gf!Baran who is obsessed with your thighs. She loves laying her head in your lap after a long day (a rare show of vulnerability for her), and having the plush skin of your thighs beneath her is the best pillow she could ask for.

gf!Baran who especially loves your thighs when she’s eating you out. When your legs twitch around her head, trying not to close, she doesn’t push to keep them open. No. Her fingers dig into the soft skin and squeeze, gently encouraging you to let go and just lean into the pleasure of her tongue in your pussy.

gf!Baran who uses any excuse to be close to you. If you’re at home, she’s leaning on you, laying between your thighs or curled up with you in bed. If you’re out of the house, she’s always reaching for your hand, guiding you with a gentle hand on the small of your back or making up some excuse about your shift being askew so she can pull you aside to kiss you.

gf!Baran who, when you’re getting ready in the mirror, restlessly adjusting a tighter dress, comes up behind you, sliding her hands along your waist and murmurs:

“You look so beautiful right now, azizam.”

As her hands smooth over your skin. She smiles into the mirror, genuinely always looking like she won the jackpot being with you. Her soft, steady words—so painfully honest, too, she would never lie to you—always make your cheeks go warm.

gf!Baran who peppers kisses all over your tummy whenever she can. if you’re just laying in bed with pajamas that maybe ride up a little, she’ll put her book down and kiss her way down to your stomach. Sometimes, after going down on you, she just lays between your legs, one hand still gently caressing your thigh while she leaves lazy kisses all along your stomach.

gf!Baran who immediately searches out your warmth after work. If she comes home and sees you in the kitchen, cooking dinner with her son? She’s DONE for. She’ll come up and hug you from behind, kissing your shoulder as her son runs over to hug her (he can only reach up to her waist.) Even as you explain what you’re making, she can’t really focus. She’s got heart-eyes the entire time, basically.

gf!Baran who gets whiny whenever you’re fucking her!!! she especially loves when your fingers are in her and she can cling to the plush of your arms to anchor herself. Even while she’s breathing all heavy and moaning, she wants you as close as possible.

gf!Baran who often leaves some (very light) nail marks against your skin on accident and feels SO guilty about it… mostly because seeing you a little marked up turns her on a bit more than she’d like to admit. Seeing you with her hickeys or some gentle scratch marks the next day gets her feeling a little warmer every time.

gf!Baran who is a total pervert when you go to the beach together. she can’t help it. 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

she’ll feel guilty for seeing your body in a small bikini and immediately thinking about pushing it to the side and watching you take her strap-on from behind… pussy all wet for her… the swell of your ass jiggling as she pushes into you particularly hard…

later, as she admits this to you (spoken softly, with the slight twinge of embarrassment in her voice), her cheeks get flushed and she is grinning stupidly the whole time. she says she “didn’t want to make you feel objectified” but just wanted you to know how bad she wanted you in that moment. as if you’re not already thirty seconds from grabbing her and kissing her senseless. as if her own girlfriend would think she’s some kind of pervert just for having her mind in the gutter.

gf!Baran who always tries to be so respectful with you. she takes her time, kisses you slowly and deeply, makes sure you know how absolutely enamored she is with you every second she can.

gf!Baran who is kind of a little too respectful sometimes… it gets a little frustrating when she uses it as an excuse to tease you. she’ll be touching you carefully, leaving slow kisses down your neck when all you want is her fingers in you. or she’ll be grinding down onto your thigh, her wetness spreading on your skin, not letting herself cum just because she wants to keep this going for as long as possible.

gf!Baran who hardly ever drinks because of the seizures, but goes out once with Trinity, Mel, Victoria, and Dennis because they insisted she come to karaoke night. she came home in an uber and found you IMMEDIATELY. before you could even ask how it was, she was kissing you. she slid down onto her knees, mumbling something in Farsi about how much she needs you. her hand gently pushes your tummy to keep you pinned against the wall, the other grabbing your hip so angle your pussy closer to her face. her curls were brushing your thighs the entire time she was licking you, desperately grabbing at any plush skin she can get a hold of.

gf!Baran who falls asleep during movies with you and her son… with her head on your chest. she lays her head in your tits like that’s her favorite pillow <3

gf!Baran who gets unreasonably upset when you mention your ex saying something about you not eating as many calories. in retaliation to this ex, she immediately figures out how to bake your favorite dessert and makes it for you. just out of spite for that ex girlfriend. she reassures you with a kiss on your cheek that you should never think like that because you’re so fucking beautiful as is <3

Tightrope (part 2)

A/N: this is the longest piece I’ve written on Tumblr so far.

♡ ───────── ♡ ───────── ♡

You learned very quickly on her first day that people had a habit of walking away while Melissa King was still talking.

Not in an intentionally cruel way, but more like just drifting away. Nodding halfway through her explanation and then peeling off the second something bigger demanded their attention. She would never call them back or raise her voice, she would just let the rest of her sentence fall away and move on like she hadn’t been speaking at all.

You hated it.

Mel listens to everyone. Patients rambling about their lives, family members who are spiraling, med students panicking, you name it. She gives her full attention like it’s an unlimited resource. It bothered you that she poured so much into other people and rarely seemed to receive the same in return.

So you decided it had to be you.

At first, it had been small things: lingering after a conversation so she could actually finish her thought with another person in front of her. Asking follow-up questions when she would say something about her personal life. Seeking her out toward the end of a shift for something that wasn’t about a patient.

The first time you approached her about having dinner together, she’d looked almost startled, like she couldn’t figure out why someone would want her company without some sort of agenda. When she explained that she wanted to, but she had to pick up her sister from her day center, you adjusted the plan like it was no big deal. You ordered far too much spaghetti and garlic bread from Pasta Too and showed up at her apartment an hour later. 

That was the first time you met Becca. The first time you saw Mel in her own space, far more relaxed than you’d ever seen her at work. You ate at her tiny dining room table while Becca explained why Pasta Too’s spaghetti is actually better than Sienna Mercato’s and Mel laughed along in a way that felt sincere.

After that, friendship settled in naturally. You weren’t work-friends, you were real friends. You learned the King sisters’ routines and had your own specific mug at their apartment. 

And at some point, your reasons for showing up became a little less simple.

You told yourself it was just loyalty, or maybe protectiveness over Mel and her casual kindness that she gave a little too freely. Just the satisfaction of being the one person who didn’t walk away from her mid-sentence.

It was easier to just not think about it too much.

Mel was always careful with her heart, and you’ve never been sure there was space for you in that way, not when her life is already so full of responsibility, and certainly not when she’s never once looked at you like she’s wondering.

So you let the feeling hide away in the back of your thoughts where you could keep it smothered. Friendship, after all, was something you already had and you weren’t about to risk losing it.

Which is why, when Mel is off her game today, you notice immediately.

She normally doesn’t miss things. She doesn’t drift her attention in and out during work when nothing is wrong, and she certainly doesn’t stand in the middle of the ER staring at the board blankly until someone calls her name.

But today she does, and you don’t know why.

“Dr. King?” you say gently, nudging her elbow with yours. “You’re still with me, right?”

She blinks like she’s surfacing from underwater. “Right, sorry.”

You’ve watch her the entire morning. She’s competent - she’s always competent - but she’s quieter than normal, even for her. She’s slower between cases, and her smile at a patient’s joke hits her face half a second later than usual.

When you finally get five uninterrupted minutes where nobody is demanding either of your attention, you drag her toward the supply room, closing the door with your hip behind you.

“Okay,” you sigh. “What’s going on with you today?”

Mel doesn’t look at you, instead choosing to count suture kits that don’t require counting.

“Nothing.”

You lean against a shelf, arms crossed in front of your chest and a look of disbelief on your face. “Mel.”

Her tongue pokes the inside of her cheek as she deliberates. Then, with a resigned sigh, she says, “Charlie and Sabrina are coming into town.”

