living and loving

Nine months with Emery Walsh has taught you that there are several kinds of silence.

There’s the silence she carries home after a difficult shift, heavy enough to remain draped over her shoulders while she removes her shoes and washes her hands. There’s the silence she uses when she’s concentrating, usually accompanied by a small furrow between her eyebrows and the unconscious tapping of one finger against her thumb.

There’s the comfortable quiet that settles between you when you paint and she reads, your feet tucked beneath her thigh while music plays softly from the speaker beside the window.

Then there’s the silence that means Emery is watching you.

You feel that one now.

“You’re staring,” you say, keeping your attention on the canvas propped against the wall.

“I’m observing.”

“That’s the same thing with a medical degree.”

“It really isn’t.”

You smile and drag the tip of your smallest brush through the blue paint on your palette.

Morning light enters through the narrow windows of your apartment, landing across the unfinished painting in warm, uneven strips. The piece has been frustrating you for almost two weeks. It’s supposed to be the view from the bus stop outside your building after rain, the street shining beneath the lamps and the people reduced to blurred shapes under their umbrellas.

You’ve repainted the reflections so many times that the bottom half of the canvas has begun to feel thick beneath your brush.

Emery sits at your kitchen table in navy scrubs, one hand curled around the mug you made during the brief and regrettable month when you attempted pottery. The glaze is uneven. The handle leans slightly to the right. There’s a shallow crack near the base that has been sealed twice.

Emery still uses it every time she stays over.

You own several perfectly functional mugs that don’t look as though they survived a minor structural collapse. She ignores all of them.

“You’re going to be late,” you remind her.

“I have seven minutes.”

“You need at least ten to get downstairs.”

“I walk quickly.”

“You intimidate people into moving out of your way.”

“That’s an efficient form of walking.”

You glance over your shoulder.

Her hair is already pulled back. Her hospital identification hangs from the pocket of her scrub top, the photograph capturing an expression you’ve privately described as one complaint away from violence.

She looks composed and ready, as though she hasn’t spent the last twenty minutes lingering in your apartment and pretending she isn’t reluctant to leave.

Your relationship with Emery has been built around departures.

She leaves for work while the sky is still pale. She arrives after midnight with exhaustion hidden beneath a sharp voice and a straighter spine. Sometimes she sleeps at your apartment. Sometimes you stay at hers, where everything has a designated place and she owns sheets that cost more than your monthly grocery budget.

There are nights when a page pulls her back to PTMC before dinner reaches the table. There are mornings when you wake to find an indentation beside you, a note on the nightstand, and coffee prepared exactly how you like it.

Nine months isn’t long enough to know everything about another person.

It has been long enough to learn that Emery loves through attention.

She remembers which hand you use to hold a paintbrush and massages that wrist when it begins to ache. She knows you won’t eat before an exhibition unless someone puts food directly in front of you. She keeps oat milk in her refrigerator even though she claims it tastes like liquefied cardboard. She carries a packet of the ginger candies you like in the pocket of her coat.

She knows when the café changes its seasonal menu because you complain about it for three weeks beforehand.

You know her, too.

You know Emery becomes quieter when she’s truly angry. You know she buys expensive shampoo and generic cereal. You know she pretends not to care about birthdays, then saves every card she receives. You know she has a tenderness that very few people are permitted to see.

At PTMC, she’s Dr. Walsh.

With you, she’s Emery.

The distinction feels precious.

It also feels fragile sometimes, mostly because you exist so separately from the rest of her life.

You’ve met Garcia, who began appearing at occasional dinners shortly after your third month together and quickly decided that your purpose in Emery’s life was to provide material for teasing.

You like her.

Garcia is loud where Emery is measured and nosy where Emery is private. She’s somehow capable of saying things that would make Emery dismantle anyone else with a single look.

You haven’t properly met the others.

You know their names because Emery talks about work, although she tends to describe people through their questionable clinical decisions before remembering to explain who they are. Her coworkers know you exist. Garcia claims they’ve assembled a vague portrait of you from Emery’s reluctant comments.

The artist.

The barista.

The woman who keeps leaving paint on Emery’s clothes.

Emery insists she doesn’t discuss her personal life at work.

The small blue smear you once found on the shoulder of her scrub jacket apparently created several questions.

Garcia fills in some of the remaining gaps, usually without being asked.

You’ve heard about Robby and Dana, McKay and Abbott, Whitaker and Langdon. You’ve also heard more than you ever expected to know about Trinity Santos.

Garcia never describes whatever is happening between them in clear terms. She complains about Trinity’s attitude, mentions something Trinity said during a shift, then becomes suspiciously defensive when you or Emery suggests she sounds invested.

According to Garcia, Trinity is infuriating, competent, impossible, blunt, attractive only in a purely objective sense, and absolutely not someone Garcia spends an unreasonable amount of time thinking about.

You’ve learned not to comment.

Emery usually raises one eyebrow until Garcia changes the subject.

“You’re doing it again,” you tell Emery.

“Doing what?”

“Watching me like you’re trying to diagnose something.”

Emery’s expression shifts.

Only slightly.

You recognize it anyway.

“What?” you ask.

She sets down her coffee. “Have you been sleeping?”

“Yes.”

“That wasn’t a convincing answer.”

“I’m an artist. I’m supposed to look tired and tortured.”

“You work in a coffee shop.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“You also have dark circles under your eyes.”

You rinse your brush and watch blue paint spiral through the cloudy water. “I’ve been working on the submission after my shifts.”

“You said you were going to take a few days off.”

“I said I was considering taking a few days off.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘You’re right, Emery. I should rest.’”

“That doesn’t sound like me.”

“No. It’s why I remember it so clearly.”

You laugh, although your chest gives a strange flutter as you do.

It isn’t painful. It feels like a startled bird trapped behind your ribs, beating its wings once before settling.

You’ve felt it before.

A rush of your heart while carrying boxes from the café storeroom. A few seconds of dizziness while standing too quickly. A tight, racing sensation after drinking too much cold brew on an empty stomach.

You’ve always been able to explain it.

Caffeine.

Stress.

Long shifts.

Bad sleep.

You press your palm lightly against your sternum.

Emery notices.

“Something hurt?”

“No.”

Her gaze drops to your hand.

“I’m fine,” you assure her. “Go save Pittsburgh.”

“I’m a surgeon. I save one poorly organized portion of Pittsburgh at a time.”

She stands and gathers her phone and keys. When she reaches you, she hooks one finger beneath your chin and tips your face toward hers.

The kiss is soft and lingering. Her thumb rests against your jaw.

It’s the kind of affection Emery would never offer where anyone else could see.

“Dinner tonight,” she says against your lips.

“You’re working.”

“I’m supposed to be done by nine.”

“You’re never done when you’re supposed to be.”

“I will make a sincere and medically irresponsible attempt.”

You smile. “That’s all I ask.”

Emery kisses you once more, then looks directly into your eyes.

“Eat something before your shift.”

“I always eat.”

“A blueberry scone you pick apart over six hours isn’t a meal.”

“You don’t know my life.”

“I know nearly every detail of your life.”

The words settle somewhere deeper than she probably intends.

Before you can respond, Emery releases you and heads for the door.

“Seven minutes,” she says.

“You’ve used five of them standing here.”

“I walk quickly.”

“You’re impossible.”

Her hand rests on the doorknob.

Emery looks back.

There’s a quiet softness in her face, brief and unguarded.

“You like me that way.”

Then she’s gone.

The café is crowded by eleven.

Every table is occupied. The espresso machine screams over overlapping conversations, the grinder rattles, and a delivery driver blocks half the counter while arguing with someone through his headset.

Steam clouds the inside of the front windows, blurring the pedestrians passing along the sidewalk.

You usually enjoy the rush.

There’s a rhythm to it that reminds you of painting. Grind, tamp, pull, pour. Your hands know what to do before your mind catches up. You move between the register and the machine, calling names over the noise and wiping spilled milk from the counter with the same towel you’ve been using since the beginning of your shift.

“You look pale,” your coworker Mia says.

“I’m always pale.”

“You look haunted, then.”

“That’s just my face.”

She studies you while sliding a lid onto a cup.

“Did you eat?”

You think of Emery.

“I had toast.”

“Today?”

“This feels judgmental.”

Mia pushes a wrapped sandwich toward you. “Go sit down for five minutes.”

“We’ve got ten drinks waiting.”

“We’ll survive.”

“I’m fine.”

You turn toward the espresso machine, and the room shifts beneath you.

It isn’t dramatic at first.

The edges of your vision soften. Your fingers begin to tingle around the metal pitcher. You take one careful breath, expecting the feeling to pass.

Your heart stutters.

Then it races.

The speed of it steals the air from your lungs. One second you’re standing beneath the warm lights of the café, and the next your pulse is pounding so quickly that you can feel it in your throat, your teeth, the tender space behind your eyes.

You put the pitcher down.

Milk spills across the counter.

“Mia.”

She turns immediately.

Your voice sounds far away. “Something’s wrong.”

The café tilts.

Mia reaches for you, but your knees have already given out.

There’s a fraction of a moment when you know you’re falling. You see the edge of the counter rushing toward you. You hear someone shout.

Then everything disappears.

You return in pieces.

A hard surface beneath your back.

Someone gripping your shoulder.

A voice asking whether you can hear them.

Bright light.

Pain in your jaw.

The smell of coffee mixed with something sharp and plastic.

Your body jerks without your permission. The movement is violent enough to frighten you, although you’re barely conscious of it. Your arms draw inward. Your teeth clamp together. Noise rushes around you.

“Seizure activity.”

“How long?”

“Maybe twenty seconds.”

“Ma’am, can you hear me?”

A hand presses against the side of your neck.

Another voice counts too quickly.

“Pulse is over two hundred.”

Someone cuts through the neckline of your work shirt, and humiliation flashes through you before fear consumes it.

Your heart is beating so fast that it no longer feels like separate beats. It’s a continuous vibration inside your chest. You try to draw in a breath and manage only a shallow gasp.

An oxygen mask covers your nose and mouth.

“Stay with us.”

You don’t know who says it.

You think of Emery.

You think of the way she looked back at you from the doorway that morning.

You try to say her name.

The mask fills with the faint sound of your own panic.

The ambulance becomes another collection of fragments.

Adhesive pulled across your skin.

The piercing wail of the siren.

A paramedic leaning over you, his face tight with concentration.

A monitor showing numbers you can’t understand.

You’re conscious when they push medication through your IV. You feel a terrible pressure in your chest, as though your heart pauses and the whole world pauses with it.

Then the rhythm returns.

Still too fast.

Someone says they’re going to cardiovert you.

You know enough from dating Emery to understand the word.

“No,” you whisper.

The paramedic squeezes your hand. “We’re going to give you something to make you sleepy.”

“Emery.”

“Who’s Emery?”

“My girlfriend.”

“Do you know her number?”

You try to answer.

The medication reaches you first.

When you open your eyes again, the ceiling is moving.

White panels pass overhead while wheels rattle beneath you. Voices overlap around the stretcher. Someone is telling you that you’re at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

PTMC.

Emery’s hospital.

The knowledge should comfort you.

Instead, fear spreads cold beneath your skin.

You’ve never seen the place from this angle. Emery has pointed out the building from the road. You’ve waited in the lobby once when the two of you were supposed to meet Garcia for dinner. The hospital has always existed as the place that takes Emery away from you.

Now it swallows you whole.

“Thirty-two-year-old female,” a paramedic reports. “Witnessed collapse at work with approximately twenty seconds of tonic activity. Initial rhythm was narrow complex tachycardia at two-forty. Six and twelve of adenosine without sustained conversion. Synchronized cardioversion at one hundred joules. She’s been sinus tach in the one-twenties since.”

Hands move over you.

A blood pressure cuff tightens around your arm.

Someone attaches new leads to your chest.

A woman’s face appears above you, serious and focused.

“I’m Dr. McKay. Can you tell me your name?”

You do.

“Do you know where you are?”

“PTMC.”

“Good. Do you know what happened?”

“My heart.”

“You had a very fast heart rhythm. You lost consciousness, and there may have been some convulsive movement when you went down. We’re going to figure out why.”

Your mouth is dry. “Is Emery here?”

“Emery?”

“Walsh,” you manage. “Dr. Walsh.”

McKay glances toward someone outside your field of vision.

Before she can respond, another familiar face appears beyond the foot of the bed.

Garcia stops so suddenly that the person behind her nearly walks into her.

For one strange second, neither of you speaks.

She’s wearing dark green scrubs and a surgical cap patterned with tiny bones. The Garcia you know wears jeans, steals food from Emery’s plate, and once spent half a dinner insisting she wasn’t jealous of someone flirting with Trinity during a staff gathering.

This version of her is sharper.

Her posture changes as she takes in the wires, the IVs, and your torn shirt.

“Hey,” she says.

Her voice is careful.

You’ve never heard Garcia sound careful before.

“Hi.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

McKay looks between you. “You know her?”

“She’s Walsh’s girlfriend.”

The words seem to travel beyond the room.

A nurse near the medication cart looks up. A young doctor at the computer turns in his chair. Even McKay’s eyebrows rise slightly.

You would laugh if breathing didn’t feel so difficult.

Garcia comes closer.

“Does Emery know?”

You shake your head.

“All right.” Garcia reaches for your hand and squeezes once. “I’ll get her.”

“She’s working.”

“Yes. We’re all familiar with the concept.”

“Don’t scare her.”

Garcia stares at you.

You realize how ridiculous the request is.

“You were cardioverted in an ambulance,” she says. “I’m working with limited options here.”

“Garcia.”

Her expression softens.

“I’ll tell her you’re awake,” she promises. “That’s the first thing I’ll say.”

The room fills with strangers who know fragments of you.

Dana, the charge nurse, adjusts your blanket and tells you that Emery has mentioned the café enough times that half the department knows your seasonal menu.

McKay orders blood work and a CT of your head because you struck the counter during the fall.

