He’s just been floating a few feet above the roof of your apartment building, stock still ever since he zoomed over five minutes ago.  

He didn’t mean to, he really didn’t mean to, but when he first heard your groan he thought you were hurt. Then he picked up the quiet sucking and even the faint sound of your slick.  

You let out a sound that was far more lewd than the first and Jon’s hand shot up to cover his mouth, as if there was anyone around to hear the man’s sharp intake of breath.  

Sheets rustle and Jon imagines you clutching the fabric between your fingers. He hears a lewd slurp and imagines Damian right between your thighs, lapping and sucking at just the right places.  

Jon’s fists clench at his sides when he hears your moans grow louder and a little higher. Sheets shuffle and he pictures your back arching off the bed, grinding up into his best friend’s face. 

You groan his name so unabashedly, in a way Jon never dared to consider you could. You sound like you’ve been waiting for this all day and your boyfriend’s finally giving it to you and giving it well.  

Jon can almost see it, your fingers in his friend’s dark hair, your thighs squeezing around his head as you cum around his apparently deft fingers and skilled mouth.  

He’d be lying if he said he’d never thought of you two like this before. You were a hot couple and you were both such good friends to him.

You’d always ask him to tag along on what could’ve been dates between just the two of you; you invited him to sleep overs where you’d both squish him between you on the couch and you’d cook dinners with him at your apartment. You'd bring him along on vacations, to the park, the beach, the movies.

You've done an array of things with him that you could’ve just done as a couple but instead chose to invite him along because you’re both such good friends to him-- even if Damian can’t admit it outright most of the time.  

It’s only natural then, that he’d think about what other couple things you’d want him to participate in...right? 

How was he supposed to constantly see the way you look at Damian and not imagine you looking at him the same way? How was he not supposed to imagine Damian giving him gentle little touches like he did with you. Honestly, his restraint so far has been admirable.  

Now all that’s out the window. He just heard Damian make you cum on his tongue and as red as his face probably is, he’s not flying an inch further away from your apartment like he should.  

All he can hear are soft kissing sounds and you trying to even out your breathing, and suddenly, a new wave of guilt hits him.  

He doesn’t even want to think about what he’ll do with his hard-on but he has to leave. He runs his hands through his already wild hair, trying to will himself to move. The moment is so tender and quiet, he wants nothing more than to be in that room.  

Then he hears fabric shuffling and a belt buckle hit the floor.   

 “Look at me, Hayati.“ 

It’s such a simple, gentle command yet it has both you and Jon at attention. He hears the bed creak, a short silence. 

“Just keep your eyes on me.”  

You reply with a breathy, “'kay.“ 

There’s a pause before you let out a choked groan, and then a wet squelch. Jon has to squeeze his thighs together when he imagines his friend bottoming out in his other friend’s soaked heat, their eyes never straying from the other's.  

“So good to me, Beloved.”  

And now that his lips are free, Jon makes a new world-shattering discovery: Damian’s a talker.  

“Ya Rouhi, I’d be a happy man if all I ever lived for was to pleasure you.”  

His voice is thick, accompanied by your soft sounds of pleasure and the slow, slick plaps that make it to Jon’s red ears.  

“I’ll always give you everything, Hayati. You deserve more than I can give.“  

You both let out deep grunts in time with his steadily increasing pace. The sheets shuffle and Damian must have switched the position up because you curse and cry out. 

“I’m yours in every way and I know you’re mine.” 

It must be beautiful, Jon thinks, Damian’s lidded eyes matching yours, your hips matching his thrusts, bodies sticking together, shared breaths. Jon ignores the worsening wet spot in his underwear, his suit feeling tight on his growing hardness.  

He holds his breath so he can better hear the exact moment you and Damian cum together. Maybe you’re still locking eyes, maybe your foreheads are pressed together, but all he can hear is your mixed moans and the stalling of your hips as Damian fills you up.  

Once more, the only thing left to hear after the high is soft kissing and harsh breaths. Nothing but Damian’s husky,   

“I love you, Hayati.”  

Between kisses and your croaked hum in return, “Love you too, babe. S'good to me.” 

You mumble the sweetest praises in-between kisses and Jon can hear Damian’s heart beat a bit faster, can hear the sheets shuffle as he imagines the man shoving his face into his girlfriend’s neck at such sweet words being uttered to him. You always did say he was a secret sap, not that it was much of a secret between you three, but Jon only realises now just how true that really is.

As the moment grows quieter, Jon’s guilt only grows again. The sound of the city comes rushing back and his head spins around the various apartment buildings around him as if someone could’ve possibly known what he was doing.