You frown, trying to recall the familiar names from your list of knowledge about Mel. “Those are your college friends, right?”

She nods.

You’ve heard about them before: stories about shared dorm kitchens and bad boyfriends and finals week meltdowns. They were the kind of friends who help shaped Mel when she was in college, long before her mother passed and life changed for Mel and Becca.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” you ask carefully. “You haven’t seen them in what, a year?”

“Eight months,” she corrects. “They come every year.”

“…and they’re staying with you?”

“On my couch,” Mel sighs. “For a few days.”

“So why do you look like someone just told you we’re short staffed for the next month?”

That almost gets a smile out of her.

“Because,” she says, exhaling through her nose, “every time they visit, it becomes a State of the Union on my personal life.”

You blink. “What does that even mean?”

“It means they think I’m overworked. Burnt out. Alone.” She shrugs one shoulder, still not meeting your eyes. “They’re not totally wrong.”

You purse your lips as she goes on.

“They just…” she pauses, looking for the words. “They care. They don’t want me pouring everything into work and Becca and ending up with nothing for myself.”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“I know,” Mel says, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “I just don’t have the bandwidth for it right now.”

You soften a little. You know what her days look like. Long shifts, sometimes taking tablets home to finish charting at midnight. Checking in on Becca throughout the day, picking her up in the evenings, making sure her routine isn’t ever disrupted.

“So what do they do?” you ask. “Interrogate you?”

She huffs. “It’s more like…persistent encouragement.”

You’re more confused than ever at why any of this is a bad thing. “That just sounds like they love you.” You study her face, trying to understand what she isn’t saying.

Then, a lightbulb.

 “They’re pushy about your love life, aren’t they?”

“Very.”

You nod slowly with the realization. “Okay, so we solve that.”

Mel’s brow furrows. “We?”

“Yeah, we.”

Mel leans back against the shelves next to you. “Unless you can find me a partner in the next two days, I don’t see how you’re going to be much help.”

An awkward laugh follows her words, both defensive and dismissive.

You exchange a look, and the conversation is left dangling as Dana’s muffled voice calls out an incoming trauma from the nurse’s station. Mel heads out of the supply room quickly, ducking her head to try and avoid others noticing the flush on her face at the very private topic of her love life. 

You follow, silently brainstorming practically the rest of the day on how to help her. 

All day, every time she appears, you notice how her eyes unfocus when nobody is watching her. The little tense curl of her shoulders as she, too, is clearly trying to solve this problem between patients. 

And every time, you catch yourself thinking about how you could fix this. How you could make it easier for her.

She’s your friend, after all, right? That’s what friends do.

At the end of your shift, you spot her leaving through the employee door of the hospital. She’s checking her bag, a thin coat draped over one arm and her phone in her hand. The hallway is otherwise empty, not a soul coming in or out.

Perfect.

You fall into step beside her. “Hey.”

Mel glances up with a surprised expression. “Hey.”

“About earlier.” You pause. “I think I found a way to help.”

Her eyebrows furrow as she focuses on your face. “How?”

You stop walking as you make it out the door, standing close enough to her that the cool air feels different outside of the hospital. “I could…pretend to be your partner.”

She also stops walking, mid-step. “Excuse me?”

“Just for a few days,” you clarify quickly. “We tell your friends we’ve been seeing each other, they leave you alone about it, and then they leave and we never have to talk about it ever again.”

You can see the cogs turning in Mel’s head as she says, “…you would do that for me?”

“Who could do it better?” you urge, reaching out and taking hold of her arms gently just above her elbows. “We already spend time together outside the hospital, Becca knows me, I’ve been to your apartment and you’ve been to mine before. It’s a minimal disruption to your life and you get your friends off your back.”

She’s clearly weighing the risk, her gaze lifted somewhere above your heads as she thinks. 

“I need to think about it,” she finally says, looking at you. 

“Okay.”

Apparently, Mel didn’t have to think about it for long.

The following night, you’d barely had the energy to shower, let alone cook, so dinner had consisted of crackers, a string cheese, and the electrolyte drink you’d bought during your last grocery run when you were trying to be healthier and then forgotten about it until it was the only thing you had besides water. 

Now, you’re curled sideways on the couch in an oversized sweatshirt and sleep shorts, a cooling face mask tight across your skin while Love Island plays to an audience of one just a little after 9pm. 

Your phone buzzes against the arm of the couch.

Are you awake?

You smile at your phone, picturing Mel on the other end, practically sending a u up? text.

yeah, what’s up?

Barely a moment passes before your screen lights up again.

Can you come over please? Becca just went to bed.

Your pulse stutters for reasons you refuse to think about, even as you jump off your couch and pull on your coat. 

Her apartment isn’t too far from yours, and it’s both silent and mostly dark when you arrive.

She opens the door before you can knock, as if she’s been standing just inside waiting. Given she waited until after Becca was in bed to text you, you assume that was on purpose. 

“Hey,” she says softly. “Come on in.”

The TV murmurs faintly from her living room, the volume low. A blanket is rumpled on the couch, telling you that Mel had been mirroring you in your own home. 

You slip off your shoes at the front door. You’ve been here enough to know the rhythm of Mel’s apartment.

For a moment she just stands there, her arms folded, like she’s rehearsing words in her head. Then she sighs, closing her eyes.

“I…I want to do it.”

You blink. “Do it?”

“The pretending,” she says with a small, awkward gesture of her hands. “Us, dating. For my friends.”

You smile, mostly out of surprise. “Oh, okay, yeah, let’s do it.”

Mel nods, hurrying past you to the kitchen counter, where she retrieves a folded sheet of lined paper. “I made a list of things we should think about.”

Of course she did.

You can’t stop the small laugh that escapes you as she hands you the paper, filled with her handwriting. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“I was up most of last night,” she admits, not looking even a little embarrassed.

Her handwriting is neat but urgent, like she didn’t want to lose track of the thoughts as they came.

• Becca needs to know it isn’t real. 

So her routine won’t be bothered when Mel’s friends leave, that one you understand.

• Relationship details planned ahead.

Makes sense, you need a cohesive story.

• No surprises in front of Becca.

Again, another one you understand. Mel always puts Becca first, anything that would disrupt or dysregulate her is an immediate no.

Your eyes drift over the rest of the list of what seems to be rules, until they finally reach the last line.

• Rules for PDA???

You look up, your eyebrows lifting as your gaze settles on Mel’s face.

She doesn’t even question which one you’re looking at, pressing her lips together firmly. “That one felt…necessary.”

You bite back another smile at her thoroughness. “Are we workshopping these rules right now?”

Mel takes a seat on her couch and you follow suit at the other end, drawing your knees up to your chest. “If we don’t do this right, it’s only going to make them ask more questions.”

“So,” you say carefully, “what kind of rules do you think we should have?”

She looks up until her eyes catch yours, then back down at her hands nervously. “I don’t know,” she admits. 

You scoot across the couch until you’re on the seat next to her, and she almost shrinks under your gaze. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” you say slowly. And then you reach for her hand, taking it in yours. “Are you okay with this?”

Mel inhales, short and quick as she looks down at your joined hands. “Yeah, that’s okay.”

Her hand is warm in yours, and you let go before you can think too much about the contact. 

“What about hugging?” you ask.

Her head lifts immediately, brows drawing together in confusion. “We’ve hugged before.”

There’s just a tiny bit of defensiveness in her tone. It’s not anger, more like she thinks you’re implying she’s fragile and can’t stand to be touched.

You smile gently. “I know, but I’m not talking about end-of-shift, ‘good job surviving’ hugs.”

She tilts her head a little as you go on.

“I mean,” you clarify, “if we’re pretending. Would your…partner need permission every time? Or is it normal to just -” you hesitate, searching for neutral phrasing. “Touch you.”