A younger doctor enters and pulls a stethoscope from around her neck.

Her features are already familiar to you, although you’ve never met.

You recognize Trinity Santos from the occasional photograph Garcia has shown while pretending the image was necessary to whatever story she was telling. In person, Trinity carries herself with the same guarded confidence Garcia always describes. Her expression is precise and difficult to read.

You keep the recognition to yourself.

Garcia has never explicitly asked you to treat the situation with discretion. She hasn’t needed to.

“I’m Dr. Santos,” Trinity says. “I’m going to listen to your heart and ask you a few questions.”

You nod as though the name means nothing to you.

She places the stethoscope against your chest, her attention fixed on the rhythm beneath it.

“Any history of seizures?”

“No.”

“Heart problems?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Has anything like this happened before?”

“Not like this.”

“Have you had palpitations? Racing heart? Dizziness?”

You hesitate.

“Sometimes.”

Trinity looks up. “How often?”

“I don’t know. Once every few weeks, maybe.”

“And how long does it last?”

“A few seconds. Sometimes longer.”

Garcia appears near the curtain again, hovering in a way that would probably irritate Trinity if Trinity looked directly at her.

You notice that Garcia’s eyes keep moving from you to the monitors, then briefly to Trinity, as if she’s checking how concerned Trinity looks and using it to measure how frightened she should be.

Trinity doesn’t acknowledge the attention.

You understand more about their dynamic in those few seconds than you have from months of Garcia’s selective storytelling.

“I thought it was caffeine,” you explain.

Trinity glances at the café logo printed on the remains of your shirt.

“Given your job, that isn’t an unusual conclusion,” she says. “It was still something worth mentioning to a doctor.”

Her tone isn’t cruel. It contains the blunt practicality Garcia complains about most often.

You almost smile.

Almost.

McKay steps closer. “How long has that been happening?”

“A few months. Maybe longer.”

“And you never had it evaluated?”

There’s no accusation in her voice.

You hear one anyway.

“I don’t have a regular doctor.”

McKay writes something down.

Trinity watches you for a moment longer, then adjusts one of the leads near your collarbone.

“We’re getting an ECG and checking your electrolytes. Cardiology will probably want an echocardiogram as well.”

“Am I having a heart attack?”

“We don’t know yet,” Trinity says. “Your rhythm is stable right now.”

Garcia shifts closer to her.

Trinity finally looks over.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Then stop standing there like that.”

“Like what?”

“You’re blocking the supply cart.”

Garcia glances behind herself. She isn’t blocking anything.

You look away before either woman catches your expression.

The curtain opens.

Emery walks in.

She’s still wearing her surgical cap. A disposable gown hangs open around her body, partially removed in her hurry. There’s a mask pulled beneath her chin, and her eyes find you with such immediate intensity that everything else in the room seems to retreat.

Garcia follows her inside.

“I started by telling her you were awake,” Garcia says.

Emery doesn’t acknowledge her.

She comes directly to the bed.

For a moment, she only looks at you.

Her gaze moves across the bruise forming near your temple, the oxygen beneath your nose, the electrodes on your chest, the IV taped against your hand.

Her breathing remains even, although you can see how hard she’s working to keep it that way.

“Hi,” you whisper.

Emery takes your face between her hands.

The gesture is so intimate that you become vaguely aware of everyone else looking away.

“You’re here,” she says.

“I’m sorry.”

“No.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“No.” Her thumb brushes beneath your eye. “You don’t apologize for this.”

Her voice is firm.

Her hands are trembling.

The sight of it frightens you more than anything else has.

Emery’s hands don’t shake.

She bends and presses her forehead to yours.

You close your eyes.

The familiar scent of her shampoo reaches you beneath the sterile smells of the emergency department. Your body begins to understand that she’s here. Your shoulders loosen. A sob you hadn’t known you were holding catches in your throat.

Emery kisses your forehead.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs.

Behind her, someone clears their throat.

Emery lifts her head, and Dr. Walsh returns to her face.

“What happened?”

McKay steps closer. “Witnessed syncope with brief convulsive activity, likely secondary to hypoperfusion. EMS caught a narrow complex tachycardia around two-forty. Adenosine was unsuccessful. They cardioverted. She’s stable now.”

“Post-conversion ECG?”

“Santos has it.”

Trinity hands Emery the printout without comment.

Garcia’s gaze follows the exchange.

You close your eyes briefly.

It isn’t the moment to find any of this faintly amusing.

Emery studies the paper.

You watch her eyes move across the lines. Her jaw tightens.

“What?” you ask.

No one answers quickly enough.

“Emery.”

She sets the paper down.

“There’s a pattern that can indicate an extra electrical pathway in the heart.”

“Is that bad?”

“It can cause episodes of very rapid rhythm.”

“Like today.”

“Yes.”

McKay steps in gently. “Cardiology is coming down. We’re running labs, checking your electrolytes and cardiac enzymes, and getting imaging. The ECG suggests Wolff-Parkinson-White syndrome, but we need the specialists to confirm it.”

The unfamiliar name makes your stomach turn.

“Is my heart damaged?”

“We don’t know yet,” McKay says. “Your blood pressure is stable. That’s good. You converted quickly. That’s also good.”

You look at Emery.

She’s studying the monitor now.

“Am I going to die?”

Her attention snaps back to you.

“No.”

The certainty in her voice is immediate.

McKay’s expression shifts, although she doesn’t correct her.

Emery pulls a chair to the bedside and sits.

“You had a dangerous event,” she says. “You’re in the right place. They caught the rhythm. Now they can identify the cause and treat it.”

“They?”

“I’m not treating you.”

A small crease forms between her brows.

You understand. She’s too close to you. She can’t be your doctor while she’s terrified.

“You’re staying, though?”

Emery takes your hand.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The hours that follow are measured in tests.

Blood is drawn from your other arm when the first IV stops giving a return. You’re taken for a CT scan. An ultrasound technician presses a probe between your ribs and turns your beating heart into grainy shapes on a screen.

Cardiology arrives and explains electrical pathways, abnormal conduction, and the possibility of an electrophysiology study.

The words pile up.

Telemetry.

Accessory pathway.

Recurrence.

Ablation.

Medication.

Risk.

Each new explanation creates three more questions.

Emery remains beside you through all of it.

She lets the cardiologist speak without interruption, which seems to require tremendous restraint. When you look confused, she translates the medical language into words you can hold.

“They want to map where the extra signal is coming from.”

“The medication helps slow your heart.”

“The procedure is done through a blood vessel. They aren’t opening your chest.”

“That risk is low.”

“This one matters more.”

She doesn’t tell you not to be afraid.

She gives the fear edges. She turns it into individual facts, each one small enough to examine.

By early evening, the emergency department has shifted around you. Voices change. New patients arrive. Curtains open and close.

Emery’s coworkers pass the room and glance in, their curiosity softened by concern.

They’re meeting you in the worst possible way.

You’re the vague girlfriend made real beneath hospital blankets.

Garcia brings Emery coffee and leaves a cup of water for you. Dana finds a clean shirt from somewhere. McKay returns regularly, patient each time she answers the same question you forgot you’d already asked.

Trinity returns once to check the rhythm on the monitor and examine the bruise near your temple. Garcia appears less than a minute later with no obvious reason to be there.

Trinity looks at her.

“Do you need something?”

“I was checking on her.”

“You checked on her ten minutes ago.”

“I can check twice.”

“You can also work.”

Garcia folds her arms. “You’re very warm with patients.”

Trinity’s mouth tightens.

You focus intensely on the pattern of the ceiling tiles.

Emery glances between them, then at you.

You keep your expression blank.

You aren’t certain whether she knows how much Garcia has told you. Emery’s slight narrowing of the eyes suggests she’s developing a reasonable suspicion.

Trinity turns back to you.

“Any chest pain?”

“No.”

“Dizziness?”

“A little when I sit up.”

“That’s expected after what happened. Don’t get out of bed without someone here.”

“I won’t.”

Her gaze remains on you for a second, as though she’s deciding whether you’re likely to ignore the instruction.

Apparently satisfied, she steps away.

Garcia follows her out.

Their voices fade into the noise of the department.

“I see why Garcia finds her irritating,” you murmur.

Emery slowly turns her head.

You stare at the blanket.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“No,” Emery says. “You didn’t.”

Her hand settles over yours again.

She doesn’t press.

You’re grateful.

The financial counselor arrives shortly after the cardiologist recommends admitting you overnight.

She carries a tablet and speaks in a soft, practiced voice.

“We’re going to go over a few details for registration. I know you’ve had a long day.”

You nod.

Emery is speaking quietly with Garcia near the curtain. They’re close enough to hear, although neither appears to be listening.

“Do you have your insurance card with you?” the counselor asks.

Your body goes still.

It happens before you can stop it.

A tension in your shoulders.

A pause in your breathing.

“No.”

“That’s all right. Do you know the name of your insurance provider?”

You stare at the thin blanket over your legs.

“I don’t have one.”

The room becomes quiet.

You feel Emery turn toward you.

The counselor maintains the same gentle expression. “You’re currently uninsured?”

“Yes.”

“When did your previous coverage end?”

“I had a marketplace plan last year. The premium went up. I couldn’t keep paying it.”

Emery comes back to the bed.

“You don’t have health insurance?”

You can hear the hurt beneath her disbelief.

“I was going to get another plan.”

“When?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

The counselor shifts in her chair. “I can give you both a few minutes.”

“No,” you say quickly. “Just finish.”

She looks between you and Emery before continuing.

She explains hospital financial assistance, payment plans, and applications. She talks about the possibility of charity care depending on your income. She asks about your hours at the café, your freelance income, your household size, and your savings.

Each answer strips something from you.

You work thirty hours a week because the café keeps most baristas beneath the threshold for employer-sponsored benefits. You sell paintings when you can. You design occasional flyers and wedding invitations.

Some months are good.

Others leave you moving money between accounts and hoping rent clears after your electric bill.

You’ve always managed.

That management looks pitiful when reduced to numbers on someone else’s screen.

“The cardiology team will also need to discuss the cost of outpatient testing and any procedure they recommend,” the counselor says. “The medication they’re considering has generic options, but you’ll want to speak with the pharmacy assistance office.”

“How much?” you ask.

“The final amount depends on what you need.”

“For today.”

“We won’t have an exact figure until everything is coded.”

“An estimate.”

Emery sits closer. “You don’t need to do this right now.”

“Yes, I do.”

The counselor hesitates.

She gives you a broad range.

The lowest number is more money than you’ve ever had at one time.

The highest is so large that your mind refuses to understand it.

“And the heart procedure?” you ask.

“That would be separate.”

Something inside you gives way.

Your monitor begins to beep faster.

The room narrows around you. The air feels thin and used, as though everyone else has already breathed all of it. You pull your hand from Emery’s and press both palms against the blanket.

You can’t feel your fingers properly.

“I can’t do this.”

Emery leans toward you. “Look at me.”

“I can’t pay that.”

“We’ll handle it.”

“I have six thousand dollars.”

“You don’t have to pay anything tonight.”

“I have six thousand dollars total. That’s everything. That’s rent. That’s the café being closed for renovations last winter. That’s three years of selling work and taking extra shifts.”

Your words come too quickly.

The monitor beeps faster.

The counselor stands. Garcia moves toward the curtain and ushers her outside with a quiet word.

Emery places one hand against the side of your neck.

“Breathe.”

“I can’t.”

“You are breathing.”

“I’m going to lose my apartment.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’ll have to stop painting. I’ll have to work every shift they give me. I can’t afford medication every month, Emery. I can’t afford another scan. What happens if I need the procedure? What happens if they call it elective and I go home and my heart does this again?”

“You’re spiraling.”

“Of course I’m spiraling.”

“I know. Let me help you.”

“I should leave.”

Emery’s expression hardens.

“No.”

“I’m stable now.”

“You were shocked in an ambulance.”

“I can’t stay overnight.”

“You need monitoring.”

“I can’t afford monitoring.”

Your chest tightens until every breath hurts. Tears spill down your face, hot and humiliating.

“I can’t afford to have a heart problem.”

The sentence breaks as it leaves you.

Emery’s face changes.

Her anger disappears. The clinical focus leaves with it.

What remains is the woman who knows which wrist aches after you paint, who uses your misshapen mug, who has spent nine months learning how you take your coffee and what you look like when you’re trying not to cry.

She cups your face.

“Listen to me.”

You shake your head.

“Listen.”

Her voice stays low.

“You aren’t leaving. You aren’t choosing between your heart and your apartment tonight. You aren’t going back to work tomorrow. You’re going to stay here while they monitor you, then we’re going to deal with everything else one part at a time.”

“There are too many parts.”

“Then I’ll take some of them.”

“You can’t fix this.”

“I can help.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“I didn’t offer you money.”

“You were going to.”

“I was considering several options.”

Despite everything, a wet, unsteady laugh escapes you.

Emery brushes the tears from beneath your eyes.

“Good,” she says. “Keep breathing.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

She watches your face for several seconds.

You recognize the tapping of her finger against her thumb.

Emery is thinking.

Her eyes move briefly toward Garcia, who stands just inside the curtain with her arms folded. Something passes between them.

Garcia’s eyebrows lift.

Emery looks back at you.

“Marry me.”

The monitor continues to beep.

The emergency department carries on outside your room.

You stare at her.

“What?”

“Marry me.”

“Emery.”

“It’s a qualifying life event. I can add you to my insurance.”

The words are so thoroughly Emery that you almost laugh again. A proposal delivered with the tone of someone presenting a treatment plan.

She continues before you can respond.

“It won’t erase every charge from today. We’ll apply for financial assistance for that. My plan can cover the cardiology appointments, the imaging, the medication, and the ablation if they schedule it after your enrollment is active.”

“You’re proposing because I don’t have insurance.”

“I’m proposing because I love you.”

Her answer is immediate.

You search her face.

Emery doesn’t look uncertain. She looks frightened, determined, and entirely sincere.