Regardless, he can’t stay here, listening to your extremely private moment. There's no pretense of shock keeping him here anymore, he's just being a creep! No better than a criminal!

Unbeknownst to Jon, both you and Damian heard his distinct sonic boom when he flew off and you’re now staring at each other with matching wide eyes.  

You’re the first to break the silence with a laugh, shoving your face in your hands. “You don’t think he...?”   

Damian runs a hand through his hair with a groan that doesn't hide his embarrassment.

“I told him he should come over today.”  

“And you forgot?!” 

“I was distracted.”  

The emergency department never truly slept.

Even at six in the morning, before the sun had fully climbed over the city skyline, the halls of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center buzzed with life. Fluorescent lights cast everything in shades of sterile white, reflecting off polished floors worn smooth by thousands of hurried footsteps. The scent of disinfectant lingered permanently in the air, mixed with stale coffee, hospital soap, and whatever breakfast the overnight nurses had managed to grab between patients.

Monitors sang their constant electronic chorus from behind closed curtains and open doorways alike. A steady rhythm of beeps, alarms, ringing phones, and overhead pages blended together into the soundtrack of the department. Stretchers rolled across tile floors. Supply carts rattled through hallways. Nurses traded reports while balancing cups of coffee and tablets in their hands.

Outside the trauma bays, paramedics pushed through the ambulance entrance with new arrivals, giving quick reports before disappearing back into the morning rush. In the waiting room, patients shifted impatiently in their seats beneath the glow of televisions mounted high on the walls. Some sat silently scrolling through their phones. Others slept awkwardly against family members' shoulders. A few approached the reception desk every ten minutes hoping their wait might somehow be shorter than before.

At the nurses' station, organized chaos ruled.

Charts waited to be reviewed. Lab results populated computer screens. Phones rang endlessly. Attendings discussed treatment plans with residents while medical students hovered nearby trying to absorb every word. Conversations overlapped one another in a constant stream of medical terminology, dark humor, and hurried updates.

Somewhere down the hall, a trauma alert sounded.

Instantly, the atmosphere shifted.

Doctors appeared from seemingly nowhere. Nurses abandoned half-finished conversations. Respiratory therapists wheeled equipment toward the trauma rooms. The department moved like a living organism, every person knowing exactly where they needed to be.

Right in the middle of it all was you.

You had made it to being an R4 and now almost everyone looked up to you. You loved it. Even thrived off it a little. You weren't looked after by the attendings as much anymore and your questions became less frequent. 

Today you had a patient that had been coming by at least once a week. Homeless for sure. A sweet lady, truly, but you could tell something wasn't right. She wasn't after pain meds or anything like that. You were pretty sure she just enjoyed the company of being at the ED. 

“Well hello Saundra. You have bumped yourself up to being my favorite patient with how much I see you now.” You smiled at the tablet and took a seat, wheeling over to her bedside. “What can I do for you today?”

“Well last night I slept in a new spot and I'm pretty sure something bit me in my sleep.” She explains while rolling up her pant leg. 

You looked down, examining the mark, the redness, swelling, any pain. 

“Well something certainly bit you. How about we get you a rabies shot and tetanus just to be on the safe side. I'll also get you an IV with antibiotics going, okay?” You smiled at her again and she reached for your hand smiling back. 

“Youre such a sweet girl. Your boyfriend is very lucky.” She says.

“Oh Saundra we talked about this. I don't have a boyfriend. I have a girlfriend.” 

She waves her hand, “same thing to me dear. She's lucky.”

“I’ll be right back with a nurse okay?”

You head out of the room going to see who you could grab and put in the orders when suddenly you hear a squeak and a crash from Saundra's room. Rushing back over to find Emma up against the wall and Saundra holding her there. 

“Who are you!? What do you want!?” She shouts.

You try to deescalate the situation but it doesn't help and you can see Emma struggling to breath from the pressure on her. So you quickly grab a lorazepam shot and inject. Saundra stumbles a bit before sinking to the floor. 

You and Dana now on Emma like mother Hawks and checking her over while some of the male nurses get Saundra back into the bed. 

“Should we restrain her?” One of them asks you. 

You bite your lip, knowing the trust you've built might be broken from this. 

“Yes.”

That's what led you here to this moment.

“What the fuck were you thinking Y/L/N!?” Robby's voice sounds like gunshots in your ears right now. Your fingers twisted at the hem of your scrub top. 

“I needed to calm her down. I didn't have time to ask. I jsut acted.” Your voice was soft, you were trying to keep yourself in check. 