Her gaze drops to your hands again, though you’re no longer touching.

“I didn’t think about that,” she admits quietly.

You nod. “Like, if I came up behind you, would that be okay? Or would you want a warning first?”

Mel’s mouth tilts to one side, thoughtful. “I don’t like being surprised,” she says. “But I don’t need formal permission. Just…try not to sneak up on me.”

You study her face, searching for any discomfort there. “Mel,” you say gently, reaching out to take her hand again. She doesn’t pull away. “We don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do. If this is too much, we don’t have to do it. Your friends can kick rocks.”

“It’s okay,” she says quickly, looking back up at you. “I just don’t want this to ruin our friendship.”

Your thumb brushes across the back of her hand lightly. 

“It won’t,” you promise. “We’re not changing anything. When they leave, everything will go back to normal.”

The words sound simple and sensible.

Mel’s shoulders loosen, tension easing from her posture as she nods in agreement.

You give her hand one last reassuring squeeze before letting go, leaning back into the couch.

Normal. Everything will go back to normal.

But as Mel relaxes beside you and the conversation moves back to your usual friendly banter, a quiet unease settles in your chest.

Because you’re not fully sure your heart understands the word pretend. And you’re not sure, once that door opens, that you’ll be able to close it again.

♡ ───────── ♡ ───────── ♡

The following day comes too soon, and your shift is over faster than you expected. By the time you’ve clocked out, your feet ache and your brain feels like it’s been wrung dry.

It had been one of those shifts, full of non-stop call lights, two near-misses that left your adrenaline spiking for over an hour after each, and the kind of emotional exhaustion that settled deep in your bones. All you really want is a boiling hot shower, your own bed, and eight uninterrupted hours of silence.

Instead, your phone buzzed in your pocket long before your shift had ended, reminding you of your self-assigned responsibility.

They’re here. Making dinner.

You had stared at the message for a long time when it came in two hours ago, your exhaustion warring with obligation.

No pressure.

Right.

You want to go home. You want to collapse face-first into your pillow and pretend you never offered any of this.

But Mel is expecting you. And more than that, she’s counting on you.

So now you’re in your car, the engine humming beneath you as the city lights slide past in familiar turns and traffic lights while the sky dims into a soft blue-gray as the daytime turns to evening.

Your hands tighten on the steering wheel, and you tell yourself that it’s just nerves. This is acting, that’s all.

You and Mel are friends who are going to pretend to be girlfriends for a few days. You’ve run through the plan a dozen times since last night. Becca already knows, Mel promised she had explained everything. Everyone is on the same page.

Still, a small, treacherous worry creeps its way into your thoughts. 

What if Becca forgets and says something? What if she cheerfully announces they’re pretending! halfway through dinner?

You sigh and try to shake your head of the thought.

Mel wouldn’t have agreed to this if she thought it would upset her sister in any way. And Becca knows you, she trusts you. That has to count for something.

At a red light, you flex your fingers against the steering wheel to try and steady your heart pounding in your chest.

This is no different than acting. You just have to be warm and familiar, and a little affectionate. Physical affection, you remind yourself, is part of the performance. Hugging. Sitting close. Holding her hand.

Your stomach flips and you try to force yourself to focus on the practical stuff instead.

A couple of months, that’s the story you’ve agreed on. 

Long enough that sleepovers make sense; your toothbrush is already sitting beside Mel’s in the holder, your spare hoodie is hanging in her hall closet, a pair of socks in her dresser like you’re there all the time. 

But not long enough that Charlie and Sabrina will be upset she didn’t tell them right away.

You’re new and easy and still in the honeymoon phase. You can do the honeymoon phase.

You pull into the parking lot of Mel’s apartment complex, parking in the closest spot you can find to the building’s single entry door. You turn off the engine and sit there for a moment, listening to the ticking quiet of the cooling car. Then you reach for your bag, step out into the cool air, and head toward the building. 

When you make it to her floor, the spare key she’d given you slides easily into the lock.

You don’t hesitate. Because if you hesitate, you’ll overthink everything, and you’ve already done enough of that in the car.

The door opens to the warm, lived-in comfort you’ve come to associate with Mel’s apartment: there’s the low hum of voices, the soft clatter of dishes, and the unmistakable smell of garlic in sauce on the stove.

You toe off your shoes beside the door like you always do and set your backpack down.

“I’m home,” you call, the rehearsed words leaving your mouth before you can second-guess them.

The conversation and laughter coming from the kitchen halts immediately and silence takes its place.

From where you stand in the entryway, you can see the layout clearly: Becca and two women you don’t recognize are seated at the dining table, mid-conversation, their attention slowly pivoting toward you. One of them holds a drink in her hand, hovering mid-air like she was about to take a sip before you interrupted.

Mel stands at the small island with her back to the room, her shoulders hunched in concentration as she chops vegetables. She hasn’t turned around, clearly more prepared for you than anyone else was.

This is it.

You cross the apartment room on quiet feet, slipping into Mel’s personal space like you’re comfortable doing it. For half a second you catch the smell of her strawberry shampoo, the soft cotton of her shirt brushing your forearm as you wrap your arms gently around her waist.

You feel her entire body jolt in surprise at the contact.

Before she can turn, before you lose your nerve, you lean in and press a soft kiss to the curve of her shoulder.

Three things happen at once:

The first is that your own heart kickstarts into overdrive. You’re pretty sure Mel can feel it against her back, it’s pounding that hard against your chest. Your lips against her body, even through her shirt, is too much for your poor nervous system to take.

The second is that Mel freezes. 

Not the small startle you’d expected from her, like when you first touched her, and certainly not the quick recovery you both rehearsed for, but a full, stunned stillness, as if her brain is short-circuiting. The knife remains suspended in her hand above the cutting board. You can feel the sudden inhale she takes, the way she goes rigid beneath your arms.

And the third, behind you, the room goes utterly and profoundly still.

You glance behind you.

Becca’s expression is bright with recognition and something like poorly-contained delight. 

The other two women are looking at you like you’ve just materialized out of thin air.

You loosen your hold a little, suddenly aware of the heat that’s rushing into your face, the way Mel hasn’t moved an inch.

“Hi,” you say, voice soft, uncertain.

The taller of the two women, a redhead, blinks first. “Who are you?”

You glance at Mel, still frozen in front of you, then back at them, offering a small, sheepish smile. “I’m…I’m Mel’s -” you falter, unsure of yourself. “She didn’t tell you?”

Mel finally turns around in your arms. Her face is pink and her eyes are wide, the shock slowly giving way to embarrassment. A flicker of nervous laughter hovers at the corner of her mouth. 

“I was going to,” she admits. “I just…hadn’t gotten there yet.”

The two women remain frozen. The one holding the drink sets it down very carefully.

Becca looks between all of you, clearly thrilled. Your name leaves her mouth suddenly, loud and excited. “That’s Mel’s girlfriend!”

The declaration lands in the room like a dropped plate.

Charlie and Sabrina, though you’re not sure which is which, both snap their attention from Becca back to you, then to Mel, then back again - their expressions astonished.

Mel lets out a small laugh that’s clearly made out of panic. “I -” She glances up at you, her cheeks flushed an even darker shade of pink. “Yeah, this is - we’re -”

You squeeze her lightly, trying to ground her before she can spiral. 

“Hi,” you say gently, offering a small and apologetic smile. “Sorry for the dramatic entrance.”

Neither of them responds immediately.

Becca, however, looks immensely pleased with herself.

The brunette leans back in her chair, eyes wide. “Mel,” she says slowly, “you literally told me on the phone the other day that you don’t have time to date.”

“I didn’t say that,” Mel mutters.

The other woman gestures vaguely in your direction. “There is a person attached to you.”

You become acutely aware of your arms still around Mel’s waist, and you take a step back from her.