“You can’t marry someone because they collapsed at work.”

“I’m aware.”

“We’ve been together nine months.”

“I’m also aware of how calendars work.”

“You think this is practical because you’re panicking.”

“I am panicking,” she says. “I’m also a competent adult capable of making decisions while panicking.”

Garcia makes a small sound from the corner.

Emery doesn’t look away from you. “Leave.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

Garcia lifts both hands. “I’m going.”

She pauses at the curtain.

“For the record, this is more romantic than it sounds.”

“Garcia.”

“Leaving.”

She slips through the curtain.

Emery takes both of your hands.

Her thumbs move over your knuckles, carefully avoiding the tape around your IV.

“I didn’t plan to ask you in an emergency department,” she says. “I didn’t plan to ask while you’re wearing a shirt Dana found in a supply closet. I had a better version in mind.”

Your breath catches.

“You thought about asking?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“A while.”

“How long is a while?”

“Long enough that Garcia has become unbearable about it.”

From outside the curtain, Garcia calls, “I can still hear you.”

Emery reaches back and closes it fully.

When she faces you again, her composure is beginning to crack around the edges.

“I know nine months isn’t a respectable timeline to some people,” she says. “I don’t care. I know what my life is with you in it. I know what it feels like to come home to your shoes in the hallway and three glasses of paint water sitting dangerously close to the sink. I know you steal the blankets and deny it in the morning. I know you talk to yourself when you paint. I know you pretend every piece is terrible until someone buys it, then you pretend you never doubted it.”

A tear slips down your cheek.

Emery catches it with her thumb.

“I know I want more mornings in your apartment,” she continues. “I want more dinners interrupted by pages and more arguments about whether your pottery is structurally sound. I want to be the person they call before you’re put in an ambulance. I want the right to get on a plane with you if something happens to your family. I want you to be able to make decisions for me. I want every ordinary, irritating, beautiful part of a life with you.”

“You’ve never called my pottery beautiful.”

“I’m emotional. I’ve become unreliable.”

You laugh through your tears.

Emery leans closer.

“This isn’t pity,” she says. “I don’t pity you. I’m furious that you were scared enough about money to consider walking out of a hospital after your heart required electricity to behave. I’m upset that you carried this alone. I’m going to remain upset about that after you’re well enough for us to argue properly.”

“I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d offer to pay.”

“Probably.”

“I didn’t want you thinking I was with you because you’re a surgeon.”

“I’ve never thought that.”

“You own a coffee machine worth more than my car.”

“You hate that machine.”

“It’s pretentious.”

“It makes excellent coffee.”

“It requires an engineering degree.”

“That’s why you keep making coffee in a chipped ceramic dripper like someone’s Victorian widow.”

You smile weakly.

Emery’s own smile is brief. Her eyes remain wet.

“You aren’t a problem I’m trying to solve,” she says. “The insurance is a problem. Marriage is one available solution. It also happens to be something I want.”

“You make it sound like a treatment recommendation.”

“I’m trying to be clear.”

“You’re asking me to marry you under fluorescent lights.”

“I can turn them off.”

“Then the nurses will turn them back on.”

“Dana likes you. She might allow mood lighting.”

Your fingers tighten around hers.

“Would you still ask if I had insurance?”

Emery’s face softens.

“Yes.”

“Tonight?”

“Probably not tonight.”

“When?”

“I hadn’t decided.”

“Did you buy a ring?”

Her silence answers you.

Your mouth falls open.

“Emery.”

“It’s at my apartment.”

“What does it look like?”

“That information is reserved for my fiancée.”

The word sends a tremor through you.

Emery feels it and glances quickly at the monitor.

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

She looks back at you.

“Are you?”

You think about the morning. Her hand beneath your chin. Her promise of dinner. The seven minutes she spent refusing to leave.

You think about nine months of departures and returns.

You think about Emery arriving in the emergency department with her surgical gown hanging open, fear visible in the tremble of her hands.

“You aren’t doing this because you feel responsible for me?” you ask.

“No.”

“Or because you think I can’t take care of myself?”

“No.”

“Or because Garcia told you this is romantic?”

“Garcia’s understanding of romance is medically concerning.”

“I can still hear you,” Garcia says through the curtain.

Another voice responds from farther away.

“Why are you listening outside the curtain?”

Trinity.

“I’m not listening.”

“You’re standing six inches from it.”

“I’m waiting.”

“For what?”

There’s a pause.

“Nothing.”

“Then move.”

Emery closes her eyes briefly.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

“I understand more about them every minute I’m here,” you whisper.

Emery opens her eyes.

“You know far too much.”

“Garcia talks.”

“I’m aware.”

Her thumb moves along your cheek.

You breathe her in.

The answer settles into you slowly. It doesn’t erase the terror. It doesn’t remove the electrodes or change the diagnosis waiting beyond the room. Your heart still feels unfamiliar inside your chest, as though it belongs to someone else and has only recently been placed beneath your ribs.

Emery’s hands feel familiar.

Her voice feels familiar.

The future she describes does, too.

“Yes,” you whisper.

She draws back. “Yes?”

“Yes, I’ll marry you.”

For the first time since entering the room, Emery looks stunned.

“You’re sure?”

“You just spent ten minutes insisting you were sure.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I was the one speaking.”

You reach up and touch her face.

“Yes, Emery. I’m sure.”

The breath leaves her all at once.

She kisses you carefully, mindful of the oxygen tubing and the bruise near your temple. The kiss is warm and trembling. One of her hands slides into your hair while the other remains wrapped around yours.

The monitor begins beeping faster.

Emery pulls away and looks at it.

“It’s anxiety,” you tell her.

“I know.”

“Good anxiety.”

“That isn’t a medical term.”

“It is now.”

The curtain opens a few inches.

Garcia peers inside. “Did she say yes?”

Emery doesn’t turn around. “Go away.”

“That means yes.”

Dana’s voice comes from somewhere behind her. “Dr. Walsh proposed?”

Several people begin speaking at once.

Trinity’s voice rises above them.

“Can everyone stop gathering outside the patient’s room?”

Garcia looks over her shoulder. “She got engaged.”

“I gathered that.”

“You could sound happy.”

“I’m at work.”

“So am I.”

“That’s becoming increasingly difficult to believe.”

You start laughing.

Emery closes the curtain again.

“I’m going to have to resign,” she says.

“You can’t resign because your coworkers know you have feelings.”

“Watch me.”

Three days later, you leave PTMC wearing Emery’s coat over the clothes Mia brings from your apartment.

The official diagnosis is Wolff-Parkinson-White syndrome. The cardiologist gives you medication and schedules an electrophysiology study with a likely ablation. You leave with instructions that fill several pages, appointments circled in pen, and a list of symptoms that should bring you directly back to the emergency department.

Emery reads everything twice.

She also makes several calls.

The hospital’s financial assistance office begins processing your application. Emery’s benefits department explains what documents they’ll need after the marriage. Garcia locates the county marriage license information before either of you asks and sends Emery fourteen messages about courthouse hours.

You marry twelve days after your heart stops behaving.

The ceremony takes less than ten minutes.

You wear a cream-colored dress you already own, with a faint streak of green paint near the hem that won’t come out. Emery wears a dark suit and the expression of someone trying very hard to remain composed.

Garcia stands beside you as a witness and cries before either of you does, then threatens to deny it.

She arrives with Trinity, although Garcia insists they didn’t come together. Trinity remains near the back of the room, dressed in dark trousers and a button-down shirt, looking faintly uncomfortable with the emotional atmosphere.

You don’t ask why she’s there.

Emery doesn’t ask either.

Garcia keeps glancing at her.

Trinity stays until the end.

When she congratulates you, her words are brief and sincere.

The ring Emery bought months earlier is simple, warm gold with a small oval stone that catches the sunlight when you move your hand.

It fits perfectly.

Afterward, Emery takes you home.

Your cardiology binder sits on the kitchen table beside the paperwork confirming that your addition to her insurance is being processed. Medication bottles line the counter. Your unfinished painting remains against the wall, untouched since the morning of your collapse.

For the first time, you look at it without feeling guilty for the days you haven’t worked.

Emery comes up behind you and wraps both arms around your waist.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” she says.

“I am resting.”

“You’re staring at the canvas.”

“That’s restful.”

“You’re thinking about fixing it.”

“It needs another layer.”

“You had a cardiac event less than two weeks ago.”

“My heart doesn’t control my hands.”

“Your heart provides blood to your hands.”

You lean back against her.

The ring on your finger feels strange. The weight is slight, but your awareness of it is constant. Each time the metal catches against something, you remember the hospital.

You remember Emery asking.

You remember saying yes.

“Do you regret doing it this way?” you ask.

Her arms tighten around you.

“No.”

“Even with Garcia telling everyone you proposed as a treatment intervention?”

“I’m going to destroy her.”

“You’d miss her.”

“Eventually.”

You turn in her arms.

“Do you think they know too much about me now?”

Emery studies your face.

Her coworkers have texted.

Dana sent information about a hospital art program. McKay asked how you were feeling. Trinity sent a brief message reminding you not to interpret the absence of symptoms as permission to skip medication.

Garcia followed it with six messages claiming Trinity had asked twice whether you were recovering well.

You didn’t respond to that part.

People who once knew you as a collection of vague details now know you cried over medical debt in an emergency room.

They also know what Emery looks like when she’s afraid.

“They know you matter to me,” she says. “I can survive that.”

You slide your arms around her neck.

“Your reputation might not.”

“My reputation is resilient.”

“Garcia says they’re calling you Dr. Heart Eyes.”

Emery becomes very still.

“She’s lying.”

“She sent me screenshots.”

“I want to see them.”

“I thought you didn’t care.”

“I need names.”

You laugh and kiss the corner of her mouth.

Emery’s irritation fades beneath your lips.

She touches the ring on your finger, turning it once before lifting your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“I’m still angry you didn’t tell me about the insurance,” she says.

“I know.”

“We’re going to talk about it.”

“I know.”

“And you’re taking the medication on schedule.”

“You set six alarms.”

“You turned off the afternoon one yesterday.”

“I was holding the pill when it went off.”

“That isn’t the point.”

You rest your forehead against hers.

“I was scared you’d see me differently.”

Emery’s fingers move gently along the back of your neck.

“I do see you differently.”

Your stomach drops.

She kisses you before the fear can grow.

“I know you’re capable of hiding important information with alarming success,” she says. “I know you need to work on asking for help. I know you’re willing to argue with physicians while half-conscious.”

“You already knew I was stubborn.”

“I underestimated the severity.”

“And everything else?”

“You’re still you.”

Her gaze moves over your face.

“You’re the woman I love. You’re the artist who keeps ruining my clothes. You’re the barista who hates my coffee machine. You’re my wife.”

The word is still new enough to hurt in the best possible way.

You kiss her again.

Outside, a bus hisses to a stop at the corner. Rain has begun to gather on the windows, turning the street beyond them into soft shapes and reflected light.

Your unfinished canvas waits.

Your heart beats beneath your ribs.

Slower now.

Steady.

Emery rests her palm over it, feeling each movement as though she needs the proof.

You cover her hand with yours.

For nine months, your love has been built around departures.

“You just watched the first two Toy Story movies back to back,” you say. “Are you sure you don’t want to do something else? We could read, maybe. You like those Frog and Toad books, don’t you?” 

He shakes his head, holding out the remote for you to take. “Movie number three, please!” 

“Kaveh, I’m going to be in big trouble with your mom if I let you have any more TV time tonight.” 

He frowns. He’s six years old and doesn’t understand why on earth you might find it excessive to sit in front of the television and watch three movies in a row. “But I ate all my vegetables,” he frowns. “When I eat my vegetables, I get extra TV time.” 

“Yeah, like fifteen minutes of it.” 

“That’s how long Toy Story is!” 

You bite back a smile, shaking your head. “I’m not buying that.” 

“Please?” he whines. His eyes go glassy and you start to think the only thing worse than getting in trouble with your girlfriend for giving him too much screen time would be getting in trouble for making him cry. “I’ll eat all my vegetables for a week! Two weeks! A year!” 

You sigh, then give a quick nod. This isn’t an argument you think you can win. “Fine. You can watch the third movie, but I’m going to hold you to that promise.” 

He scrambles to go sit in front of the screen, legs crossed. His toys from earlier are still in a pile around him, all Toy Story themed since you and Baran bought them for him after taking him to see the fifth movie. 

Once you turn on the movie for him, you head into the kitchen to clean up dinner. You check the clock — it’s not long until Baran’s shift is supposed to end — and right when you start to wonder when she’ll be coming home, your phone on the counter pings with a notification. 

Baran <3 

Hi, azizam. Abbot just called, said he’ll be late coming in. I’m staying behind until he gets here and might get home a little late. Are you two doing OK? 

Your response comes immediately. 

You 

No problem, we’re fine. Kaveh is watching another movie and I’m cleaning up dinner <3 Hope to see you soon. 

Baran <3

It sounds like he’s watched a lot of television tonight… 

You 

I know, I’m sorry. But he looked like he was going to cry if I didn’t turn the movie on!!! He even promised to eat his vegetables for a year. 

Baran <3 

Sure he will. 🙄 He’s already learning how to manipulate his future step-mother. 

I have to go, love. I’m happy you two are having fun. Please don’t let him stay up too late waiting for me. 

That makes you smile. You peek into the living room to find Kaveh still sitting by the television, and then you turn back to your phone. 

You 

It’s not manipulation…! 

Good luck, I hope Abbot comes in soon so you can come home. We miss you. 

You set your phone down, a little disappointed that you’ll have to wait longer to see your girlfriend than usual, when you usually have to wait longer than you’d like anyway. 

Then you hear the music from the TV and Kaveh’s laughter floating in from the living room, and something in you softens. It’s still been a good night, and you’re not alone in waiting for Baran to come home. 

You load the dishes into the dishwasher, grab a glass of water for yourself and a juice box for Kaveh, and head back into the living room. 