“You're an R4 but you're not a fellow or an attending. For things like that. You need to come to Me or Al-Hashimi. You know this. Why are we going over things you should have had down as an MS4?” he questioned and you couldn't answer, just repeated,

“I didn't have time to ask. I just acted.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. What are you a broken record? Is that all you can say right now?” He questioned. Arms folding across his chest and head tilting. 

The whole department was staring. You could feel it. You wanted to crawl out of yoir skin. You felt like you couldn't breathe. Your heart was hammering in your chest. Then came your ears ringing and you couldn't hear what he was yelling as you pushed past him and ran out of the ED. 

Trinity saw the whole thing. She immediately runs after you. She knows where you'll be. 

The on-call room. Wedged between the bed and the wall. When she found yoi you were exactly where she knew you'd be, bit she was hoping she wouldn't have found you hitting your own thighs. Well it's more like actually punching them. Trinity knew there would be bruises there later. 

“Hey mahal ko. Look at me.” Her voice is gentle as she sits at the other edge of the bed, making sure to give you space.

You don't respond. She counts in her head for eleven seconds, the time it takes for something to usually process for you. She still doesn't get a response. 

“Y/n?”

Nothing.

“Come on don't just ignore me. I'm trying to help.” 

You just keep hitting your thigh and try to squeeze yourself further into the crack of the bed and wall.

“Fine whatever. You don't want my help. Just sit there punching yourself.” She gets up, angry that you're ignoring her, but as she heads towarda the door she hears it. A whimper. Your whimper. One shes heard too many times. Your ‘I'm too overstimulated to talk’ whimper. 

Trinity suddenly feels like an idiot, but maybe she was just caught up in the moment. She didn't see it was that bad. 

“Oh mahal ko…I didn't realize I'm sorry. You're not doing it on purpose. Everything is too much for you after that and I get it.” Her voice turns soft. “Ive got you. Lets do our usual okay? Tap your thigh. Once for yes. Twice for no.” 

You tap once and Trinity smiles. 

“There we go baby…is it okay if I lay next to you?” One tap so she moves, laying next to you. “Can I rub your arm?” Another tap. 

Trinity’s touch is feather light as she rubs up and down your arm. Slowly you stop pain stimming. Slowly you reach for her. Slowly you relax a bit more into her as she rubs your back. 

The door opens, slowly and Dana peaks inside. “Is she good or do you need to take her home?” Her voice is soft too. 

“I think it would be best for today if she goes home. I'll take her and I'll be back in an hour, okay Dana?” 

“Sounds good kid. Make sure she's good before you come back, got it? I don't want her ending up here as a patient.” 

Now you're home. Back at Trinity’s apartment. You had your own place…but most of your stuff was here now. 

She didn't turn on any overhead lights. Just the strings of fairy lights she only installed after seeing the ones at your place. 

“Come on sweet girl. Let's grt you out of these itchy scrubs.”

She helps you out of them. You liked when Trinity helped you. Something about it felt so loving and caring that it made your heart swell. 

She got you into her comfy sweats that you love and laid you down in bed. Pulling the weighted blanket over you. 

“There we go mahal ko.” Trinity gets something playing on YouTube. A long video of your special interest and hands you her jellycat, smudge cow. “Here take Pickles. I know you love petting him.” You smile at that as Trinity kisses the top of your head, heading out and you hear her rummaging around in the kitchen before reappearing; your tumbler and a snack bowl. 

“Thank you mahal ko.” You finally managed out weakly. 

She set the two things down on the side table within reach. 

“I've always got you. I'm sorry I didn't realize you couldn't talk earlier.”

“It's okay Trin. It happens. I'm sorry for causing the scene in the first place…when you go back can you tell Emma I'm sorry it happened? Like I know it's not my fault. I just feel bad it happened.” you pet Pickles, smoothing over the fur.

“You don't have to be sorry for the scene. Robby caused it. He's worked with you for how long and still does this?” she raises an eyebrow and you shrug. “I'll tell Emma. I'm sure the two of you will catch up this weekend anyways.” 

“This is true. We're hanging out on Saturday.” You smile at the thought. 

“I have to get back now, but you call me if you need anything. Dana will let me leave. Fuck whatever Robby has to say.” 

You smile at her. 

“Youre going to make a better attending than him one day.” You smile at her and lean up to give her a kiss, a real kiss. 

Pride was a lot. A beautiful lot. A glitter-slick, rainbow-drenched, bass-thumping, sun-baked lot.

You had known that before agreeing to go. You had planned for it. You had packed your bag like you were preparing for a very gay expedition into sensory wilderness.