Mel sighs, tension cracking into shy resignation. “I-I was going to tell you,” she says. “It’s just…new.”

New.

Becca nods emphatically, as if confirming everything.

Charlie and Sabrina are still staring at the two of you, processing, rewriting the narrative in real time.

And slowly - very slowly - the shock in the room begins to melt into other things.

Curiosity. Delight. And the sense that your relationship has just become the most interesting development of their entire visit. 

The silence breaks all at once.

The redhead recovers first, shoving her chair back as she stands and crosses the short distance toward you, her eyes bright with disbelief and curiosity.

“I’m Charlie,” she says, studying you. “And I have questions.”

The brunette rises more slowly, though her expression is just as stunned. “Sabrina,” she introduces herself, shaking her head like she can’t believe what she’s seeing. “Jesus, Mel, we leave you alone for five minutes…”

Mel makes a strangled noise behind you and abruptly turns back to the cutting board, knife meeting wood in quick thunks that suggest she’s channeling every ounce of her flustered energy into chopping the veggies.

“It’s really nice to meet you both,” you say.

Charlie leans an elbow on the counter like she’s settling in for an interview. “How long have you been dating?”

“Charlie,” Mel says warily without turning around.

“What? I’m pacing myself.”

“Two months,” you answer, trying to keep your tone easy.

Sabrina’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Only two months?”

Behind you, the knife pauses for a second before resuming it’s rhythm.

Becca, meanwhile, is practically vibrating in her chair. “They hold hands when they watch TV,” she announces proudly. 

Mel drops a piece of zucchini.

“Becca,” she says weakly.

“And she sleeps over all the time,” Becca continues, clearly taking delight in divulging fake details. “Her toothbrush is blue.”

Your face warms.

Charlie presses her lips together, fighting a grin and losing. Sabrina looks openly charmed.

Mel’s shoulders creep higher toward her ears.

You take pity on her.

“I’m going to go change,” you say gently, placing a hand on the small of Mel’s back in passing. “Long shift.”

Mel nods quickly without turning around. “Yeah. Go. Please.”

Becca waves enthusiastically as you retreat down the hall like you live here - which, for the purposes of the next few days, you pretty much do.

You change into the clothes you’d stashed here yesterday: soft sweatpants and a tank top, the comfort of them helping to settle your nerves. The muffled cadence of voices carries from the kitchen, and you’re unable to make out the words, but they’re animated.

But while you’re gone -

Mel keeps her eyes on the cutting board long after you’ve disappeared down the hall.

The moment the bedroom door clicks shut, Charlie leans forward, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper. 

“Mel.”

Mel sighs, “Don’t.”

Sabrina’s smile is soft. “She’s so cute.”

Mel’s knife slows.

Charlie props her chin on her hand. “Also, the way she walked in and just -” she gestures vaguely towards Mel, “-claimed her spot?”

Sabrina studies Mel’s back for a moment, thinking heavily. “Hey,” she says quietly. “Why didn’t you tell us? Really.”

Mel shrugs with a small lift of one shoulder. “I told you, it’s new.”

“Did you think we wouldn’t be happy for you?”

Mel’s brows knit faintly. “What? No.”

Sabrina presses, but carefully. “We’ve been giving you grief about dating for years now. Was it because we always said ‘boyfriend’?”

There’s no accusation in it. Just a question.

Mel finally turns around, knife in hand, leaning back against the counter. 

“I didn’t think you’d be upset,” she says. “I just…didn’t want it to be a thing. You guys already think I work too much, and with Becca and everything else…” she gestures vaguely. “I didn’t want to add another conversation.”

Charlie frowns a little. “The only reason we’ve ever bothered you about dating is because we want you to be happy. We don’t care who it is.”

Sabrina nods. “If anything, I’m just offended you didn’t call me after your first date.”

Mel’s face flushes immediately. “I didn’t - it’s not -”

Becca kicks her feet under the table, happy with both the chaos and her sister’s embarrassment. 

“For the record?” Charlie grins.

Mel looks up warily.

“She’s cute,” Charlie says. “And the way she looks at you? Yeah. I approve.”

Sabrina nods again. “Very much.”

Mel presses her lips together tightly, failing to hide the warmth and the smile creeping into her expression. “I know,” she admits quietly.

Dinner is surprisingly natural once you return.

Without making a big spectacle of it, you move alongside Mel in the kitchen - pulling plates from the cabinet she always uses, setting the table, spooning pasta and vegetables into neat portions that don’t touch on Becca’s plate while Mel protests that she can do it herself. 

“You cooked,” you remind her, brushing past her. “Sit down.”

Mel only hesitates for a moment before relenting, her shoulders relaxing as she slides into the chair beside Becca.

You place a plate in front of Mel, another in front of Becca, and pause when Becca looks up at you expectantly.

You smile. This, you’ve done a thousand times.

“Orange juice?” you offer.

She nods enthusiastically.

“Coming right up.”

By the time you sit down with your own plate, this feels like things are back to normal. No forced niceness or awkward small talk, just having dinner instead of performing for Mel’s friends. It makes everything feel like less of a lie.

Charlie and Sabrina exchange looks over their forks any time you and Mel interact.

They don’t say it outright, but it’s obvious in their expressions with every gesture.

Questions come, but they arrive wrapped in curiosity rather than interrogation. How did you meet? Who asked who out? Do you work the same shifts often? Is Mel finally taking days off? You move through them carefully, Mel’s awkwardness at the nature of the questions helping make your answers feel natural.

A couple of months. Work friends first. Coffee after a long shift. It just sort of happened.

Becca contributes freely, offering enthusiastic confirmation of dinners and movie nights and hand-holding like she’s your relationship’s personal publicist. 

Mel’s friends seem pleased with all of it.

By the time dishes are rinsed and stacked and the apartment settles into nighttime quiet, the initial shock has settled into warm approval. Eventually, yawns begin to spread around the living room. Blankets are claimed, the couch is prepared with pillows, and lights are dimmed. 

You and Mel exchange a glance.

So far, so good.

The bedroom door closes softly behind you.

The quiet feels immediate and intimate after the grilling conversation you’ve been fielding all evening.

For a moment, you and Mel just stand there in her bedroom, looking at each other - then, like a string that’s been pulled too tight finally snapping, you both dissolve into soft, nervous laughter.

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

“I know,” she breathes, pressing a hand to her forehead as she leans back against the door. “Charlie’s face when you walked in -”

“You froze.”

“You kissed my shoulder!”

“You should’ve seen your face!”

She laughs again, trying to muffle the sound in the sleeve of her shirt.

“I thought I was prepared,” she admits. “I was not prepared.”

You grin, keeping your voice low as you say, “For what it’s worth, I think they believe us.”

Mel nods, passing you to flop onto her bed. “Yeah, they definitely do.” She’s quiet for a moment before adding, “Becca is being…extremely helpful.”

You smile, following to sit next to her. “She’s committed to the mission.”

She laughs, throwing an arm over her face, shielding her from the overhead light. You hurry back to the door, flipping off the ceiling light and instead turning on the lamp by her bedside.

“You know,” she says after a moment, not quite meeting your eyes, “you don’t actually have to stay the night. If you want to sneak out once everyone’s asleep, that’s okay.”

The words are soft and almost insecure.

You tilt your head. “Do you not want me to stay?”

Mel flushes instantly and she turns her head away under the pretense of smoothing the edge of her comforter, refusing to look at you. 

“Of course not,” she says quickly. “Having you here has made this…a lot easier for me. It's actually kind of fun, pretending.”

You watch her reach up and tuck a corner of the blanket, redundant since it’ll be pulled back soon anyway. The movement betrays her nerves. 

“I’m going to go brush my teeth then,” you say, keeping your voice low for the sleeping apartment beyond the bedroom door. “I’ll be right back.”

