched your expression move through confusion and arrive at something warm and surprised and delighted.

"Hi, Kaveh," you called across the gallery.

Kaveh was already moving. He crossed the room at a pace that was technically not running because his feet were not fully leaving the floor at the same time, but was in every other sense running. You crouched down to meet him and he wrapped his arms around your neck without preamble, without hesitation, the way children do when they've decided about a person.

"You're here!” he beamed.

"I am here," you laughed, settling back on your heels with your arms resting on your knees, completely unbothered by the contact with the museum floor. "What are you doing here, little dude? Are you an art guy?"

Kaveh pulled back and shrugged. "Sometimes," he said. "Māmān likes it a lot more than me though. But she says it's good for my brain."

"Smart woman, your mama."

Baran had crossed the gallery at a more appropriate pace and arrived to find you already looking up at her, easy and warm, not making anything of it.

"Dr. Al-Hashimi."

"Dr. Y/L/N." She heard how formal it sounded and internally winced. She cleared her throat and softened her tone. "Small world. I'm sorry about the ambush."

"Please don't be," you beamed, standing. "This is the best thing that's happened to me all morning."

You had met Kaveh twice before, much to Baran’s extreme panic every time (you knew good and well she didn’t really want you two interacting, didn’t want to blend whatever fuck-buddy situation you had going on with the version of her life she was presenting to her son) but both interactions had been really, really lovely. You’re not sure what you did to earn Kaveh’s adoration, but you were glad you had it as the adorable little boy beamed up at you, staring at you like you hung the stars.

Baran, standing slightly to the side, was also looking at your face. For completely different reasons. She took in the different style of your hair, the jewelry she hadn’t seen because it was kind of a pain to wear rings at work, the tote bag with your college insignia — a school Baran had not known you attended, had never heard you talk about, another piece of the woman she hadn’t had yet.

There were so many pieces.

“Are you here alone?” Baran heard herself ask.

You smiled. “I am, embarrassingly enough. I just like it here.” You paused. “Mom-son date?”

“We come most Saturdays,” Baran said. “When Kaveh is persuadable.”

“It’s an awesome hangout spot,” you nodded warmly. “Well, it’s lovely to see you b—”

Kaveh latched onto your arm, eyes going big with sudden sadness. “Are you’re going?”

You froze, mouth falling open a bit, and your eyes shot to Baran. Sure, you liked her company and loved her son, but you knew this woman had boundaries and you never took that personally. 

“Um, well, Kaveh—” you began…

"Don’t go because we are looking at statues and you can join us," Kaveh said excitedly. "Do you want to see?"

You blinked. Your eyes came up to Baran's face first. 

She allowed her head to tilt, a warm smile to come across her face. You were sweet.

"Yes," she said warmly. "Join us. We could use the company."

"I'd love to," you replied, a warm smile slowly pulling at your lips. "Show me."

—

You fell into step beside her at an easy distance, and Baran noticed that too — the careful inch of space you maintained, not crowding her nor presuming that the invite meant she, all of the sudden, wanted you on top of her.

You talked to Kaveh mostly, crouching when he pointed at things, asking him questions that took his opinions seriously, which made him stand a little taller each time.

"That one is super sad," Kaveh pointed at a bronze figure with its head bowed.

"Hm," you studied it. "What do you think he's sad about?"

Kaveh thought about this. "Maybe he lost something."

“Lost something?” Baran prompted.

“‘Cause his head is down, Māmān,” Kaveh replied. “He’s lookin’ for it.”

It surprised a laugh out of you — real and unguarded, bubbling up from your chest and floating out into the high-ceilinged room — and Baran's eyes went straight to your face.

She'd heard you laugh before. But not like that. Not with nothing behind it but the simple fact that something delighted you.

She looked away before you could catch her looking.

She was noticing things she had no particular right to notice. The way you paused longest in front of the landscapes. The small private smile when something caught you, unannounced and unperformed. The fact that you knew which paintings were which without looking at the placards.

Initially she had been bracing herself for some level of awkwardness bred from the reminder that you existed in a different compartment of her life, one that didn't belong here under the high windows with her son. But you hadn't made it awkward. You just looked very content not to be alone on a Saturday, and it made her heart twist.

She felt herself begin to unknot.

"You come here often?" she nudged you with her hip as you walked again, and didn’t miss the way your eyes twinkled at the contact.

"Most weekends I'm not working," you tilted your head at the room around you. "There's a painting in the next gallery I've been coming back to for about a year."

"Which one?"

You smiled a little. "I'll show you when we get there."

In the decorative arts wing Kaveh grabbed your hand to drag you toward a suit of armor, and you let him, and Baran watched your face when he pressed his small nose against the visor to peer inside. The expression you wore was so soft, so unself-conscious, that it caught her off guard.

She had long wondered what you were like when you weren't managing anything at all, be it your poise at work or your manners in her apartment or your ecstasy in her bed. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was exactly what you looked like laid bare. 

—

They reached the end of the last gallery with the slow inevitability of a good afternoon running out. Kaveh had gone boneless against Baran's side around the second hour mark, dragging his feet and clinging to her arm, suddenly non-verbal.

You crouched down to him. "It was very good to see you, Kaveh. Thank you for the statue tour."

"You can come next Saturday," Kaveh offered, hand reaching out to fiddle with the neckline of your shirt.

Baran watched your face. She saw you almost smile  and then she watched you catch it and smooth it over.

"That's a very kind invitation," you said carefully, to Kaveh, but you were still looking at her.

The restraint of it was so practiced and so deliberate that it nearly hurt. She had put you here  in this careful, curtailed space  and you had stayed in it without a word of complaint, because she'd asked you to a few months ago. Please don’t ask about my ex-husband, please don’t ask about my son. You had nodded and respected it ever since, because that was the kind of person you were.

She had an empty afternoon ahead of her, but you were full of so many little pieces that had started to crack away from your skin and fall into her palm just over the course of an hour. She wanted more. She wanted every shard until she could build your full mosaic.

"We were going to get lunch," Baran said. "There's a place around the corner Kaveh likes."

She paused, small and deliberate.

"I would like it if you came."

Baran watched the surprise dance across your eyes even though you tried to remain nonchalant. You were a very smart girl and she knew you understood exactly what she was actually saying. This was very different from when you would brush shoulders in the hospital, or when your phone would buzz with a "Are you free tonight?"

"Are you sure?" you asked softly.

"Very sure," she said, then raised her brow with a smirk. “Do I have to say please?”

You looked at her for a beat longer, something soft and open moving through your expression, and then you smiled so large it changed your whole face.

"Okay," you said. "I'd like that."

Kaveh grabbed both your hands at once, one each, and lurched forward without ceremony.

Baran let him pull her out into the light.

—