Loop earplugs. Sunglasses. A water bottle. Pain meds. Backup stim toy. Safe snack. Cooling towel. Portable charger. Emergency communication card, because sometimes your mouth simply looked at words and decided to resign for the day.

Trinity had watched you lay everything out on the bed that morning with a soft, fond squint.

“You know we’re going to Pride, right? Not hiking the Appalachian Trail.”

You had looked at her very seriously. “Pride has more glitter and less predictable terrain.”

Dennis, who was sitting cross-legged on your floor eating cereal out of a mug, had lifted one finger. “She’s right. Pride is in fact unpredictable from what I’ve seen.”

Trinity had rolled her eyes, but she had still double-checked your sunscreen before you left.

Now, standing in the middle of a street painted with rainbows and packed shoulder to shoulder with people, you felt vindicated and happy. Deeply, fizzingly happy. The kind of happy that made your skin feel too small for your body in a good way.

There were flags everywhere. Big ones draped from windows. Tiny ones tucked into hair. Stickers on cheeks. Capes tied around shoulders. Someone nearby had a trans flag painted across their entire torso and was dancing with the confidence of someone who had personally won summer.

Trinity had her sunglasses pushed up on her head, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, and a lesbian flag sticker on one cheek. She looked unfairly good under the midday sun, all sharp smile and soft eyes and that particular swagger she got when she knew you were staring.

“You’re doing that thing,” she said.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you forget blinking is an available body function.”

You blinked several times in rapid succession.

Dennis snorted. “Reboot successful.”

You turned and stuck your tongue out at him.

Dennis had shown up in a crop top that read “Queer and vaguely supervised,” which Trinity had called both “accurate” and “deeply concerning.” He had also bought a tiny handheld fan with rainbow blades and had been pointing it dramatically at each of you like a blessing.

“The holy wind of gay survival,” he declared, fanning Trinity.

She swatted at him. “Get that out of my face.”

“You’ll thank me when your eyeliner doesn’t melt.”

“My eyeliner has survived twelve-hour shifts at PTMC.”

“Yeah, but has it survived a drag queen doing Beyoncé in ninety-degree weather?”

Trinity opened her mouth, paused, then nodded once. “Fair.”

You liked this. Them bickering. The noise around you shifting from overwhelming to familiar because their voices gave you something to hold onto. Trinity at your left side. Dennis at your right. The three of you moving slowly through vendor tents, food trucks, merch tables, and little islands of music. Trinity kept checking on you without making it obvious or maybe she thought she was being subtle.

“You good?”

“Yes.”

“Water?”

“I drank some.”

“How much is some?”

You held up your fingers about an inch apart.

Her eyes narrowed.

Dennis gasped. “A thimble.”

“It was more than a thimble.”

“It was a gay little raindrop,” Dennis said.

You hugged your water bottle closer to your chest. “I am being bullied at Pride.”

Trinity leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple. “You are being hydrated at Pride. Different thing.”

“You can’t kiss me and boss me around.”

“I can do both. I’m multitalented.” Unfortunately, she was. It made arguing much harder.

The first thing Trinity bought you was from a crocheted goods booth tucked between a candle vendor and someone selling clay earrings shaped like fruit. You stopped dead in front of it because the entire table looked soft. Little plush bees, mushrooms, frogs, strawberries with tiny smiles, and bucket hats in neat stacks of pastel yarn.

Your eyes immediately locked onto a crocheted frog wearing a tiny lesbian flag scarf. Trinity noticed, because of course she did.

“You want the frog?”

You shook your head automatically. “No.”

Dennis leaned over your shoulder. “That was the least believable no I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m practicing restraint.”

“You’re practicing suffering,” Trinity said, already pulling out her wallet.

“Trin.”You whined out at your girlfriend.

She glanced at you. “What?”

“You don’t have to buy me things.”

“I know.”

“You’re doing it anyway?”

“Obviously.”

You tried not to smile too hard and failed.

The vendor held up the frog. “This one’s name is Pickle.”

You made a sound. Not a word. More like your heart tried to climb out of your throat wearing tap shoes.

Trinity’s face softened instantly.

“Pickle is coming home with us.”

“Us?” Dennis asked.

“You can visit him on weekends.”

“I expect partial custody.”

Trinity also got you a soft crocheted bucket hat, mostly lavender with little rainbow flowers around the brim. When she placed it on your head, she took a second to adjust it so it sat comfortably, her fingers careful near your ears.

“There,” she said quietly. “Less sun.”