Mel nods quickly. “Okay.”

You offer her a small smile before disappearing into the hallway, the door closing behind you. 

Mel exhales slowly, pressing her fingertips into her forehead to steady herself.

She can still feel the ghost of your arms around her waist earlier, she thinks back on the way you plated her dinner, poured Becca’s juice. The way you move around them like you’re part of her home.

This is supposed to be pretend.

Instead, watching you walk out of her bedroom toward the bathroom, your hair still slightly mussed from your long shift, something else is settling in her chest. A strange awareness that having you here, acting the way you are, doesn’t feel like much of an act at all.

♡ ───────── ♡ ───────── ♡

The first light of morning is just barely brushing the edges of the blinds, painting the room in soft gold rays. You stir, only half-aware of the alarmingly cozy weight draped over you.

And then you open your eyes.

Mel is pressed up against you, her face tucked into your collarbone, both arms curled around your waist, one over, one under you. Her legs are tangled with yours, her body molded against you in a way that feels almost possessive. You inhale slowly, trying not to move too much, because you’re sure that the moment you do, the spell will break.

She’s asleep, but it’s not the restless sleep you’ve seen her in after a long shift when she falls asleep on her couch before you’ve left her apartment. There’s no furrowed brow, no twitch to her limbs. She’s just peaceful right now. The rise and fall of her chest is steady and calm, and it makes your heart squeeze.

You can feel the weight of her arms, the gentle press of her soft skin against yours, and the warmth of her hair brushing across your chest, stray hairs falling out of her usual braid. Your fingers itch to smooth her hair down, to trace the line of her arm. But you stay still, because again, this is delicate and you’re painfully aware that it’s stolen time.

Pretend. It’s just pretend.

But your thoughts betray you. Your chest feels tight, it knows you’re lying to yourself. You’ve been pretending for the last twelve hours straight, but the longer you hold her in this exact minute, the less fake it feels. You wonder if she knows deep down that this is no longer just a mission or a favor to you - that this isn’t entirely pretend.

A small, sleepy sigh escapes her lips and you catch the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, even in her sleep. You let your hand drift lightly along her back, just enough to feel the warmth of her body under the blanket, careful not to wake her.

Time seems to stretch. A minute is an hour, an hour is a second.

Eventually, though, the morning nudges you toward motion. You don’t want to get up, but you also know the world is coming. And with it will come Mel’s shift at the hospital. 

She works today, you don’t.

Against your better judgment, you press a soft kiss to the top of her head. She moves just a little in her sleep and her arms tighten around you, her body trying hard to avoid the wake-up that her mind is heading toward.

“Coffee?” you whisper softly, more to yourself than her, partially because speaking her name might wake her and also because you know she doesn’t actually like coffee.

A soft groan drifts from her lips. 

Careful not to wake her further, you slowly begin untangling yourself from Mel. One arm slips out, then a leg, moving cautiously. Her weight shifts against you, a small stir in her sleep.

Don’t wake her. Don’t wake her.

Finally, you’re free - fully separate, but the warmth of her still lingers on your skin. Relief washes over you for a moment…until you catch a glint of moisture on your collarbone.

Oh.

She’s drooled on you.

You giggle softly, trying to be discreet as you dab at it with the blanket, heart hammering. And that’s exactly when her eyes flutter open.

She blinks, slow and still half-asleep, and looks up at you. For a heartbeat, you think she’s going to say something, or maybe even recoil. But instead, she just watches you carefully, the tiniest trace of embarrassment in her gaze. Her mouth quirks to the side both in shyness and amusement, and she doesn’t look away. 

“Morning,” she murmurs, her voice husky from sleep.

“Morning,” you echo quietly.

You both move to get ready - brushing your teeth, pulling on clothes and glasses, and tidying up her bed together quietly. There’s a strange feeling in the air, almost as if both of you are aware of the lingering closeness, the newness of it, yet trying not to admit it out loud.

By the time you emerge into the living room, the sun is rising higher, painting the apartment in gold. Becca is already perched on the couch, chatting happily with Charlie and Sabrina, who are lounging comfortably and clearly already invested in the dynamic.

“Morning!” Becca calls, her eyes lighting up when she sees you.

Charlie and Sabrina glance up, both smiling warmly, and you offer a small, nervous wave.

Mel stands behind you, her glasses propped up on top of her head as she rubs her eyes and greets the trio with a yawn. 

You make your way into the kitchen, tying your hair back as you go, then opening the fridge and get to work making breakfast like you’re the host here.

Eggs crack softly against the bowl’s rim. Butter melts in the pan with a gentle hiss. Bread slides into the toaster. You rinse strawberries, slice them into halves, then add blueberries and orange slices to a bowl for everyone to share.

The eggs cook quickly - they’re just for you, Charlie, and Sabrina. Mel and Becca both hate the texture, something you learned toward the beginning of your friendship during a late-evening takeout debate on whether or not breakfast foods were acceptable as dinner.

The answer, by the way, was a resounding no from both of them. You disagreed.

Hyper-aware of Sabrina’s eyes on you from the living room and the need for performance, you call out softly, “Babe, can you c’mere for a moment?”

There’s a pause in conversation, and it seems to take Mel a moment to register that you’re talking to her. She appears in the entry to the kitchen, crossing the room slowly. When she reaches you, you slide an arm around her waist and pull her gently against your side, your lips brushing the side of her head.

Her body goes still.

You lean closer, your voice barely a whisper that’s meant only for her. “If you want them to stop interrogating you,” you murmur, “you’re gonna have to sell it a little harder.”

Mel exhales softly, and you can almost feel the decision as she makes it. Her fingers curl into the front of your shirt and she leans into you, resting her cheek against your shoulder, her arms wrapping around your middle as she buries her face against your neck. 

“Better,” you whisper, continuing to flip the eggs. “I made breakfast,” you say, your voice returning to normal volume so everyone can hear you. “Figured you and Becks might want fruit.”

“Yes please!” you hear Becca call from the living room.

Mel tilts her face towards you, sliding her glasses from the top of her head onto her nose. “Only if you share with me.”

Oh fuck. 

For a moment, the domesticity of the situation you’ve found yourself feels dangerously close to real. Mel’s face is close enough to your own that you could lean in and kiss her if you really wanted to, it would be so easy. And you want to, her lips are right there -

Down, girl. 

You blink hard, turning away as your brain reminds you of the harsh reality you’re currently in. Mel isn’t your girlfriend, this is all pretend, and you just told her to play it up. You can’t let yourself be fooled by the acting you literally just made her do. 

You can feel Mel still staring at the side of your head, her gaze scanning your face with the tiniest trace of confusion in her expression and you know the wheels are turning inside.

You plate the eggs, and then butter toast slices as they come out while the bread is still steaming.

Mel’s hands still haven’t left your shirt yet, and your free arm is still around her waist. But even that has to end if you ever want to eat.

Plates clink softly as you and Mel carry everything to the table.

Mel stays tucked against your side until the last possible second before sliding into her own chair. Her fingers trail lightly across your arm as she lets go. Subtle, but not so much that it goes unnoticed.

She's a surprisingly good actress.

You set the plates down and give a sheepish half-shrug. 

“Not exactly a five-star breakfast,” you say, sliding into your seat. “I’m a nurse, not a chef.”

Charlie snorts as she joins you at the table, Sabrina and Becca not far behind. “This looks like a Pinterest breakfast compared to what Mel feeds herself.”

“Rude,” Mel mutters, reaching for a strawberry.

The table conversation drifts, everything from light teasing to stories from the night before, Becca explaining in detail why she doesn’t like the texture of eggs.

You aren’t listening. You’re too focused on the way your heart feels dangerously close to splitting open. You remember, with painful clarity, the night you sat in your car and cried while you promised yourself that you wouldn’t cross this line. That your friendship with Mel mattered more than wanting her. 