Right as you sit down on the couch, you get another text. 

Baran <3 

Can I see you? Both of you? 

You already know what she wants, because she’s asked you this during a hundred long shifts. She says it gives her motivation to finish the day and come home when you send her pictures of you and her son, and it’s becoming a frequent occurrence for her to ask you for them. 

“Kaveh, will you come here for a second?” 

“But this is the good part!” 

“I know, but it’s important. It’ll only take a second.” 

With a small frown he gets up and hurries over to the couch, climbing onto it to sit next to you. “Picture?” 

You nod. You’re not sure how he already knows, but it makes your heart wrench that he does. “She asked for one.” 

Without explanation, he jumps off the couch and runs through the house into his bedroom. At first you think he’s upset and you sit there wondering what the hell to do, but then he comes back with his favorite stuffed bear in his arms. He gets back up onto the couch again. 

“For the picture,” he explains, and clutches the bear to his chest. “Mr Bear makes everybody feel better.” 

— 

When Baran finally makes it home, it’s nine-thirty. She’s exhausted and hungry and just wants to go to bed, wants to forget about the hospital and everyone in it. 

It was a rough shift. More than that — it was terrible. Too many peds cases for her liking and not enough help to be found with them, and while she did her best, it wasn’t nearly enough. 

When she unlocks the front door and steps quietly into the house, no one comes to greet her. It makes sense, she’s later than usual, and she told you not to let Kaveh stay awake for her. 

Still, it stings. She had an image of herself stepping through the door to find both of you already waiting, Kaveh jumping into her arms and you volunteering to go heat up her dinner. It’s how regular nights go, and it’s what she needs. She needs the two of you close. 

Then, stepping into the living room, she notices that the TV is still on. The fourth Toy Story movie is playing and the volume is down low, but there’s no six-year-old boy sitting excitedly in front of the screen. 

Baran looks at the couch. She understands now. She takes a deep breath in, releases it, feels some of the day’s tension seeping out of her. Because there the two of you are on the couch, Kaveh with his favorite stuffed bear in his arms and him tucked into your side with your arm around his shoulders, both of you asleep as the movie plays. 

She sits down next to her son. For a minute she lets herself watch the movie, the same scenes and the same lines she’s heard a thousand times by now. It’s comforting, familiar. It almost feels like a normal night, and she lets herself indulge for a few precious seconds before she flips the TV off. 

First, she picks up Kaveh. He’s exhausted enough that all he does once he’s in her arms is murmur something soft and unintelligible and hold on tight, and he’s already asleep by the time she puts him in his bed and pulls the covers over him. She kisses his forehead and whispers that she loves him even though he can’t hear her, and then she slips away. 

Baran doesn’t expect you to be awake when she comes back, but you are. You’re looking around frantically for Kaveh and you seem on the verge of panic, but then you see her coming around the couch and you allow yourself to rest back against the cushions. 

“Welcome home,” you say, and yawn. You reach out a hand, she takes it, and you pull her to sit down next to you. “What time is it?” 

“A little after nine-thirty.” 

You him in acknowledgement, pulling her close. She tucks herself into your side and rests her head in the crook of your neck, exhaling. 

“How was it?” you ask. From how frail and drained she looks, you aren’t expecting a good answer. 

She doesn’t want to say anything. Baran doesn’t want to detail the horrors she witnessed today, nor anything she did or didn’t do that might have led to them. But the only thing worse than talking about them is leaving them unsaid, allowing them to haunt her alone. 

“There was a little boy,” she says weakly. “Kaveh’s age. Could’ve been in his class.” 

It’s all you need to know. You pull her closer, and she lets you. 

“He was so small,” she continues. “He was one of mine.” 

One of mine. One of her patients, but also something deeper than that. She tends to treat every peds case as if both mother and healer, a bad habit maybe, maybe not. It is what it is. 

“I tried,” she says. “I did everything. Not just everything I could, but everything that could be done.” 

“I know,” you tell her quietly. You reach back to unclasp the claw clip in her hair, letting her curls fall loose. You rake your fingers through them soothingly. “I don’t doubt that.” 

“It happened fast. Too fast. After it was over… that’s when I asked for the picture.” 

You had been loading the dishwasher. Kaveh had been watching the movie. Baran had been losing a patient, and you were both oblivious. It had been fifteen minutes, more or less. And it wouldn’t even have been her case to manage if she hadn’t needed to stay late.

“I’m sorry,” you say. It’s all you can say. “I’m so, so sorry.” 

She stays close to you. You sit like that for a long time, Baran in your arms with her eyes closed and a hand on your chest like she can feel your heart beating beneath it. 

Eventually, she shifts and reaches behind her. “What the fuck is wrong with this cushion? It’s hurting my back.” 

Her hand closes around the leg of a familiar teddy bear. She pulls it out from behind her and goes still, expression softening. Her eyes become glassy and she takes in a shallow breath, releases it shakily. A small smile flickers onto her lips, then fades just as quickly.

She leans into you again. She doesn’t say anything and neither do you, but you notice how she holds the bear to her chest. You hold her to you just as tightly. 

thank you for reading!! I’m going to be honest this was not going to be angsty but then I just started writing and things took an evil turn. oops.

also for anyone who reads my mma barantos series can I say I’m working on a super delicious chapter and I’m so so excited to post it soon!!! it’s at 4.5k words so far and I’m working super hard to get it out this weekend.

Reaching over to the coffee table, you made no real effort to sit up as you grabbed your phone from where you had tossed it only mere seconds ago. When you saw no new notifications, you dropped the device face down on your chest before turning your attention back to the cracked paint on your living room ceiling.

Not even a minute later, you picked up your phone again, the clear numbers of the clock mocking you. Boredom had somehow found its way into your day off, nestled restlessly into your bones, and left you with nothing better to do than check your phone.

It had been a little over a week since your last day off, which was also when you had returned Baran’s jacket and written your number on her cup of tea. This meant it had been a little over a week of silence, your phone void of any contact from the other woman.

Not a text. Not a phone call. Nothing.

Tapping the dark screen once more, you sighed as the lock screen unsurprisingly lit up blank.

“This is pathetic,” you cursed yourself in a huff and threw your legs off the couch.

With your phone now shoved in the pocket of your hoodie, out of sight, you grabbed your keys and made your way out of the apartment, letting the door slam behind you. You had no idea where you were going, but you needed to get out of your own head.

After twenty minutes of weaving in and out of Pittsburgh traffic, you found yourself pulling into the grocery store parking lot with no list in mind, your thoughts completely occupied.

As you aimlessly wandered the aisles, your hand basket scattered with random items, you couldn’t help but wonder why Baran hadn’t reached out.

Did you come off too strong? Had your flirting made her uncomfortable? Though, you could have sworn she was reciprocating, but maybe you had misread it all. Your thoughts were beginning to spiral.

Had she even seen that you’d written your number on the cup? Maybe she threw it away before noticing. You liked that possibility much better than the idea of her rejecting you.

Approaching the shelves of cereal boxes, you were momentarily sidetracked, the multitude of options distracting your thoughts. Your eyes landed on a box of strawberry-milkshake-flavored Frosted Flakes, and you grimaced.

“Who the fuck comes up with these flavors?” you mumbled under your breath.

“Please tell me that sugary cereal is not your breakfast of choice,” a familiar voice interjected, and you whipped your head to the left.

There stood the woman who had been plaguing your thoughts for the past week, her hair pulled back into a messy bun and her face sans makeup. She clearly had just come from some sort of yoga or pilates workout, and you let your eyes flit down, admiring the way the Lycra fabric clung to her figure. Your gaze lingered on the exposed skin of her chest, which was still slightly gleaming with sweat, afforded by a generous v-neck and the unzipped jacket. It was only for a second but it was enough for Baran to notice, her lips curving into a smirk.

You suddenly became very aware of your own appearance—an oversized hoodie and a pair of grey sweatpants—and you were starting to wish you’d put on some real clothes before leaving this morning. But then again, you’d had no plans of seeing anyone you knew, let alone the curly-haired woman, who apparently looked beautiful even in the grocery store.

(You would find out later that, while she didn’t recognize you at first—so used to seeing you only in the context of the hospital—Baran liked you like this, stripped of your blue scrubs and armor, at ease and open.)

Meeting her eyes with your own, you felt your cheeks warm. “Would that be against your professional opinion, Dr. Al-Hashimi?” You wore a lazy smile, hoping to regain your metaphorical footing.

“I thought I told you to call me Baran,” she retorted teasingly.

And I thought I told you to call me. The words were on the tip of your tongue, but you thought better of it and bit the inside of your cheek. Instead, you corrected yourself.

“Well, Baran,” you said her name pointedly, “since you’re evidently off the clock, you’re in no place to judge my cereal consumption.”

You held her gaze—you weren’t sure you could tear your eyes away from hers even if you wanted to—and blindly reached out to grab a box of cereal.

“Lucky Charms?” Baran glanced down at your choice, her amused smirk widening into a grin. “You trying to get lucky?”

Your eyebrows shot up, as her boldness both surprised and impressed you, but you were never one to be stunned for too long.

“I’d say luck is already on my side,” you hummed, causing Baran to tilt her head. “I ran into you, didn’t I?”

A warm laugh escaped her lips, and if angels could sing, you’re pretty sure that’s what they would sound like. “Charming,” she quipped, causing you to chuckle, as if to say touché.

Baran then took a step closer to you, the distinct smell of her perfume flooding your senses, and reached across you, grabbing a box for herself.

When you saw what she’d selected, you scoffed playfully, “Oh, so you can have sugary cereal?”

Setting the box of Cap’n Crunch in her basket, Baran rolled her eyes. “It’s not for me.”

“Uh huh, sure.” You nodded, pretending to believe her. “Pray tell, who in your life eats Cap’n Crunch?”

You asked the question, but you had a feeling you knew the answer. You may not have been down in the ED very often, but word travelled fast in the PTMC, so by the second week of Baran’s tenure, you had already learned she was divorced and had a kid.

Baran opened her mouth, but the words got stuck in her throat.

There had been a reason why your number sat untouched in her phone for the past week. Well, actually, there had been a multitude of reasons, but the main one being she was scared. Or was she nervous? Whatever the feeling was, it had been twisting in her gut for the last several days as she typed and deleted several messages to you, all ultimately going unsent.

It wasn’t the fact that you were a woman that was holding her back; Baran had come to terms with her sexuality decades ago, years before her marriage. No, it was the mere idea of opening herself back up again that planted the seeds of hesitancy.

Already juggling a life that seemed to always be teetering on the edge between calm and chaos, Baran didn’t need to be starting something new with you, someone who, on paper, was the complete opposite of herself.

So, she hadn’t called or texted, nor had she seen you at work, and she had hoped the distance would push you out of her mind. Instead, it had the opposite effect.

Baran found herself hoping a plastic surgery consult would be needed down the ED, just so she could see you. Her thoughts would drift to you when she sipped on her Asaam tea in the morning or when she slipped on the jacket she’d leant you, the scent of your laundry detergent still barely there.

And now, even on her first day off in weeks, Baran couldn’t escape your orbit. Standing here with you in the cereal aisle on her day off, it was easy to forget who you were, a confident—some would say arrogant—plastic surgeon who dripped in flirtatious bravado.

Baran bit her lip, worried you’d be off-put by the fact that she had a son. (There was an itch in the back of her mind that reminded her how you’d surprised her before with your street team and MSF participation, but she didn’t bother to scratch it.)

“Alright, fine,” she relented with an exaggerated sigh. “I do enjoy a bowl of cavity-ridden cereal every now and then.”

She hadn’t exactly lied—she did indulge in a bowl of Cap’n Crunch once in a while, mostly late at night after a long shift—but she hadn’t exactly told you the truth either.

Tilting your head, you narrowed your eyes slightly but wore a soft smile. You could sense there was something left unsaid, but whatever the reason was, you weren’t going to push it.

“I won’t keep you from your day off,” you said, readjusting your basket to your other hand, “but I just wanted to apologize if I’ve made you uncomfortable with all the flirting.”

You scratched your neck and shifted your weight from one foot to the other. You weren’t used to apologizing to anyone you flirted with—in fact, you never did—but Baran wasn’t just anyone.

Noticing your apparent nervousness coupled with an apology she never would have expected, Baran furrowed her brows. For a split second, she was confused, for she didn’t think she’d done anything to suggest she’d been bothered by your comments, and then she realized.

“You haven’t,” Baran insisted as she reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper with a pen clipped to it. You watched as she scribbled something down on what could only be her grocery list.

“Here.” Clicking her pen, she handed you the paper, and you accepted it cautiously.

You scanned the list of crossed off items, which you found sort of oddly intimate, before your eyes landed on a line of numbers.

Better late than never? xx, was written underneath, and the corners of your mouth twitched up.

You looked up, meeting her warm but tentative gaze. “You’re just in time,” you said earnestly.

“Lucky me.” Baran mirrored your expression with a coy glint in her eye. “Enjoy the rest of your day—” she said your name slowly, and you clung onto each syllable.

“You too, Baran.”

She nodded and turned on heels, your eyes following her movements as she retreated down the aisle and eventually rounded the corner. For a moment, you stared at the space she had vacated before glancing back down at the paper in your hand.

Retracing her handwriting, noting how surprising legible it was for a doctor, you smiled to yourself.

You knew how Trinity could be. True, in your nearly five months of dating she’d been nothing short of doting towards you, bringing your breakfast in the mornings, picking you up from classes, running you warm baths after long practices. Still, you knew her reputation. The second she turned away from you, her smile would drop into a practiced look of disdain.

You were quite the opposite, in many ways. You were pink, frilly, and polished. You knew how to get a crowd to root for you, how to impress judges, how to be the brightest star in the room.