You touched the brim. The yarn was soft against your forehead, not itchy, not tight. You looked up at her from beneath it.

“Do I look silly?”

Trinity smiled like you had asked the wrong question in the best possible way.

“You look adorable.”

Dennis held up his phone. “Trinity Santos, caught being tender in public. Historic.”

“Delete that.”

“I haven’t even taken a picture.”

“Delete the concept.”

You bought Trinity a pair of small handmade earrings shaped like tiny silver stars with lesbian flag beads dangling beneath them. She tried to pretend she did not get emotional about it, which lasted approximately three seconds.

“You like them?” you asked.

She touched them in her palm.

“Yeah,” she said, voice softer than before. “I do.”

“They reminded me of you.”

Her eyes flicked up. “Stars?”

“Sharp. Pretty. Dramatic. Potentially explosive.”

Dennis made a wounded noise. “That’s romance. That’s what romance should be.”

Trinity laughed, but her cheeks had gone pink.

Then you got Dennis a crocheted possum wearing a little rainbow party hat.

He stared at it in reverent silence.

“This is me.”

“It had your energy,” you said.

Dennis held the possum to his chest. “I’ve never been perceived so lovingly and so violently.”

The three of you kept walking. You watched drag performances near one of the small stages. Trinity stood behind you with her arms loosely around your waist, her chin almost touching your shoulder, steadying you when the crowd shifted too close. Dennis danced beside you with his possum tucked into his waistband like an emotional support goblin.

A queen in a neon green wig performed to “Born This Way,” and the crowd erupted around you. People screamed, clapped, threw dollar bills, waved flags. The bass vibrated through the pavement and up your legs. You could feel it in your ribs.

It was too much. It was wonderful. Both things lived in your body at once, tangled together like string lights. You flapped your hands when the song ended, fast and happy, and Trinity immediately grinned against your shoulder.

“That was a big one, huh?”

“Very big.”

“Good big?”

You nodded. “Good big.”

She kissed the side of your head. After that, you got face paint. Dennis chose a rainbow across one cheek and then insisted the artist add “dramatic little sparkles.” Trinity got a tiny lesbian flag heart. You sat very still while the artist painted a row of little stars along your cheekbone in the colors of your flag.

The brush tickled. You did not like that part. But Trinity crouched in front of you, holding Pickle the frog like he was supervising the procedure.

“Pickle says you’re doing amazing.”

You kept your eyes forward. “Pickle has kind eyes.”

“He’s a medical professional.”

“Does he take my insurance?”

“No. Concierge frog.”

You laughed, and the artist had to pause so the stars did not become comets.

By early afternoon, the heat thickened. It came down from the sun and up from the pavement. It gathered between bodies. It made the air feel syrupy. Your bucket hat helped. Your sunglasses helped. Your earplugs helped. Until they didn’t. The problem was, you were still happy. That was the tricky part. Your joy kept putting curtains over the warning lights.

Your body did not speak to you in clear sentences. It sent confusing postcards. A little dizziness became “probably excitement.” Dry mouth became “too much talking.” Sweat became “everyone is sweaty.” The ache behind your eyes became “the sun is bright.” Your stomach feeling wrong became “food truck smells are unpredictable.”

Trinity asked, “You doing okay?”

You answered, “Yeah.”

Because you thought you were. Because the thought of leaving made your chest pinch. Because Trinity was smiling. Because Dennis was telling a vendor that the phrase “gender goblin” was actually deeply spiritually meaningful. Because there was music and laughter and people being loud about being alive. Because you wanted to be fine. So you kept going.

You stopped at another booth, this one full of buttons and patches. Trinity was looking through a bin of pins when the world suddenly tilted half an inch to the left. You blinked. The booth lights seemed too bright, though they were only little string lights under a canopy. The chatter around you blurred together until it was not individual voices anymore, just a hot wall of sound pressing against your face.

You reached for your water bottle and realized your hand felt far away. That was odd. Your fingers tingled. Also odd. You tried to tell Trinity, but the words did not organize themselves. They scattered inside your skull like startled birds.

Trinity turned, still smiling. “Baby, look at this one. It says, ‘Ask me about my gay agenda,’ and it has a tiny clipboard.”

You looked at her. You knew she was speaking. You knew you loved her. You knew something was wrong. Then your knees unlatched. Trinity moved fast. She caught you before you hit the pavement, one arm locking around your waist while the other grabbed your shoulder.

“Hey. Hey, I’ve got you.”

Dennis’s voice sharpened immediately. “What happened?”

“Heat,” Trinity said. “Move.”