But this pretending you’re doing feels like someone is reaching into your heart and prying all those carefully-sealed pieces back to the surface. And that’s worrisome, because this isn’t real. In two days, her friends will leave, the act will end, and you’ll have to step back across the line that you shouldn’t have crossed in the first place.

Mel laughs at something Sabrina says, and the sound pulls your eyes up despite your best effort. Her gaze meets yours instantly, like she was waiting for you.

You force a smile back, the kind that says everything is fine, even though you’re starting to feel anything but. 

Charlie leans forward across the table, tilting her head with a playful grin. “So…coffee?”

Sabrina nods. “Yeah, I could use some caffeine.”

Your gaze immediately flicks back to Mel. You know she doesn’t keep coffee in the apartment, neither her nor Becca drink it, and the thought of her trying to host without it sparks fondness. Without a word, you turn toward her and hold up your hands, one in a fist on top of the other laid flat, forming the unmistakable shape of rock.

Mel freezes for a moment, then smirks and mirrors your gesture.

You play a single round of rock-paper-scissors quickly, and of course you lose. 

“Alright, alright,” you say, holding your hands up in mock-surrender as you stand from the table. “I got it.”

As you slip on your shoes and grab your keys, you tell Charlie and Sabrina to have Mel text you their order as you head out the door. You give a wave over your shoulder with a quick “be right back!” as you shut it behind you, grateful for the out this has given you. 

Inside the apartment, Mel stretches, letting out a soft sigh as she begins to gather her things for her shift at the hospital. 

She hates the idea of leaving her friends when they're here specifically to visit her, but she was comforted by you promising to play host since you had the day off. Plus, that meant Becca didn't have to go to the day center.

Becca’s eyes light up at the sight of her sister retreating back to her bedroom for something and, without a word, she follows Mel, careful not to draw attention from Charlie or Sabrina. Once Mel is in her room and has begun rummaging through her drawers for her phone charger, Becca quietly closes the door behind them.

“Okay,” Becca says, sitting on Mel’s bed as she watches her flit about the room. “You have to tell me something and promise not to lie.”

Mel pauses, caught off guard. She sets the charger down on the bed carefully and glances at her sister. “Uh…need help with something?”

Becca tilts her chin, her expression confused. “I thought you said this whole thing with you and her was fake.”

Mirroring her confused expression, Mel sits down on the bed next to Becca. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been with you since birth,” Becca says pointedly. “And it doesn’t feel like you’re pretending. You want to kiss her, don’t you?”

Mel’s cheeks warm instantly. “What? Becca - I -” She pauses, looking down at her hands, trying to gather the right words through her fluster. “It’s…it’s complicated.”

“Why does it have to be complicated?” Becca asks innocently.

Sighing, Mel folds inward as she clasps her hands in her lap. “I don’t want to ruin our friendship,” she admits quietly, like the words are dangerous.

Becca blinks at her, clearly processing. Then, matter-of-factly, she says, “But you like her, I can see it. That’s not fake.”

Mel bites her lip, both flustered and relieved at her sister’s bluntness. “Becca…” she starts, but her twin shakes her head.

“No, no excuses. Just don’t mess it up,” Becca says simply. “If she makes you happy, then it’s not fake.”

“Okay. I…okay.” Mel smiles. “But you can’t tell anyone, okay? Even her.”

“Cross my heart,” Becca says plainly. 

Mel nods in acknowledgement, standing to tuck her charger into her bag. 

You aren’t gone for much longer, stepping back through the apartment door with two drink trays in hand, setting them down carefully on the kitchen counter. The smell of coffee and tea fills the small space. You’ve brought coffee for everyone else, but Mel’s drink is hers alone - boba, both sweet and piping hot. 

She’s got her work backpack balanced on a stool and is shoving necessities into it when you set her drink in front of her.

“You didn’t have to get me boba,” she murmurs as she lifts the cup and straw. “That means you had to go to two different shops.”

You shrug, feigning casualness even though your chest tightens at the way her eyes linger on yours. “I didn’t want to leave you out just because you don’t drink coffee,” you say softly. "You're worth it."

You’re interrupted by Charlie popping her head into the kitchen, her voice bright and teasing as she says, “Okay, lovebirds, out of my way. Don’t get between me and coffee.” Her eyes turn to you. “Seriously, thanks for going.”

Sabrina follows her in, peering at you over her shoulder with a grin. “Are you guys always like this? Or is it just for show?”

Mel’s hands tighten around her own cup. She swallows and glances over at you, a mix of exasperation and worry in her expression. But you just shrug and reach for her, drawing her to your side by her waist, doing your best to ignore the muffled little squeak she lets out at the unexpected contact. 

The moment lingers longer than necessary. You keep your arm around her waist just a second past performative necessity, long enough to feel the warmth of her through her thin shirt, long enough for your brain to feel like she belongs there. Charlie rolls her eyes and shoos you both out of the way, and Sabrina’s grin only widens as she steals her drink and retreats.

Mel pulls away first, mumbling something about leaving for work before she’s late.

You walk her to the door without really thinking too hard about it.

She slips her shoes on and double checks for her badge.

You see Dr. King nearly every day at work, but it feels weirdly intimate to see the transition, watching her change from the Mel you’ve gotten over the last eighteen hours to the doctor you know and lo-

Whoa.

Where did that come from?

“Where did you go?”

Your eyes snap up at the sound of Mel’s voice, and you realize you’ve been lost in your thoughts just standing at the door with her. You shake your head, ridding yourself of the intrusive thought that just infiltrated your brain, willing it to disappear.

“Ha-have a good shift,” you whisper, ignoring her question.

Her eyes are questioning as they search your face, but you watch as she lets it go and turns toward the door.

Then she’s gone.

Her apartment feels different without her in it.

Quieter.

Becca claims the far end of the couch, her laptop balanced on her knees. Charlie and Sabrina commandeer the coffee table with enthusiasm, the kind reserved for people who have nowhere to be. You settle in easily among them and let the day unfold in simple, comfortable ways.

Board games come out first, something strategy-heavy that Becca insists has clear rules and “no emotional ambiguity.” Charlie cheats at least twice, and Sabrina calls her out both times.

You laugh more than you expect to and allow yourself to relax.

And somewhere between Charlie’s dramatic (cheater) victory speech and Sabrina reorganizing the game pieces while insisting on a rematch, you begin to understand them. And, by extension, you understand Mel a little better too.

They fill space easily, just the two of them. Charlie with a bright warmth and charm, Sabrina with a dry steadiness that keeps everything relaxed and easy. They tell college stories in fragments: late-night study sessions Mel insisted she didn’t need but showed up to anyway; the time Charlie dragged Mel to a party and she spent the entire night befriending the host’s anxious dog; Sabrina getting locked out of their apartment at two in the morning and Mel sitting on the hallway floor with her for an hour just to keep her company until her roommate made it home to let her in.

You can see it clearly: two extroverts who decided at some point that Mel was theirs to keep, and an introvert who let herself be adopted without admitting out loud that she needed them.

It makes sense why she loves them. And why they love her right back.

But throughout the day, every so often, your gaze drifts toward the front door and you have to make a conscious effort not to religiously check your phone.

Time moves slowly throughout the day, and on multiple occasions you catch Becca studying you with a seriousness not often found on her face before she looks back at whatever she was doing before.

When the late afternoon light finally begins to fade and keys rattle in the lock hours later, your heart skips a beat, filled with anticipation and eagerness for you know who’s on the other side, and it worries you how much it feels like coming home.

♡ ───────── ♡ ───────── ♡

Last night had ended quietly.

Mel had come home late, exhausted in that bone-deep way that comes with a shift at PTMC. You’d stayed long enough to make sure she ate something and to help Becca get settled for the night, then slipped back into your own apartment with a promise that you’d see her tomorrow.