Where Trinity’s instinct was to scowl, yours was to beam. You liked keeping fresh flowers around your apartment, while Trinity didn’t see the point of keeping something that would die in less than two weeks. Still, she brought them to your dates. And she always laughed at the signs people waved in the stands at hockey games (“as if the players pay attention to those”) but she still covered a posterboard in glitter and is the loudest supporter at any of your competitions.

So, no, Trinity wasn’t always a fuzzy teddy bear. But you had each adapted to your environments.

Her focus and drive made her a great doctor. You hadn’t had a chance to see her in her element, in her preferred environment surrounded by beeping machines and constant traumas, but she’d had plenty of opportunity to demonstrate her know-how at home. This was due mostly to the fact that you were the world's biggest klutz.

On the ice? You were an angel. At least according to your girlfriend, and the forty or so medals and trophies you accrued over your career. You could glide around a rink like you were floating on air, executing the most precise of jumps, spins, and poses. Your balance was unmatched, timing impeccable. You had to have complete control over every muscle in your body to hold your leg above your head while teetering on a fraction of an inch’s worth of metal.

So how was it that the second you set foot outside the slipper, slidey surface, gravity turned from a mastered tool to a greatest enemy?

You often attracted odd looks in the warmer months when you let your skin breathe, what with all the bruises in varying states of healing littered about, accompanied frequently with scratches on your knees, elbows, and hands, mostly. Trinity always said you looked like a walking punching bag. All jokes aside, you had been questioned privately with social workers in ERs.

But you always assured concerned parties that you were completely safe. In fact, with the muscles your sport gave you, you might have been in a better position than most to defend yourself.

Besides, Trinity would never let anything happen to you. Her deep mistrust of people, specifically men, had her acting like a guard dog from time to time. If a man dared take a second glance in your direction, she’d be placing her body between you, wrapping a protective arm around you and enacting the trademarked Trinity Glare until left alone.

You were always on the inside of the sidewalk. She insisted on walking close behind you in a stairwell, both to block view of your ass from pervy perversons, and to be at the optimal position to catch you should you slip. Which you frequently did.

Maybe it was her increased presence for the past half year that explained how you’d managed to go so long without an ER visit, but really it was inevitable. That didn’t mean you were excited to pull up in front of the entrance labeled emergency in big red letters. Even worse knowing that Trinity was working.

“Thanks, Liv,” you said tiredly to your chauffeur, a young, prospective olympian you’d been coaching.

“Why don’t I help you in?” she asked anxiously as you gathered your things and opened the door.

“Oh, no, no, I’m fine,” you waved away. “I’ve had plenty of time to rest on the drive, this’ll be a piece of cake.”

If you hoped you could trick your ankle into agreeing with you by being delusional, you were wrong. The second you shifted your weight to the edge of the seat, a searing pain shot right up your leg and you gasped.

“Right,” said Liv, opening her own door. “I’m coming to help you.”

She ignored your protests as she rounded the car, wrestling your bags from your hands and taking your arm.

“Don’t get a ticket just for this,” you sighed, though accepted her assistance. “I can hop!”

“I’m not letting you hop into the ER,” said Liv. “Now lean.”

Still grumbling, you hobbled along at her side, trying to be as light as possible and subsequently yanking poor Liv’s neck as you crumbled. Very slowly, you made your way to the door. As you reached for the handle, a yell came from behind you.

“Hey, you can’t park here!”

You groaned.

“Go,” you said, then when Liv still hesitated, in your coach voice, “get outta here! I’m fine.”

Liv made sure you had a good grip on the doorframe before carefully hanging your bags over your shoulders.

It was certainly harder without the two extra legs. You bumped into several disgruntled people and had said sorry more times than you could count before a nurse spotted you. She was a little older, short and wearing a hijab. She was just handing a man a sandwich when you caught her eye.

“Oh, here you go, hun,” she said, moving like lightning to provide you with a wheelchair. “Have a seat.”

Feeling slightly embarrassed at the looks you were attracting, you plopped down without one iota of grace, heaving your duffel onto your lap. Peaking around your mountain of gear, you tried to reach the wheels, but the nurse got there first, pushing you to the end of a long line.

“Thank you,” you said, and she smiled.

“Of course,” she said kindly. “Had a little accident?”

“Guilty,” you chuckled. “I’m a figure skater.”

“Wow,” said the nurse, Perlah, her nametag read when you craned your head around. “I’m sure stuff like this happens all the time. I can’t even walk down my driveway in wintertime.”

What really happened was this.

You were just finishing up Liv’s practice, demonstrating a perfect triple axel. As you slipped on your skate guards and stepped onto the rubber matting, the tip of your shoe got caught in the strap of Liv’s backpack. You hadn’t made it two steps off the rink before taking a spectacular tumble into the bleachers, ending with your affected ankle tangled in nylon and velcro at an unnatural angle.

However, it was always easier to let people assume you fell doing some elaborate trick on the ice. For someone who could land three triple axels in a row, walking shouldn’t be a major feat. Yet here you were, probably about to be served an outrageous bill for a completely avoidable fall.

You didn’t like how big and clunky the wheelchair was, but at least it was a chair.

After you checked yourself in, and the waiting began, the stress of injury finally started taking its toll on your body. Perlah brought you a bag of ice to prop in the crook of your foot. You spent the next several hours jerking yourself awake every two minutes, arms tightening over your bags in a panic. The chances of getting robbed in a crowded ER waiting room full of sick and injured people were low, but skating gear was expensive enough to keep you on edge. 

On hour three, after watching an older guy with a bad comb over disappear and return from behind the double doors three separate times with no update, and only one ice change, you considered texting Trinity. You were sure she would be able to push your case along, and would be mad you had waited the time you already did, but you shook the idea off. You had to remind yourself how insignificant a little sprain was compared to some of the things going on in the ward. There was a reason certain people went back before others. You had to wait your turn like everyone else.

By hour five, the windows were growing dark, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep your eyes open. In fact, if it weren’t for the nagging rumbling of your empty stomach, you probably would have been passed out.

Finally, as the clock struck six, your name was called. You snapped upright, looking around until you spotted a tough looking blonde woman, reading off of a tablet with readers perched on her nose.

“That’s me!” you said gratefully, making to stand.

“You stay put,” she said in such a stern voice you promptly planted your butt firmly on the plastic seat.

She wheeled you expertly around the maze of people, bags, and IVs and through the heavy double doors. Your head was on a swivel as you entered the department, eyes searching for the familiar head of dark hair, unsure if you were hoping you did or didn’t see it. You didn’t, though, and Dana deposited you onto a bed in a small curtained area.

Compared to the borderline stifling air of the busy waiting room, this one was chilly. Perhaps it felt even colder than it was because of the stark white tile covering every surface, or the strong stench of antiseptic tickling your nose.

“Alright, ma’am,” said the nurse, rubbing in a dollop of hand sanitizer and clicking into a computer. “My name is Dana, I’m the charge nurse on staff, and I’m gonna be taking a look at you today, is that okay?”

“Great,” you said.

“Okay, good,” she said typing away already. “So, what’s the story.”

You cleared your throat. You wondered what she could possibly be writing about before you’ve even spoken a word. It made you nervous, but you recounted the tale as best you could, trying and failing to minimize the parts that made you sound like just as much of an idiot as you were sure you were.

“So when you fell, did you hit your head?” You shook your head no. “No loss of consciousness? Any dizziness? Okay, good.”

She sat down on a stool and rolled over to your bedside.

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Go ahead.”

She tossed the now lukewarm back of melted ice in the bin behind her. You rushed to remove your sock, embarrassed about how sweaty it still was.

“Sorry,” you said. “It’s — I just came from the rink, so I’m not the freshest.”

“Kid, I’m an ER nurse,” Dana chuckled. “Your sweaty foot wouldn’t even make the top one hundred list of worst smells. Besides, you just spent hours sitting in the damn waiting room, that couldn’t have helped anything.”

You laughed along, and tried to relax. Dana put on gloves and slid your leggings up to your knee. She inspected the skin there.

“You’ve got some old bruises here,” she noted.

“Yeah, not an uncommon occurrence,” you said. “I’m always a little banged up.”

Dana was just moving her attention to your purple ankle when you spotted the thick locks you were looking for between the narrow gap in the curtains. Your heart leapt, in relief, and uncertainty. You weren’t sure how Trinity would react to seeing you here, especially knowing you hadn’t texted her to let her know, but before you could help yourself you were calling her name.

“Trinity!”

Both Trinity’s and Dana’s heads turned at your cry. You could see your girlfriend’s swiveling around desperately, unable to spot you. Dana pulled the curtain open to reveal the source of the noise, and the second Trinity’s eyes locked onto you, you could see the panic behind them. They hardened slightly as she marched toward you, completely abandoning a conversation with a blonde, bespectacled doctor.

“You two know each other?” asked Dana, looking slightly amused.

“We’re, um,” you hesitated as Trinity drew closer. “Dating.”

When she reached you, she yanked the curtain back closed, didn’t even glance at Dana, and began questioning you.

“What happened? How long have you been waiting? Can you walk? How’s your pain?”

You smiled fondly at her antics as she quickly pulled on a pair of gloves. 

“I’m fine, just tripped over a backpack,” you said soothingly. “No big deal.”

She snorted as if to say I’ll be the judge of that and continued firing questions, this time at Dana. Dana didn’t need to be told, just stood from the stool so that Trinity could take her place.

“Have you conducted an anterior drawer test?”

“No, I —”

“What about a talar tilt test? Ottawa assessment?”

“No, kid, none of that,” said Dana. “I barely got a visual assessment before you came barreling in.”

You glanced between the two.

“What are all those things?” you asked.

Trinity didn’t answer, just bent over your foot, poking and prodding it. Dana sighed, and started untying your other shoe, waving away your attempts to help.

“Range of motion, essentially,” said the nurse. “To assess the extent of damage to the ligaments in your foot.”

You nodded.

“And if it — ah, fucking hell, that hurt!”

Trinity had pressed above your ankle knob and sent pain spiking up your foot. She finally looked up at you.

“Here?” she pressed again.

“Yes, there,” you hissed.

“How about here?” she asked, pressing hard on the bony bump. You shook your head. “Here?”

She moved her nimble fingers from the ankle, to the top of the foot, to the pinky toe. You just kept shaking your head. She slowly tilted your foot inward, and you yelped.

“Stop!”

“I’m thinking ATFL,” she said directly to Dana, who seemed to concur. “Alright, upsy daisy. I need to see you walk.”

“Really?” you sighed. “Need to?”

“Need to,” she said, and for the first time there was a hint of the familiar, soft Trin you were used to. “Just a couple steps. To the curtain and back, okay?”

You nodded, gritting your teeth, and she and Dana helped you rise gingerly to your feet. You were reluctant to put any weight on your injured ankle, but an encouraging nod from Trinity, and the squeeze of her hand as she held you up, had you take a deep breath.

It was excruciating, even more so than before. It was as though something large and spiky, like an enlarged version of a jack, was stuck in between your bones. You limped forward, spun on your good heel, and came right back to the bed. You kind of cheated, doing a sort of half jump onto the mattress in lieu of your last step, but Trinity didn’t call you on it.

The next few minutes were uncomfortable, but nothing compared to walking, so you pursed your lips and didn’t complain as Trinity, or Dr. Santos, here, pulled and twisted your sore joint every which way. Her frown deepened slightly as she worked, and despite the implications of that, and the pain, you couldn’t help but smile at how cute her concentration face was.

“What’s the damage, doc,” you said when she seemed done. She shot you a less than amused look.

“Ottawa negative, no x-ray indicated,” she said, and Dana immediately started clacking away at the keyboard again. “ADT showed moderate mechanical laxity, approximately seven centimeters. Significant ecchymosis and swelling, tenderness and excessive gapping above the anterior talofibular ligament, most likely grade two. Could require up to six weeks of healing.”

“Woah, woah,” you said, holding up your hands. “Honey. English, please.”

She sighed deeply, ripping off her gloves with more force than strictly necessary, you felt.

“It means no skating!” she said, tugging at her ponytail. “No running. No tots classes. A lot of rest, ice, and gentle range of motion exercises!”

You blinked. She was very worked up over a little sprain. It wasn’t like you hadn’t had one before, actually, you had had much worse than a grade two sprain before. You looked at Dana, and the two of you smiled.

“I hope you don’t talk to all your patients this way,” you said, voice alive with mirth.

Her eyebrows fell into a straight, rigid line, and her arms crossed. At that point, unable to hide the smile on her face, Dana left the makeshift room mumbling something about fresh ice.

“This is serious,” said Trinity, and you tried to school your face.

“Trin,” you said, pulling one of her hands free and cradling it in your own. “Baby. I’m sorry. But it’s really, really not.”

She wrenched her hand back and began pacing. It was hard with the limited space, and she made tight little circles around the vacated stool.

“How can you say that?” she said. “You could have been seriously hurt! You could have needed surgery! You could have —” she paled “— you could have been operated on by my ex-situationship.”

At that, you let out a loud laugh. You tried to stifle it, but when you saw the corner of Trinity’s mouth turn just the slightest bit up, you just let it out. As you laughed yourself silly, she sat down on the edge of your cot, trying not to smile too much. Eventually, though, she let out a chuckle or two.

“Oh, wow,” you gasped when the giggles finally died down, wiping your eyes. “Yeah, no, you’re right, Trin. That would have been a real emergency.”

She shook her head, but couldn’t regain the stony disposition she’d had before. She laced her fingers with yours.

“Next time this happens, ’cause we both know there’ll be a next time,” she said, and you nodded. “Call me. Okay?”

Your smile turned tender as she let some of her worry through.

“I’ll let you know, but I don’t want you — pulling rank, and giving me someone else’s spot, I know that goes against the… doctor code of… rules, or whatever.”

“I don’t care about any of that,” she said, and you raised a brow. “I mean, I care. But I care about you, too. And, baby, when I saw you all laid up over here, and I just got out of a trauma, and as far as I knew you were safe at home, it —”

Careful of your ankle, you scootched towards her on the bed. You cupped her tense face in your hands.