The world dipped again. Your head lolled against Trinity’s shoulder. You could feel her body turn solid around you, all softness gone focused, every part of her becoming purpose.

“Baby, can you hear me?”

You nodded, maybe.

“Words?”

You tried. Nothing came out.

“That’s okay. No words is okay.” Trinity looked at Dennis. “Find shade. Now.”

“There’s a medical tent by the stage.”

“I don’t want to drag her through that crowd unless I have to. Shade first.”

Dennis moved ahead, parting people with an urgency that somehow still sounded polite.

“Excuse me, sorry, medical-ish situation, tiny path please, thank you, love the cape, coming through.”

Trinity guided you toward the edge of the vendor row. You were not fully walking. Not really. Your feet touched the ground, but she was doing most of the work, holding you tight against her side. Too many people. Too close. Someone bumped your arm and your whole body flinched.

“I know,” Trinity murmured. “I know, baby. Almost there.”

Your stomach rolled. The smell of fried dough hit you. Then sunscreen. Then sweat. Then perfume. Then hot asphalt. Then someone’s beer breath. Each scent arrived with teeth. Your hands started fluttering, uncontrolled now, panic mixing with the heat-sick fog. Trinity saw it.

“Dennis,” she called.

He turned.

“She needs space.”

Dennis immediately spun around, lifted both hands, and became, somehow, the world’s least intimidating but most determined barricade.

“Friends, we need a bubble. A small gay bubble. Thank you.”

Under any other circumstances, you might have laughed. Right now, your throat felt too tight. Trinity kept her voice low and even against your ear. “Look at me if you can.” You tried. Your eyes skated over her face and landed on the lesbian flag heart painted on her cheek.

“There you go,” she said. “Just me. You’re safe. You overheated. Your body’s being dramatic, but not creative. We know what to do.”

Your breath came unevenly.

“I’m going to get you out of the crowd,” she continued. “One step at a time. You don’t need to answer. Squeeze my hand if you need to stop.”

She shifted her grip and took your hand. You squeezed immediately. Trinity stopped. No frustration. No sigh. No rush.

“Okay. We stop.”

Dennis glanced back, worried.

Trinity lowered you carefully onto a low concrete planter in the shade beside a closed storefront. You bent forward, elbows on your knees, Pickle clutched hard against your chest without remembering when you had grabbed him. Your bucket hat slipped. Trinity fixed it, then pulled your cooling towel from your bag. She poured water onto it and pressed it gently to the back of your neck. The cold made you jolt.

“I know. Sorry. Cold, but helpful.”

You made a tiny distressed sound.

“I’ve got you.” Her hand rubbed between your shoulders. “You’re doing good.”

Dennis crouched a few feet away, fanning you with his rainbow fan. His face had gone serious in a way you rarely saw.

“I can go get electrolyte drinks,” he said.

“Yeah. And something salty if you can.”

“On it.”

He vanished into the crowd. You stared at the pavement. Little pieces of glitter were stuck in a crack near your shoe. Silver. Pink. Blue. You focused on them because everything else was moving too much. Trinity knelt in front of you.

“Can I touch your face?”

You gave a small nod. She put the back of her fingers against your cheek, then your forehead.

“Hot,” she muttered, mostly to herself. Then, softer, to you. “We’re going home.”

Your head lifted. Panic sparked through the fog.

“Home?”

The word came out cracked.

“Yeah.”

Your eyes burned. “But Pride.”

“I know.”

“I ruined it.”

Trinity’s face changed. Not dramatically. Not in a way other people would notice, but you noticed. Her mouth softened. Her eyes went steady and sad and fierce all at once.

“You did not ruin anything.”

Your breathing hitched.

“I did.”

“No,” she said. “Your body got too hot. That’s not a moral failure. That’s weather and biology being rude.”

You swallowed hard.

“I wanted to stay.”

“I know, baby.”

“I was having fun.”

“I know.” Her thumb brushed the edge of your knee. “We’re going to keep having fun. Just somewhere with air conditioning and fewer people touching us.”

You wanted to believe her. You also wanted to fold yourself into a very small shape and hide under the nearest Pride flag until your body stopped being so embarrassing. Dennis returned with two electrolyte drinks, a bag of pretzels, and a cup of ice.

“I got options,” he said, slightly breathless. “Also, a lesbian in line told me to tell you that you are loved by the community and heatstroke is homophobic.”

Trinity blinked. You made a weak little laugh.

Dennis pointed at you. “There. Still alive. Still gay.”

Trinity cracked open the electrolyte drink and held it toward you.

“Small sips.”