The distance had felt strange.

Morning came with the muted gray light typical of Pittsburgh winter, and you moved through the day slowly, as if you were walking through sludge. A grocery run because your fridge was empty, a stop at the pharmacy, laundry folded while your comfort show played in the background. You were doing your best to be productive, but there was anticipation humming in your veins beneath everything, a current of energy that kept pulling your attention toward the evening ahead.

Going out isn’t something you do often, at least not out in public. Mel’s apartment? Sure. But a bar?

You took your time choosing what to wear, something that made you feel good in your body, nice enough that you wouldn’t feel out of place in public. You’d changed twice before settling on something that felt like you.

By the time you returned to Mel and Becca’s apartment, the already cramped space felt fuller.

Charlie and Sabrina had claimed the couch, sprawled out comfortably. A half-finished mug of coffee sat forgotten on the side table. Music played on a low volume. Becca sat cross-legged on the floor with a puzzle spread out before her, focused and content, while Mel moved through the kitchen in socked feet.

You eased into the rhythm without trouble, drifting between the kitchen and the living room, accepting a mug of tea, leaning against the counter while Mel absentmindedly nudged your foot with hers when she passed. It almost felt like it wasn’t a performance.

Eventually, as the afternoon fell closer to the late evening, change began slowly.

Makeup bags appeared on the coffee table and outfit options were considered. Sabrina disappeared to claim the bathroom and emerged ten minutes later smelling like perfume and hairspray. Music volume clicked up; phones were charged.

Energy built gradually, just a group of women getting ready for a night out together. 

You were looking forward to it.

And that’s where you find yourself now: tucked into the warmth of the bar, the cold of the night already a distant memory that clings to the hems of the coat you’ve draped over the back of your chair. 

You’ve chosen this bar meticulously. Light pools in halos from hanging lamps above the tables and the air smells a bit like spilled beer and fried foods that drift from the kitchen. Sound gathers rather than overwhelms, laughter layered over quiet music that has a thud of a bass line that you feel more than you can really hear. 

“- I swear I’m not exaggerating,” Sabrina insists, one hand lifted like she’s testifying under oath. “She stood up on the coffee table like she was addressing Congress.”

Charlie is already laughing, her shoulders shaking with each breath. “No, no, you’re leaving out the best part! Tell her what she was wearing.”

Mel groans beside you, sliding lower in her chair. “If this is the toga story, I’m leaving.”

“It was a bedsheet,” Sabrina corrects. “A navy bedsheet. She looked like a stateswoman.”

Becca laughs into her soda, her eyes averted as she listens to a story she’s heard at least twice before.

“I was making a point,” Mel mutters.

“You declared,” Charlie says, lifting her finger in imitation, “’From this day forward, this kitchen is a democracy.’”

Sabrina nearly chokes on her drink, laughing at the memory. “And then she tried to pass legislation banning tequila.”

“It was a good policy,” Mel says defensively, even as the corners of her mouth twitch into a smile she tries to hide.

“You had consumed half a bottle of cheap margarita mix and like two sips of tequila,” Charlie says.

“Listen,” Mel says, pointing at her across the table, “that stuff is disgusting.”

You laugh with the rest of them, the sound escaping bright and easy. Mel’s hand tightens around yours on the tabletop - contact that had started as performative but was now starting to feel natural.

You lean toward Mel. “Did the kitchen remain a democracy?”

Mel sighs. “It did until Charlie tried to impeach me for burning grilled cheese.”

“I still stand by that impeachment,” Charlie says. “You were really drunk.”

Sabrina lifts her glass. “To the shortest-lived government in history.”

Everyone raises their drinks and the soft clink between them rings out as you all take a sip. 

The laughter lingers for a few moments longer and Mel’s thumb traces an absentminded circle against the back of your hand. You take the last sip of your drink to give yourself something else to focus on, the ice clinking against the glass before the empty settles in your palm.

“Okay,” you say lightly, glancing around the table. “Who’s in for another?”

Charlie lifts her glass immediately. “Absolutely.”

Sabrina tips hers toward you in silent agreement.

Mel hesitates only a second. “Just water for me,” she says. “I’m pacing myself.”

Becca nudges her soda with two fingers. “I’m good.”

You nod, gathering glasses one by one - yours first, then Charlie’s, then Sabrina’s - the table colder where your hand leaves it. Mel’s fingers slip from yours and it almost feels like it happens reluctantly. 

“I’ve got it,” you add, flashing a quick smile at Mel when she moves like she might stand too. “Stay. I’ll be right back.”

She looks at you for a long moment before settling back in her chair. 

The bar is only ten feet away or so, and you set the empties down on the worn wood counter, catching the bartenders eye and nodding toward the table behind you.

“One more round,” you say. “Same as before. And a water.”

The bartender gives a short nod and turns around to start pouring.

You sigh, your shoulders loosening, letting yourself relax in the small pause between hosting and performing. It’s nice to just exist without feeling like eyes are on you, being able to focus on the conversation around you, the bass thrumming through the floor. You let yourself space out, nodding along with the music.

You don’t notice him step up beside you until he actually speaks. 

He leans one arm against the bar beside you casually, like he’s been standing there longer than he actually has.

“Busy night,” he says. It’s not loud enough to intrude, just enough to be heard over the low hum of conversation.

You glance over, polite reflexes kicking in. He’s maybe mid-thirties, clean cut in a very relaxed way, with flannel sleeves pushed up and an easy smile that suggests he’s comfortable. 

“Seems like it,” you reply, returning the small courtesy smile he gives you before shifting your attention back toward the bartending lining up glasses.

His gaze flicks to the cluster of empty cups in front of you. “You ordering for the whole place?”

You laugh quietly. “Just my table.”

“Good,” he says lightly. “Was about to feel left out.”

The bartender sets down the first fresh drink, and you slide it aside to make space for the others.

“I can grab that,” he offers, reaching for his wallet. “At least let me get you this round.”

You shake your head immediately, trying to keep your tone friendly. “That’s kind of you, but I’ve got it.”

He pauses, then lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug. “All right, next one, then.”

You tilt your head in noncommittal acknowledgement rather than actual agreement. “We’ll see.”

Another glass lands on the bar, ice clinking inside it. You line it up with the others.

His eyes linger on the drinks, assessing them - and you - without being overt. “So, what are you drinking?”

“Vodka cran.”

“Solid choice,” he says with an approving nod. “Let me upgrade you to something nicer than the well.”

“I’m good, I promise.” You keep your tone light but firm, trying to not invite further negotiation.

He smiles at you again, but there’s an edge of disbelief to his expression now, like your refusal was unexpected.

“What about your friends?” he tries. “I could send something over, be the hero of your table.”

You shake your head. “We’re taken care of.”

He studies you for another moment, then glances past your shoulder toward the room. “No boyfriends hovering nearby,” he says with a laugh, like he’s making an observation rather than the challenge you know is coming.

You lift one of the glasses, checking the level of the drink inside before setting it back down. “That would be because I don’t have one.”

His brows rise in interest.

You meet his eyes for a moment, then add, “I’ve got a girlfriend.”

His smile falters. Not fully gone, but altered.

“C’mon,” he says, the scoff he lets out in disbelief accompanying his words. “You don’t gotta lie about being a dyke just to get me to fuck off.”

You don’t match his scoff or his tone. You make a conscious effort to stay steady, more so out of self-preservation rather than actually caring what he thinks. 

“I’m not lying,” you say evenly. “And I’m not interested.”

Another drink appears, then Mel’s water. You gather them closer, creating a careful lineup for carrying. 

He lets out a heavy exhale, irritation beginning to show through the seams of his composure. “Your loss,” he mutters, even though he doesn’t step away. But when you reach for the first glass, his hand closes around your arm.