“I know,” you said, rubbing her cheek where she leaned into you. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make you worry by telling you, but I guess I just made you worry more?”

She huffed.

“I think I’m just gonna worry no matter what,” she said, gently gripping your wrists. “But less, if I have details.”

“Noted,” you said.

Sneaking a quick glance around, and listening for footsteps that weren’t coming, you pressed a quick peck to her lips.

“I need to wrap you in bubble wrap,” said Trinity, smirking a little. “Only way to protect you from yourself, apparently.”

“I’d manage somehow,” you said.

Her hands slid down to your waist.

“Any chance I could convince you to use the employee entrance next time?”

“Not a chance,” you said seriously. “Don’t go giving short cuts, Dr. Santos.”

She rolled her eyes.

“God, you’re so honest, it makes me sick,” she jested. “I’m gonna go find out where Dana is with that ice. Be right back.”

With one last kiss to your forehead, she stood and reached for the curtain. But the second she pulled it back, she snapped it shut again, shoulders tensing. You shot her a confused look as she turned back around, a hand creating a canopy over her reddening face.

“Okay,” she said, so quietly you had to strain to make out the words. “About half of the Emergency Department staff are gathered just outside, watching our curtain.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, but your lip quirked at how anxious she seemed to be all of a sudden.

“Why do you think that is?” you asked.

“I’m guessing Dana told them all who you were,” she said. “To me.”

“Ah ha,” you said, mockingly tapping your chin. “Alright, well. I think there’s only one way to solve this.”

Much to Trinity’s horror, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and began hopping towards the curtain, she stepped in front of you, trying to steer you back.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed. “You don’t even have a pair of crutches!”

“Um, I’m pretty sure you should start ambulating as soon as possible after injury,” you said. “To avoid complications. There was a poster about it in the hallway.”

Utilizing some of your speed and agility usually exclusive to the ice, you reached around her and pulled back the curtain. Indeed, an impressive group of people stood leaning against a cluster of desks, eyes trained in your direction. They quickly flitted away, trying to pretend they hadn’t been, but you didn’t mind. You thrived in the spotlight.

“Hi! You must be Trinity’s coworkers!”

At your direct address, some shoulders relaxed, and some smiles reciprocated yours. Dana rushed out, holding a baggy of ice and a large boot.

“Oh, here, doll,” she said, pulling a chair. “If you’re gonna mingle, you need to be sitting down.”

Ignoring Trinity’s protests in the background, you hopped right into the chair, grinning around at everyone. They examined you, almost clinically, like it was habit. Their gazes lingered on your pink athletic wear, pink headband, and done up nails. Despite the harsh lighting of the hospital, your appearance seemed to brighten the place.

“So, you’re Trinity’s…” said a young looking girl, Victoria, once names had been exchanged.

“Girlfriend,” you chirped, enjoying the general air of bemusement over the doctors. “Almost five months.”

“It’s lovely to meet you,” said the tall one, Robby.

“And you,” you said sweetly, pressing a hand to your heart. “Trin’s told me so much about you guys. You do amazing work here.”

Everyone seemed to preen, but Trinity had had enough.

“Okay,” she said, cutting in. “I know you like talking, but if we don’t get that boot on you soon, you’re gonna, I don’t know, sprain your other ankle. I know you’re the ice queen, but we’re on solid earth, right now.”

She wheeled you away while you waved, rather like royalty on a float.

“That’s funny,” snorted Javadi.

“What?”

“Calling her ‘ice queen’,” she said. “That’s usually a nickname for Santos.”

---

requests open! want more of this pairing?

trinity masterlist

She chokes on her next inhale, coughing out the smoke and shoving the blunt back into your hand. 

You sit up in bed a little, head swimming for a second and vision going spotty, and then once the haze clears you look down at her with furrowed brows. “Hey, are you okay?” 

Baran turns on her side, still coughing, eyes watery and red. 

“Try to breathe,” you say gently, running a hand up and down her back. “You have to breathe through it, I know it’s hard.” 

She takes in a labored breath, then releases it shakily. She clears her throat once, then twice, trying to find the way back to normality. 

“You’re okay,” you continue. “It happens.” 

“It burns,” she murmurs. Her voice is raw from coughing so much. 

“I know.” You lie down next to her again, half on your side, and your hand goes still on her back. “Have you ever smoked weed before, Baran?” 

“You asked me that earlier. I said yes.” 

“Yeah, but now I feel like you were lying to me.” 

She’s quiet for a long time. You hear the shakiness in her breath and hope it is just an effect of her coughing spell. 

Your hand on her back trails up her shoulder, up her neck, into her hair. You run your fingers through her curls lazily, in a motion that soothes you as much as it does her, and you think you could fall asleep like this if given the chance — lying in bed late at night with the promise of a day off work tomorrow, Baran right next to you. 

“It’s been a while,” she admits. “Since college, maybe.” 

You smile, then raise the joint to your lips and take in a little more smoke. 

She rolls over onto her back again and turns her head to look at you, raising a hand to your face and tracing the line of your jaw. “It hasn’t been that long for you, though.” 

“No, it hasn’t.” 

She looks up at the ceiling and a laugh bubbles up from her, light and warm in a way that makes you wonder what she thinks is so funny. 

“Are you okay?” you ask. You reach down for her hand beside you and entwine it with your own. 

She stares up at the ceiling, blinking slowly, and you can tell now that she’s properly high. 

“I don’t know,” she murmurs. “I think so.” 

“You think so?” 

Baran smiles, she looks nostalgic. “I forgot how this feels.” 

“It’s a good feeling, right?” you ask and sit up again, checking on her. You don’t feel as high as she does, mostly because your tolerance to the drug has grown over time, and you still feel tethered to the earth in a way Baran does not. 

“It is,” she says. “It’s really fucking good.” 

After one more long intake of smoke, you reach over and put the joint out in the ashtray on the bedside table. You think you should cling to some semblance of sobriety, no matter how small, so you can keep watching over Baran. 

“Our sheets are going to smell like weed,” she complains. 

“We can wash them in the morning. We were going to do it anyway.” 

She hums in agreement. “Yes, we were.” 

You study her, taking in the softness of her face, the way her gaze flits to different parts of the ceiling in a way that reminds you of lying in the yard trying to find shapes in the clouds above. She looks properly relaxed like this, for the first time in a very long while. 

“I want to go outside,” she says suddenly. “I want to go swimming.” 

“I don’t think that would be a very good idea.” 

“No?” 

You shake your head. “I think we should stay right here.” 

But she can feel it already, the way she would sink into a pool or a lake or even an ocean somewhere, the cool water enveloping her and the warm sun on her face. She can almost smell the bitterness of sunscreen, feel the dampness of her hair. 

She thinks it would feel nicer than anything else in the world. 

“I should sell this house and buy a new one with a pool,” Baran says. “I used to spend summers at my aunt’s when I was in college, and her house had a pool. In-ground, giant…” she trails off. 

You hum in response, closing your eyes and picturing it. You imagine lying down in a white lounge chair beside the pool, letting the sun warm you and lull you to sleep. 

“I have the money for it,” she continues. “We could lounge by the pool all day in the summer and be the rich fucks everyone in the neighborhood is jealous of.” 

“We could make cute drinks with those tiny umbrellas.” 

This elicits another laugh from her, one that comes from deeper in her chest and has her rolling around in the sheets, even though you don’t think what you said was funny enough to deserve such a reaction. 

Once she calms down a little, she turns and meets your eyes. “The other day, an elderly man came into the ED. He had fallen off his pool raft and bumped his head. He was slurring his words, couldn’t walk properly. His wife thought he was concussed, but when we took a look at him… he was just drunk.” 

“Shit,” you murmur, and for a second her earlier fit of laughter threatens to spread to you. 

“Do you know who he made me think of?” 

You shake your head. “Who?” 

“Yolanda.” 

“Me?!” Yolanda says from the doorway, and the two of you look over to see her leaning against its frame. You’re not sure how long she has been there. 

“Not because he was drunk,” she claims, sitting up beside you and shifting closer to rest her head on your shoulder. “He just had a certain demeanor, you know?” 

She pushes off the doorframe and shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “I don’t care, that doesn’t bother me. Not when it’s compared to your snoring problem.” 

“My snoring problem?” 

“Yes,” Yolanda crosses her arms. “You’re forty and you snore like a ninety-year-old man. The amount of sleepless nights I’ve had lately are going to start impacting my health.” 

“You can buy your own earplugs, then. Not my problem,” Baran says. 

Dressed in a plain black t-shirt and shorts after her shower, hair still damp, Yolanda climbs into bed to sit between you. The smell of her lotion wafts over you — warm vanilla and coconut — and you think the weed makes it smell so much stronger to you than usual. 

“Give me the blunt,” she demands, looking between you to see who has it. “I can smell it and I’m so fucking tired, I need it.” 

“I put it out,” you say. “Sorry.” 

“Seriously?” 

“You were taking so long in the shower that I didn’t think you wanted any,” you shrug. “Relight it if you want, it doesn’t matter.” 

“When don’t I want any? I’m serious, name an instance. How many times have we smoked together? A thousand? And Baran is new to it, but she gets some and I don’t?” 

You roll your eyes. “You’ll be fine without it. It’s not good for you.” 

Yolanda looks at you for a second, studying you and trying to determine your level of intoxication before looking over at Baran and doing the same. “It’s not good for the two of you, either,” she says eventually. 

“No, probably not.” 

Yolanda reaches across your lap to grab the TV remote off the bedside table. Then she leans back into the pillows stacked against the headboard, turns on highlights of the World Cup match none of you were home to watch earlier, and reaches for the heavy crocheted blanket you keep at the end of the bed. 

You lean forward and look across the bed at Baran, checking on her again. You see her looking up at Yolanda reverently, brows pulled together as if she’s trying to commit the image of her like this to memory. It’s a look that’s so soft, so caring, and Yolanda has no idea. 

“You parted your hair differently,” Baran murmurs, and you can just barely hear it. You watch her bring a hand up to Yolanda’s hair, ghosting over it.

“I did,” Yolanda says. She looks at Baran and something softens in her face, tension releasing that she seems to carry chronically. “You noticed.” 

“Of course.” 

She leans over to kiss Baran, domestic and soft, hand coming to rest on her chest to feel the steady beating of her heart.

She doesn’t expect the eagerness Baran returns it with. She doesn’t expect Baran to let out a quiet sound against her mouth, or for her to trail a hand just barely beneath the fabric of her shirt. 

They part briefly, meeting one another’s eyes. You are still watching from beside them. 

Baran leans in, but Yolanda stops her with the hand still on her chest. 

“What’s wrong?” Baran asks. Her voice is thick and maybe it’s from want, maybe it’s from the weed. “Yolanda…” 

“Later,” she replies. “Not right now, not when you’re high and I’m not.” 

“But—” 

“Later,” Yolanda repeats. She turns to you for backup. “Don’t you think so?” 

You nod. You offer Baran a small smile and reach out a hand for her, and you’re not sure what you’re expecting, but it’s not for her to move and lie down across both your laps — which is exactly what she does. 

“No pool, no sex,” she sighs. “Fine. That’s fine.” 

Yolanda clears her throat to keep from laughing. You shove her shoulder lightly. 

“Hey,” Baran says, “would you grab me a bag of chips?” 

“Which of us are you asking?” you say. 

“I’m asking whoever will get it for me,” she replies. 

“I’ll get it,” Yolanda says. “Anything else you need?” 

“A house with a pool.” 

“Great, I’ll see if we have one in the fridge.” 

“I appreciate it.” 

“Grab one for me too,” you say, and shrug when she flips you off. 

thank you for reading!! ik in canon baran wouldn't be able to smoke weed but i wrote the first half of this fic a long time ago, and then added yolanda and finished it recently to tie it up. sorry for the inaccuracy but i didn't want to let this rot in my drafts.

The shift went to hell shortly after that and over the course of the day you’d lost track of Dr. Al-Hashimi, but she was still in the back of your mind. 

When the shift ended you were ready to fall asleep while standing as you left the building. You were so out of it you hadn’t realized you’d ended up walking in the same direction as the woman who’d been on your mind. 

“Dr. Al-Hashimi?” The older woman turned at the sound of her name and gave you a weak smile. You returned it as your heart beat out of your chest. 

She pulled her wired headphones out of her ears and came to a stop as you reached her car.

You were standing so close to her you could feel the heat radiating off of her body in the cooling night. You didn’t mean to be so close, but when she abruptly stopped you nearly crashed into her. 

She easily steadied you with her hands on your waist. Neither of you missed the way she was slow to pull away. 

Baran really didn’t want to let go. You’d been kind to her all day, slightly flirty which she found herself responding to, and you were an amazing nurse. 

Her head was still foggy from the seizures she’d had earlier in the day and when you so freely leaned into her touch it broke something in her. 

Someone wanting to be close to her was exactly what she needed. You smiled up at her before it disappeared from your face completely. 

She was crying. 

Without much thought you pulled her into your arms and held her close. She was rigid for a moment before letting herself be held. Baran’s arms wrapped around your middle like a lifeline. She was completely unable to hide her pain. 

Your heart clenched as a few little sobs escaped her lips. You held her tighter and raked your fingertips on her scalp. 

You whispered sweet nothings into her hair and it seemed to help. At that moment Baran believed everything was going to be okay because you were holding her in your strong arms. 

When Baran was finally able to catch her breath she pulled away and embarrassment instantly seeped in. 

“Oh my god, I am so-” she started, but you cut her off. 

“Don’t apologize. Today was a terrible day especially for your first day. When I saw you leaving I just wanted to say you did amazing. The Pitt isn’t exactly known for liking change, but I think you’re just what this department needs Dr. Al-Hashimi.” 

Baran sighed as her doe eyes bored into yours. You couldn’t help but notice how gorgeous she was with her hair down, perfectly framing her face.

“Baran.” Was all that escaped her lips as she took in every bit of your face. You furrowed your eyebrows in response. 