You obeyed because her voice had gone gentle-doctor and girlfriend-worried, an impossible combination to resist. The drink tasted too strong, too sweet, too much, but your body grabbed onto it anyway. Getting back to the car was the hardest part.

Trinity waited until you could stand without swaying too much, then tucked you against her side again. Dennis carried the bags and walked ahead, clearing a path with the dedication of a man escorting royalty through a glitter riot.

The crowd felt worse now.

Before, the noise had been part of the fun. Now it scraped against your nerves. Every cheer punched through your earplugs. Every brush of someone’s arm made your skin crawl. The heat pushed down on you from above, and your legs felt watery, unreliable.

Trinity kept talking. Not too much. Just enough.

“Step down here.”

“Good.”

“Little turn.”

“I’ve got your bag.”

“You can squeeze my hand.”

“Almost past the stage.”

“You’re doing it.”

Your eyes stayed fixed on the back of Dennis’s shirt. Queer and vaguely supervised. The words blurred. Then sharpened. Then blurred again. You squeezed Trinity’s hand hard when a cluster of people cut too close. She stopped immediately and shifted, putting her own body between you and the crowd.

“Back up,” she said, voice sharper than before.

The people moved. You pressed your face into her shoulder, breathing through the smell of her sunscreen and sweat and something warm that was just Trinity. Familiar. Safe.

“Too much,” you whispered.

“I know,” she said. “We’re almost out.”

By the time you reached the car, you were trembling.

Trinity got you into the passenger seat, reclined it slightly, and took off your bucket hat just long enough to check your face again. Then she aimed the air vents toward you and handed you the cup of ice wrapped in the cooling towel.

“Back of your neck or wrists?”

“Wrists.”

She placed it carefully over them.

Dennis slid into the back seat and leaned forward between the seats. His possum was still tucked into his waistband, now slightly crooked.

“I would like the record to show,” he said, voice soft but deliberately Dennis-shaped, “that the possum remained brave.”

You looked at him. His expression gentled.

“You too.”

Your throat tightened.

Trinity reached over and squeezed your thigh. “Home.”

The drive was quiet except for the air conditioner blasting like a tiny arctic engine. You sipped when Trinity reminded you. Dennis texted someone, probably canceling whatever loose plans he had after Pride. You were too tired to ask.

At home, Trinity did not let you do the usual thing where you pretended you could walk normally just because you had made it through the front door. She took your bag, your shoes, your sunglasses. Dennis went to the kitchen without being asked and started filling a big cup with ice water.

“Couch or bed?” Trinity asked.

“Couch,” you murmured.

“Good. I can keep an eye on you there.”

You sank into the cushions with a shaky exhale. Trinity placed the cooling towel behind your neck again, then disappeared into the bedroom. She came back with your softest shorts and one of her oversized shirts.

“Change when you’re ready or I can help. No pressure.”

You nodded, clutching Pickle in both hands.

Dennis returned with water. “I also found apples, grapes, and something in the fridge that looks like pasta salad but may be a science project.”

“Don’t touch that,” Trinity called from the kitchen. “That’s from last week.”

Dennis froze. “It looked back at me.”

“Then close the fridge.”

Trinity moved around your kitchen like she had been there forever. You heard cabinet doors open, the sink run, the microwave beep. The ordinary noises helped. They gave the apartment edges again.

Eventually, you changed into the clothes she had brought you. Your body still felt strange, hollowed out and shaky, but the air conditioning was working its way into your skin. The wet towel helped. The quiet helped more.

Trinity came back with a plate.

“Okay,” she said, sitting on the coffee table in front of you. “Snack plate first. Fruit, pretzels, crackers, cheese. Then I’m making you something with actual protein.”

You looked down.

Grapes. Apple slices. Strawberries. Pretzels. Cheese cubes. Crackers arranged in neat little sections because she knew you did better when foods had borders.

“You cut the apples small.”

“Yeah.”

“You remembered.”

Trinity’s eyes lifted to yours. “Of course I remembered.”

Dennis dropped onto the floor beside the couch with his own plate. “I contributed by not eating all the strawberries.”

“You ate four,” Trinity said.

“That’s restraint.”

You took an apple slice. It was cold and crisp and easy. Your stomach accepted it without protest. Trinity watched you eat, trying and failing not to look worried.

“I’m okay,” you said quietly.

“I know.”

“You look like you don’t know.”

“I know medically. Emotionally, I’m being annoying.”

You picked at the edge of a cracker. “I didn’t notice it happening.”

“I figured.”

“I thought I was just excited. Then everything went sideways.”