“You just held me while I got your scrubs all snotty. Please, call me Baran.” You bit your lip and nodded at her. 

“I’ll hold you any time, Baran.” You couldn’t see her blush, but Baran felt the heat rising on her face. 

Just as you were about to walk back to the hospital fireworks began overhead. Your head turned to the sky with a bright smile on your face. You loved seeing all the different colors. 

You missed the way Baran flinched at the sudden noise. She wasn’t the biggest fan of fireworks, but as she stood there the sound was drowned out. 

She was watching you while you admired the sky. The way your hair was loose after the long shift. How you still had your scrubs on, but they were no longer tucked in. And the way your eyes lit up every time a new color scattered across the sky. 

Baran called your name when the show was over and you slowly turned to her. For the second time that night the older woman found herself being vulnerable with a near stranger. 

“I shouldn’t be driving tonight.” She stated simply. You could see the quiver in her lip and tilted your head at her for her to continue speaking. 

“I have epilepsy.” You nodded and took a step closer to her. Baran reached out to you and you quickly took her hand. Baran’s grip was strong. 

“I can give you a ride home.” Baran hesitated, but knew she should take you up on your offer.

…

You stayed with Baran that night, just holding her in your arms and from then on your relationship grew. 

You’d been dating for just over three months and everyone at the hospital knew. Some of the nurses and residents liked to tease you, but it was nothing you couldn’t handle. 

Throughout the day when Baran would hover you’d smile at her and give her three little taps somewhere on her body, typically her hand. She thought it was a nervous habit at first, but when she learned you were a musician she realized it was more of a comforting stim.

Most times when Baran felt your taps she didn’t mind, but it was slowly driving her crazy. You hadn’t noticed her discomfort because they were much more than musical rhythms to you. 

To you, the taps were your silent way of saying the words you’d felt for a long time. You fell easily, but you weren’t sure if Baran was quite ready to catch you. You were scared to say those three words out loud because you didn’t want to scare her off. 

You’d done that in the past and you didn’t want to lose Baran in the same way. You knew she was different, but it was hard to not be reminded of your past trauma. 

It was something you were working on, but you were only human. 

You used the three little taps to say the words for you and that felt like enough for now. Part of you believed Baran felt the same, she showed as much, but you knew this was new for her.

She hadn’t dated since her divorce and she’d only been with one other person. You, however, were no stranger to dating. Granted most of the people you’d dated weren’t serious, but there had been a few who snuck through the cracks, but never stuck.

You felt like Baran would be the one stick, but you didn’t want to jinx it. 

Although neither of you said the words there were little things you each did to show you cared. Baran always made you tea in the mornings that you woke up at her house. 

She swore it was better than coffee. If you didn’t wake up with her you brought her a cup to work. 

She noticed you liked drinking a specific juice after long shifts so she was sure to keep some stocked in her fridge. 

She had to double the stash when her son found them because he somehow enjoyed them too. She found them disgusting.

Baran was always cold and wore fluffy clothing around the house. You’d made a habit of “accidentally” leaving your sweaters at her house. It calmed her down on the nights you weren’t there and you found it adorable when you saw her wearing your clothes. 

It was little moments that you shared together that meant the world to both of you. You were each other’s calm after the storm. 

You’d both been having a particularly difficult day when Baran sought you out. Just being near you made her feel that much better. She hadn’t been having any seizures lately, but the stress of the day had been getting to you. 

Before you could see her, you smelled Baran’s perfume and it made you smile. Baran’s hand rested on your shoulder and yours instantly flew to hers and tapped it three times. 

You couldn’t see the way Baran rolled her neck trying to relieve some tension, but you heard the groan that escaped her lips. 

“I know, I can’t wait to go home either.” Baran looked at you curiously and your eyes widened. You were meant to be going over to her house tonight. It felt like home, but you hadn’t even thought about what you said before it came out of your mouth. 

You tried to back pedal, but Baran beat you to it. 

“I can’t wait to go home with you either.” Your smile brightened before she was pulled away to another trauma. 

…

The next time you tapped Baran she was in the break room grabbing a quick cup of tea. You’d been walking by when you noticed her. You quickly popped into the room and kissed her on the cheek giving her arm three taps. 

Seeing her throughout the day made yours that much better. 

Baran knew it was you even though you were gone as quick as you’d come and it made her smile, but she couldn’t help the annoyance that lingered.

Baran was torn and she knew her heavy schedule had been adding to her lack of patience. 

She was determined to bring it up at some point, just not while you were both at work.

…  

The final time you tapped Baran that day was while you were cuddled in bed together. You’d both had a wonderful night together after such a terrible shift. You were laying in her arms, both completely relaxed. 

Baran was sleepily playing with your hair. Her brain was finally quiet when she felt three little taps on her hip and suddenly she was completely awake. 

You immediately felt her go rigid underneath you. Your mouth went dry and you realized what was causing her discomfort. You tried your hardest not to squirm in her arms. You hoped by not moving she’d drop the entire thing and you’d both be able to sleep. 

What you didn’t expect was Baran pulling away from you completely. Suddenly the space of her bed felt like the length of a football field. She was sitting on the edge of her bed wrapped in nothing but her sheet. 

You could tell she was tired, but now she was annoyed too and you had a pretty good idea which one was worse. 

You waited with baited breath, not sure what to do with yourself. She wasn’t facing you when she finally spoke. 

“I need to take a shower.” You moved on the bed to try and talk to her. 

“Alone.” Your stomach dropped. You weren't even thinking of joining her in the shower, but the clear boundary made you feel uneasy. 

You learned very quickly that Baran loved to shower with you. The intimacy of sharing the small space coupled with the act of things like washing each other's hair was something she enjoyed. 

You'd only ever taken one shower without her while she was there and it was the first one you'd ever taken at her house. 

It was a conversation she'd broached early on. If you were showering you asked her to join because you knew she liked it, but so did you. 

You were so lost in your own mind you hadn't even registered when she'd walked towards the bathroom. You'd barely heard the rest of the words that escaped her mouth. 

“And if you could stop the tapping, I'd appreciate it. It's making me uncomfortable.” 

Tears silently fell from your face onto the sheets as she closed the bathroom door. 

You tried your best to quiet your sobs by muffling them into your pillow. 

All that kept replaying in your mind was that you made Baran uncomfortable and that was the last thing you ever wanted to do.

Making her, a woman, uncomfortable felt like the worst thing you could've ever done. 

The tears had stopped, but the disappointment settled deeply into your chest.

You knew you were blowing things out of proportion, but it felt like history was repeating itself. 

There was something about a three month rule scratching at the back of your mind as you forced yourself to fall asleep before Baran got out of the shower. 

Baran had hoped you were awake when she got back so she could talk with you properly. She knew you didn't mean anything by the taps. 

She didn't want to take away your comfort and she also knew she hadn’t gone about it the right way either. 

She'd been frustrated with the day and let it cloud her judgment. She'd meant to talk to you properly earlier, but one thing led to another and she certainly wasn't complaining about how you two ended the night. 

Baran yawned when she got into bed. She tilted her head in your direction when she saw how you'd rolled yourself practically to the edge of the bed.

She pulled you closer, like she always did, and sighed happily. She relished in the warmth you provided. You were a human heater and she was a freezer. 

She nestled her nose into the back of your neck and breathed in deeply. In the quiet of the night her heart swelled and she smiled to herself.

“I love you azizam.” Baran whispered before settling into a deep sleep.

…                                                                                                                                

When Baran woke up that morning you were already gone. She wasn’t sure when you left, but from the coolness of the sheets she could tell it had been a while. 

You couldn’t sleep and when you woke up in Baran’s arms you wanted to cry all over again. You carefully peeled away from her and left a note about having to go home and get scrubs. 

Baran didn’t work that day, but she wished she did. She wanted to see you and make sure everything was okay. 

You were definitely not one to wake up earlier than you needed to. 

Baran wanted to text you throughout the day, but she didn’t want to distract you from work either. As the shift went on your heart sank even further into your stomach. You were waiting for Baran’s message, but it never came. 

You bit the bullet and reached out, telling her about your day. There wasn’t anything particularly special about the day, but you still wanted to tell her. 

Baran got the messages, but she read them without responding immediately. Not because she didn’t want to, but because her son was sick and she had to take care of him. 

You, however, didn't know that. When she finally did respond it felt lackluster.

Over the next few days you were on completely opposite schedules until almost two weeks had passed since you’d spent the night at Baran’s house. In that time the knot in your stomach only tightened. 

When Baran saw that you were both on the same shift her heartbeat quickened. She’d missed being around you and selfishly she missed working with you. Somehow you were able to anticipate her needs perfectly. 

The other nurses were great, but you and her were able to work like a well oiled machine. 

You were excited to see her too, but a large part of you was also nervous. The time apart had allowed you to look at yourself in a way you never had before. You were more particular around people. 

Never getting too close and making sure you weren’t crossing anyone’s boundaries. You were also a bit quieter around the department, but not enough for anyone to notice. 

Well, at least you thought no one had noticed. That could not be said for Trinity Santos. 

She was a pro at reading you, mainly because you’d grown up together. 

In a family full of boys you and Trinity kept each other sane. You were more than cousins, you were sisters. She was the athlete and you were the musician cheering her on. Along the way you both found yourself in similar professions.

She’d been watching you over the last few days and did not like what she saw. You’d been spending some time at her and Dennis’ apartment, trying not to spiral. She loved having you around, but she was waiting for you to open up. 

You were both a bit touchy when it came to relationships, but she knew if she waited it out you’d reach out to her. You both knew you were always there for each other. 

That time came when you and Trinity were carpooling to the hospital without Dennis because he didn’t have a shift. 

“Baran and I are going to be on the same shift today.” Trinity’s eyebrows furrowed. She couldn’t tell if you were happy about this revelation or not. 

“You guys have been on opposite schedules.” She said simply and you nodded in agreement. You were quiet as you clasped your hands in your lap. You’d been trying a lot harder not to fidget as much as you used to. 

Trinity noticed. Of course she did. There was always a buzz about you. It had been a family thing. She found calm in exercise and you found calm in making music. It had always been that way. 

It was then that she realized you hadn’t been listening to music as often as you used to. 

Trinity turned on the radio and was grateful when one of your favorite songs was playing through the speakers. What concerned Trinity more was the way you didn’t tap along to the music. 

You wanted to, but you fought the urge. 

Trinity was an exit away from the hospital when she decided to pull over on the side of the road. Your head snapped to her and you looked to see if something was wrong with the car. 

“Trin, what are you doing? We’re gonna be late!” 

“We have time. You always insist on being early and we’re not far.” Trinity turned completely to you and looked at your posture. Rigid. 

She raised her eyebrows at you and pursed her lips. You rolled your eyes in response as you looked out the window. Trinity waited. She always did. She knew you’d spill, you couldn’t help it. 

You were a talker even if you tried to hide it. 

“I’m just nervous. It’s been basically two weeks since I’ve seen her and the last time…” Trinity tensed as your sentence tapered off. If Baran had done something to you she was prepared to kill the attending. 

“It’s like we’re just going through the motions. I miss her and I still l- really like her. I’m just not sure she feels the same anymore.” Trinity let out a slow breath. 

“What if I’m just delaying the inevitable?” Your voice is barely above a whisper this time. Trinity frowned at you before reaching towards your hands. Your knuckles were practically white from how hard you were trying to keep yourself still. 

You both froze when Trinity’s hand reached your own. She carefully pried your hands apart and held them in her own. Soon enough you relaxed and let her hold you.

It was comforting even though you didn’t feel you deserved it. Trinity waited for you to meet her eyes before speaking. 

“Baran is not like the people of your past and I know you know that. You have to give her a chance and let her in completely. I don’t know what happened and frankly it’s not my business, but I do know you. And some part of you is purposefully avoiding her so you don’t get hurt. But, newsflash, you’re just the one hurting yourself instead.” 

You hated when Trinity gave you advice because she was always right. You huffed in her direction, but nodded along. 

“I hate you.” You playfully whispered as Trinity put her seatbelt back on and drove. 

“I hate you too.” She responded.

When you walked into the department it was already bustling. Apparently night shift had not been so quiet and it bled into dayshift. 

You walked over to the nurse’s station and saw Dana waiting with orders on the tip of her tongue. Before she could get anything out she pointed to the side of the desk. You immediately recognized your favorite drink from the coffee shop down the street.

Baran. 

You couldn’t see where she was, but a small smile played on your lips. Maybe everything was going to be okay. 

…

Oh how wrong you were. You’d been on your last nerve the entire shift. Normally you loved working with the patients, but not today. Everyone thought they knew better and everyone’s patience was running thin.

One patient refused to eat and for some reason only Perlah could get through to them. Of course this happened only after you had to clean the entire room, especially the bed, from all the food smushed everywhere. 

One parent would not shut up. And it wasn’t like they were asking questions, those were warranted. But they would not stop arguing with their kid and it made you want to pull your hair out. 

The final patient, an older man, was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He came in needing a few stitches on his forearm, but would not let you help. He insisted on needing a doctor because they were more experienced. 

You’d been in the middle of trying to talk him down when Baran walked by. 

“Hello, is there anything I can do?” He looked at her hospital tag and immediately perked up. 

“Finally, a doctor. This kid doesn’t know what she’s doing.” He wailed on for a few seconds before Baran had enough. 

“Sir, I can assure you her suturing technique is flawless. Now, I’d be more than happy to help, however, considering she sutures multiple times a day and I can’t remember the last time I’ve done a mattress stitch I’ll let you be the judge on who you’d rather fix your wound.” 

The man immediately shut up as a pout spread on his face. Baran nodded with a smile on her own face as she left the room. You were able to stitch him up in a few minutes and he thankfully stopped talking. 

When you left the room you wanted to thank Baran and found that she was already waiting for you. 

“Thank you for that.” You walked over to Baran and wanted to give her a hug, but opted to stand a professional distance away. Baran looked up from her iPad and smiled.