Trinity leaned forward, elbows on her knees.

“Your interoception is garbage, baby. Respectfully.”

Dennis raised a hand. “Clinically garbage.”

You groaned. “That sounds mean when both of you say it.”

Trinity smiled a little. “It’s not your fault. It just means next time we do external check-ins. Timers. Scheduled water. Shade breaks. Food whether you feel hungry or not. We don’t wait for your body to send a message because apparently it uses carrier pigeons in a thunderstorm.”

You pressed Pickle to your mouth to hide your smile.

“I wanted today to be good,” you said.

“It was good.”

“I collapsed.”

“And before that you got a frog named Pickle, watched drag, got face paint, bought me earrings, and made Dennis feel spiritually represented by a possum.”

Dennis lifted the possum. “This changed me.” You swear there were stars in his eyes.

Trinity reached for your hand.

“One bad body moment doesn’t erase the whole day.”

Your eyes stung again, but this time it was quieter.

“I hate needing to leave.”

“I know.”

“I hate that I can’t just do things.”

“You can do things,” Trinity said. “We just have to do them in a way your body doesn’t file a complaint with management.”

“That’s still annoying.”

“Very.”

“And embarrassing.”

Her thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“Not to me.”

You looked up.

Trinity held your gaze.

“You were overwhelmed and overheated. That’s all. I wasn’t embarrassed. I was worried. Big difference.”

Dennis, very softly, said, “Also, nobody in that crowd cared in a bad way. The lesbian with the electrolyte drinks looked ready to adopt us.”

A laugh slipped out of you.

Trinity’s shoulders relaxed at the sound.

After you ate half the snack plate, Trinity made you a simple meal. Rice, scrambled eggs, avocado, a little soy sauce on the side because sometimes too much flavor was a crime. She put more fruit next to it and refilled your water.

You ate slowly while Dennis and Trinity debated what to put on.

“Queer movie marathon,” Dennis said.

“Nothing sad,” Trinity said immediately.

Dennis frowned. “That eliminates, like, seventy percent of queer cinema.”

“No tragic lesbians. No bury your gays. No yearning in a field followed by emotional devastation.”

You pointed your fork weakly. “No period pieces where everyone has excellent cheekbones and no rights.”

“Thank you,” Trinity said.

Dennis sighed. “Fine. Fun queer media only. Joyful gay agenda.”

They settled on a bright, ridiculous queer show with messy relationships, bad decisions, and enough dramatic lighting to make Dennis whisper “budget” every few minutes.

Trinity sat beside you on the couch and pulled your legs over her lap. She kept one hand resting against your shin, grounding but not trapping. Dennis stretched out on the floor with a pillow under his head, the crocheted possum on his chest like a tiny rainbow gargoyle.

Pickle sat tucked under your arm. Your face paint had smudged a little. Trinity’s lesbian flag heart was still intact. Dennis’s sparkles had migrated toward his temple. The apartment smelled like rice and strawberries and sunscreen.

Outside, Pride was still happening. Music, crowds, dancing, heat rising off the street. Part of you ached to be there. Part of you was so relieved to be here that your bones felt loose.

Trinity noticed your quiet.

“You with me?” she asked.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Sad?”

“A little.”

She squeezed your leg. You looked at the TV, then at Dennis’s possum, then at Trinity’s new earrings on the coffee table, safe in a little paper bag until she could put them in.

“Still happy though.”

Trinity’s smile softened. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You adjusted Pickle against your chest. “Pride came home with us.”

Dennis lifted one hand from the floor. “Gay migration.”

Trinity laughed, and the sound settled warmly in the room. Later, when your body felt less shaky and more like yours again, Trinity kissed your temple.

“Next year,” she said, “we do Pride with a battle plan.”

“Timers?”

“Timers.”

“Shade breaks?”

“Mandatory.”

“Food schedule?”

“Absolutely.”

“Dennis on crowd duty?”

Dennis, eyes still on the TV, raised his fan. “I was born for gay bubble defense.”

You smiled. Trinity leaned closer, her voice dropping into something only for you.

“And if we have to leave early again, we leave early. No guilt. No shame. Pride isn’t only the parade, baby.”

You looked at her. She brushed her thumb under your smudged face paint, careful not to wipe it away completely.

“It’s this too,” she said. “You. Me. Dennis being weird on your floor. A frog named Pickle. You being safe enough to stop before your body really takes you out.”

Your chest went tender. You leaned into her side. Dennis sniffed loudly from the floor.

Trinity looked down. “Are you crying?”

“No,” he said, voice thick. “The possum is.”