“You’re welcome. Next time try walking away then returning to the patient with someone else. It could help with your own irritability. Dr. Mohan is great with geriatric patients, try finding her.” You deflated as you watched Baran walk away. 

You had no idea what the hell that was. First she was praising you and now she was reprimanding you for your bedside manner? She technically wasn’t even your boss. 

You took a deep breath and closed your eyes for a minute before opening them to see Dana standing right in front of you. You startled when you saw her, but she just chuckled. 

“Everyone’s on edge kid, don’t let it get to you.” You nodded knowingly as you pushed away the negative thoughts and continued the day. You knew Baran didn’t mean anything by the criticism. 

The rest of the shift wasn’t too terrible until a dad came in with his two sons. It was clear that none of them wanted to be there, but the oldest of the two had a broken wrist. He was ten years old and very sweet even though he was hurt. 

The youngest was crying nonstop, clearly needing a nap and the father was frazzled trying to advocate for his hurt son. 

Princess and Perlah were giving the older boy a work up when they called you into the room. You’d been on the way to change your scrubs as a baby had thrown up on you, but stopped when they called.

“Can you check the boy? His name is TJ.” The dad was frantically trying to calm the three year old with no luck. 

You knew you weren’t going to get out of helping so you carefully rolled up your scrub top and put it on the floor before carefully taking TJ into your arms. He wasn’t injured, which was good, but he definitely needed a nap and didn’t understand what was going on. 

You held the boy comfortably to your chest and he immediately relaxed. 

“Thank you so much.” The dad said to you and you nodded. You were rubbing TJ’s back when someone stormed into the room. 

As you turned to face the door you heard a woman practically screaming in your ear. Before you knew what was happening you felt TJ being ripped out of your arms as a fist collided with your face. 

As your body hit the floor you coughed up a bit of blood. You were trying to get your bearings when you looked up and saw Dana coming in and commanding the scene. 

You understood then that TJ’s mother had been the one to punch you not realizing you were a nurse. Clearly there was some family drama with that one. 

It was quiet when you felt yourself being helped up by Dana. She cringed when she saw your face and led you to a quiet room. 

You didn’t even have it in you to fight. You were exhausted and your head was now pounding. 

“Jesus kid, I said don’t let the day get to you.” Dana joked as she cleaned up your face. 

“What can I say, I just can’t help myself.” You could feel the bruise forming on your face and it was definitely tender to the touch. It was going to be a terrible bruise and you knew it. 

“Gotta get Al-Hashimi in here to do a full work up.” Dana says simply. Your shoulders sagged. Before you could respond to the older woman Trinity flew through the door. 

“What the hell happened? Is she okay?” Dana nodded as Trinity caught her breath. She’d clearly run from wherever she was in the department to be by your side. 

“As far as I can tell she's going to be okay, but we’re definitely going to get a head CT just to be safe.” Trinity was already moving to sign the order before going to your side and checking you herself. 

Your face definitely looked worse than it was but the swelling was not a good sign. 

“What’s that face for?” You asked, looking between Trinity and Dana. 

“There’s some fluid behind your eye and we’re going to have to drain it.” You cringed at the thought. As much as you dealt with needles during the day you absolutely hated them anywhere near you. 

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay. I can go get-” Trinity started, but you cut her off. 

“No, I’ll be fine. Just do whatever you have to do.” Dana prepped what Trinity needed before going to your opposite side and holding your hand. 

You were grateful to her for being there. You wouldn’t have asked for comfort, but having someone hold your hand did make you feel better. 

You closed your eyes as Trinity pulled out the needle from its packaging because you knew you’d freak out if you saw it. Within a few minutes she was done and Dana patted your hand with her other one. 

“You did good kid.” You gave her a tight smile as you carefully pulled your hand away and threaded your fingers together in your lap. Dana left the room to get you a wheeled chair so that she could take you up to imaging and Trinity finally sat down. 

“You scared the shit out of me you bitch.” Trinity breathed. You just smiled at her. 

“I’m glad I could make your day a little interesting.” She rolled her eyes at you, but she was smiling. Dana returned quickly and Trinity helped you into the chair. 

You knew you could walk, but you also knew it would make her feel better to help you so you let her.

Imaging went fine and by the time you got back to your room it was empty. The lights were a bit bright so Dana turned them off as she left you alone. 

You had all of five minutes of peace and quiet before you heard frantic footsteps walking into the room. You didn’t even need to open your eyes to know who it was. 

“Why didn’t anyone come get me?” You shifted in the bed as you sat up and the lights were turned back on. You squinted at the brightness, but didn’t ask for her to turn the lights back off. 

As Baran got closer you clasped your hands in your lap and looked at her nervously. Her hand stilled on her penlight when she saw the look on your face. You weren’t nervous because of the injury. 

You were nervous because of her. Baran took a deep breath to try and center herself. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have freaked out. Dana asked me to check on you as an attending. It would personally make me feel better to know you’re okay, but if you don’t want me to be the one to check that’s okay too. I can get someone else.” You sighed as you looked down at your hands. 

“It’s okay.” You whispered and Baran tentatively walked towards you. She could feel how tense you were under her touch and it broke her heart. When she was satisfied that you were okay given the circumstances she pulled away softly and rolled a chair over to sit by your side. 

“Azizam, what’s wrong?” The pet name knocked the wind out of you. You swallowed harshly as you willed yourself not to cry. This was not the time to have a breakdown. 

You bit the inside of your cheek as you opened your mouth slightly to talk then closed it. You didn’t even know where to begin. Your body was aching but so was your heart. 

Baran looked at your hands again before laying her hands palm up on the bed for you to take, an open invitation. 

Your heart lurched and your fingers twitched, but you didn’t immediately hold her hand like you would’ve just a few weeks ago. 

Baran tried to hide the sadness on her face, but you could see it and it made you sick. You’d disappointed her again. Baran carefully pulled her hands away, but they were still within reach. 

“I won't force my touch on you, but I miss you. I miss when you'd reach for me. It feels like you're pulling away and I can't quite figure out what has changed. Please tell me what's going on.” Her pleading felt like another punch to the gut. 

There was still that pull, urging you to tell her what happened. More than anything you wanted to tell her how you felt, but you were still scared. 

Your hand shakily reached out to her before Dana’s head popping into the room startled your hands back together. Baran huffed as she turned to the door. 

“GSW, two minutes out.” Baran nodded as she pursed her lips before turning back to you. You were back in your shell and it made her whole body ache. 

She’d been so distracted over the last two weeks with her son and just trying to get through the days that she had let herself lose track of you. She thought it was just being on opposite schedules, but she’d missed something big and she was kicking herself because of it. 

She pushed up from the chair and instinctively moved to kiss your forehead before pulling away to find your eyes. You stared up at her with a soft glint in your own eyes. 

“Can I?” Her voice was barely above a whisper and it made you shiver. 

“Please.” You practically begged. You missed her too. She placed a gentle kiss on your temple before leaving after promising to come back when she got a chance. 

You saw Baran and Trinity have a conversation just outside of your room before the younger woman walked in carrying your things. She turned off the lights on her way in.

“Your imaging looks good, but you’re going home for today and tomorrow. Dana’s orders and no driving.” You pouted lightly, but didn’t disagree. You could use the time to rest if nothing else. 

“You’re welcome to come back to my apartment with me, but Baran looked pretty shaken up on her way out.” You clenched your jaw which hurt more than you intended. Some part of you forgot you’d actually gotten punched by a patient’s mother. 

“No, I still need to talk to her. I’ll wait until the shift is over, but I’ll go to an on-call room because I don’t want to take up a bed.” Trinity nodded as she left you with your things. 

It felt good to be back in your own clothes and not half scrubs. You were also grateful to be laying down. You sat down and before you knew it you were out like a light. 

You hadn’t slept incredibly well the night before and the stress of the day had really taken its toll. 

You were still lightly snoring an hour and a half later when Baran found you in the room with the help of Trinity’s direction. 

Her lips twitched at the sight of you. You looked adorably peaceful. She held her breath for a moment when she didn’t see you breathing. She called your name, but when you didn’t respond she ran to your side, but instantly stilled when your chest finally moved. 

She swore under her breath in Farsi as she carefully took a deep breath. You stirred in your sleep and opened your eyes sleepily. You moved to rub your eyes, but Baran caught your hand.

You furrowed your eyebrows before remembering your face was bruised. 

“Thank you.” You mumbled as you sat up and stretched. Baran stood in front of you, shifting on the balls of her feet. 

“Can we talk about whatever’s going on at home?” You nodded as you stood up and grabbed your bag. Baran’s eyes softened at the dazed look on your face. She wanted to reach out and hold your hand, but didn’t want to spook you. 

“I miss you too.” You said suddenly. Baran turned back to you with a dopey smile on her face. She tentatively reached her hand out in your direction and you took it gently. Baran brushed her thumbs over your knuckles. 

You both sighed at the contact. 

The drive back to Baran’s house was comfortably silent and on the way she picked up food for the both of you. 

“Isn’t it your day to have Kian?” You questioned as you walked into the living room. 

“Yeah, but I asked Mark if he could stay an extra day or two because I wanted to be with you.” Your heart melted at that as Baran served the both of you food. Your stomach grumbled as the delicious smell filled the room. 

Baran smiled to herself as the two of you ate. You happily took a second portion before putting your plate on the table in front of you. 

Baran had finished her food before you, but she was pleased to see you eating. It seemed like you hadn’t had a good meal in weeks which she was starting to realize was partially her fault. 

Food was definitely one of her love languages and seeing you eat relaxed something in her. After a few minutes you moved to wash the dishes. 

“You don’t have to do that.” Baran stated simply as she followed you to the kitchen to put away the leftovers. 

“I know, but I want to.” Baran watched you for a second before deciding she wasn’t going to let whatever was happening affect how she’d normally act. 

She carefully wrapped her arms around your waist and held you while you did the dishes. Your hand stuttered, but your body instantly relaxed in hers. You really did miss having her close to you. 

When you finished the dishes you turned around in her arms and laid your head on her shoulder. 

Baran held you tighter as she ran her hand up and down your back soothingly. She kissed your temple as you pulled away, but you didn’t go far. You felt the urge to tap her, but bit your lip hard instead. 

“Hey, don’t hurt my girl.” She whispered as she brushed her thumb on your lip. You blushed and looked away. Baran kept her arms around you as she led you back to the couch. 

She sat down first and you easily went with her, sitting in her lap. You enjoyed being this close to her, but something within you still made you clasp your hands in your own lap. 

Baran pouted at the motion, but didn’t question you right away. 

“You know when I tap you?” Baran nodded. That was another thing Baran had noticed. You hadn’t tapped her all day. She never thought she’d miss feeling those taps, but she did. 

It was then that the memory of that night came flooding back to her. She’d told you to stop and you did, but at what cost?

“I’m not just absentmindedly tapping you. It means something to me.” Baran furrowed her brows, but nodded. Her heart raced. She’d never thought of it that way. She was so overstimulated that day it didn’t even occur to her to think of it from your perspective. 

She’d been doing a lot of staying in her own head which clearly wasn’t that much different from you. She hadn’t meant to snap at you, but as she replayed her words in her mind she cringed. 

“I said you were making me uncomfortable.” Baran repeated in horror. You squirmed in her lap as tears prickled in your eyes. You bit the inside of your cheek and tried to calm down. 

“Azizam, it was late and I meant to talk to you about it at a different time, but I did not act well in that situation. I’m sorry. I wanted to reach out the next day then Kian was sick and along the way I got sidetracked and I shouldn’t have. I think the overstimulation of the day is what made the taps such a big deal for me. What do they mean?” 

You bit your lip again, letting her apology sink in. You weren’t sure the taps were the only thing you needed to talk about anymore. 

“Baran it’s not just the taps, but also hearing you say I make you uncomfortable, regardless of how you meant it really stung.” You carefully climbed out of her lap and sat criss-crossed facing her. 

She instantly missed the contact. 

“I’ve been trying so hard not to be fidgety or repeat the same actions, but I feel like I’m driving myself a little crazy. As it turns out I move a lot more than I thought.” You laughed hollowly. 

Baran scratched at the inside of her forearm and nodded as you spoke. She didn’t want to interrupt you. 

“I’m just worried that maybe I’m not what you’re looking for because I’ve been down this road before and the last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable by just being myself.” Baran’s eyes widened as tears fell down her cheeks. She quickly swiped at her face. 

“And I’m not saying this to burden you or downplay my actions if you feel they're wrong and they hurt you, but I’m just trying to let you into my head. I know it’s pretty fucked up in there though.” You sighed. 

Trinity had been right, it did feel good to let Baran in no matter what was going to happen. Somehow you felt ready to have this conversation. Maybe it was the space or getting punched, but something was shifting. 

Baran turned to you as much as she could as she spoke. 

“You will never be a burden to me.” The conviction in Baran’s voice made you shiver. 

“I, fuck-.” She took a deep breath and took your hands into yours. Somewhere along the way you were no longer clasping them in front of you, but they’d been resting on your knees. 

“I messed up and I am so fucking sorry, but you, you are everything to me joonam. And I’ve been yours since the moment you smiled at me and stopped me from dropping the bagels on my first day. I’ve loved you from that first minute and I don’t ever plan to stop.” 

Your mouth fell open as fresh tears fell down your cheeks. 

“You what?” You breathed. It was the softest Baran had ever heard you. She could tell you needed her to say it plainly and was more than happy to do so for you. It felt amazing to finally get it off her chest. 

“I love you.” Baran said it like it was a known fact, which made your heart swell. 

Baran felt three little taps on the top of her hand and her eyes widened as everything finally clicked for her. 

A watery laugh escaped her lips as she pulled you into a fierce kiss. The kisses didn’t stop as she pushed you back onto the couch, laying down, so she could hold you close to her. 

“I love you.” You confidently said in between her kisses.

***

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