Across the bar, Sabrina’s voice cuts through the laughter of a nearby group. “Hey…uh, Mel, I think your girlfriend needs help.” She nods subtly in your direction, wide-eyed.

Mel turns sharply, following the gesture, and her stomach drops. She sees the man, leaning a little too close, his hand gripping your forearm. It’s casual, it doesn’t look overtly aggressive, maybe even friendly-looking to anyone else. Not you. She knows you. She knows that hand doesn’t belong there; the casualness in your stance is performative, and that’s enough to make her heart hammer.

The protective surge inside her is immediate. Her chair scrapes against the floor as she rises, all pretense of calm gone. “I’ll help you with those,” she calls out as she approaches you, forcing a casual lilt that doesn’t mask her panic. She moves fast through the crowd of people to get to you.

She reaches the bar just as the man’s grip tightens on your arm. You turn toward her instinctively, your lips parting to explain, but there’s no time. She doesn’t hesitate - her hand is on your waist in a protective hold, pulling you close to her.

“Let go of her.”

You pivot back to the man and take a steadying breath. “Oh look,” you say, “there’s the girlfriend I told you about.”

The words hang in the air between you, both a declaration and a warning. The man blinks, caught off guard as you pull your arm from his grip.

Your hand moves of its own accord, reaching up and your fingers pressing lightly against Mel’s jaw, tilting her face towards yours. Before you can overthink it, you lean in, pressing your lips to hers.

Mel freezes, startled, but doesn’t pull away from you. Her lips part slightly and you can taste her drink on her breath, the sweetness pairing with the faint saltiness of her skin.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a tiny but distinct oh no cuts through - something you don’t voice. You’ve crossed the line you’d been toeing so carefully, but the sensation of her lips, the softness, the way she begins to respond and move against you in return, makes it impossible to pull away. You linger there, holding her mouth against yours, memorizing the way she tastes and the feeling of her hair against your cheek.

Finally, you ease back enough to breath. Your thumb grazes her lips, committing them to memory. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes wide and luminous, and there’s softness mixed with confusion as she studies your face.

And for the briefest instant, your gaze flicks from her face across the room, catching a shadowed profile near the dart boards - dark hair half-up, the rest falling over one shoulder, a stance that’s familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist. Recognition hits you, but before you can dwell on it, someone moves in between you and the sight, and the moment shatters into background noise. You shove the thought aside, telling yourself it was nothing.

The man’s presence has faded to background noise, but the bartender’s voice cuts through, clear and final as she addresses him: “you gonna order or move along?”

He mutters something under his breath and steps back, retreating, but the air between you and Mel is charged with electricity. Your hand slides from her jaw, lingering for a second on her shoulder, and you step back to gather the drinks. But the nerves in your body still thrum from the feeling of her lips on yours and the realization that kiss wasn’t performative, at least not for you.

It feels dangerous. 

Surprisingly, it’s Mel who recovers first.

The world rushes back in around her and she becomes acutely aware that you’re still standing very close to her and your expression mirrors her own stunned silence.

She clears her throat softly. “I -” Her voice comes out thin and a bit strangled, so she tries again. “I’ll help you carry those.”

You nod, grateful for something practical to do, and turn toward the bar as the bartender slides the last glass forward. Neither of you mention what just happened. And neither of you look directly at each other. 

Your fingers brush as you divide the drinks and you both pretend not to notice.

The walk back to the table is both quiet and quick. Mel can still feel the shape of your hand on her face, your mouth on hers. Her lips tingle as if the imprint remains.

She focuses on not dropping the glasses.

Sabrina looks up first from conversation as you approach, a grin already forming on her face. Charlie’s gaze flicks between the two of you, eyebrows raised with amusement.

“Well,” she says, accepting her drink, “that was quite the little show.”

Sabrina snorts into her own glass. “Seriously, ten out of ten performance, very convincing.”

Becca doesn’t comment. She just watches Mel carefully, perceptive eyes studying her face as she takes another sip of her soda.

Mel sits. Her pulse is still too fast.

Conversation resumes with surprising ease. Sabrina launches into another story, Charlie chimes in, you slide back into your seat and responding when spoken to. It all lends itself to the rhythm of the night knitting itself back together as though nothing unusual has happened.

Not for Mel.

She hears the conversation without absorbing it. Words drift past her like radio static. Her fingers curl around her water glass, condensation dampening her skin.

She can still feel you.

She risks a glance at you.

You’re laughing at something Sabrina said, your shoulders are relaxed but your smile doesn’t seem to quite reach your eyes. You almost look shaken. Maybe thoughtful? As if you’re trying to act normal and hoping nobody notices that you’re making a conscious effort to do so.

Mel’s stomach flips.

Her friends continue chatting, comfortable and obvious, the moment already filed away as proof of a cute couple.

But Mel can’t file it away.

Charlie is halfway through dissecting some disastrous Hinge date when you lean back into your chair, finally relaxing back into the conversation. 

“Did he actually show up?” you ask, grinning. “Or -”

Sabrina cuts in animatedly. Charlie protests. The conversation overlaps in the messy, affectionate way it almost always does when people feel safe.

You turn a little, instinctively, to include Mel, who’s been strangely silent this whole time.

“What do you think?” you ask her, nudging her knee under the table lightly. “That’s totally a red flag, right? Am I being dramatic here?”

She doesn’t answer, and you turn fully to look at her. To make sure she’s okay.

There’s something noticeably undone about her. The composure she usually wears is missing, her expression filled with rawness, her lips even turned into a slight frown, and you can immediately tell she wasn’t listening. It’s identical to the expression she wore at work a while back when she was worried about her deposition and couldn’t focus on anything else.

“Mel?” you prompt softly.

You’re really close to her. Your shoulders are almost touching, she could bump you if she wanted. The golden bar light catches the curve of your lip, the same place where your thumb had brushed hers earlier, and her brain helpfully replays the exact feeling of your hand on her jaw.

You tilt your head when she doesn’t respond. “Are you okay?”

She swallows hard.

This is a mistake. This is toeing that line again. 

This is -

She leans in.

Her hand comes up, fingers sliding around the back of your neck and tangling in your hair as she brings your lips to hers again. Her mouth presses against yours with a softness that’s almost unreal compared to the firmness of her grip on you. Like she’s asking a question she’s afraid to hear the answer to.

The table noise fades. Sabrina is still talking, Charlie is talking over her, and you have absolutely no idea what’s going on with Becca in this moment - but it all feels so far away.

Mel’s lips are warm as they move against yours, and you place a hand on her thigh to steady the way you’re leaned into her. Your lips part against hers and she tilts her head, deepening it. There’s a quiet sound from your throat, barely there, but she can feel it.

And God, she doesn’t want to stop. 

But she does.

She pulls back slowly, her lips brushing yours one more in a lingering, almost unconscious follow-through before she forces herself to create space. She keeps her eyes closed for a second too long, trying to understand why she would do that.

When she opens them, you’re staring at her with the most unreadable expression on your face.

Nobody at the table says a word. To them, it’s ordinary, you’re just any other couple.

From her other side, Mel catches Becca watching her. Her soda straw is paused halfway to her mouth, her eyes moving between her sister’s face and yours. There’s no confusion in her expression, no surprise. Only a quiet, satisfied knowing, like she’s just seen a puzzle piece settle exactly where it belongs.

The night goes on without much disruption after that. Someone orders fries for the table, you laugh at something Becca says so hard that you have to wipe tears from your eyes, glasses clink over and over. Life continues.

And yet, nothing feels the same.

You sit beside Mel with intentional space between your thighs where there hadn’t been any earlier. Your knee no longer touches hers under the table and when your fingers brush reaching for a fry, both of you pull back too quickly. You fold your hands in your lap to stop yourself from reaching for her again.

Because now you know.

You know the shape of her mouth, the warmth of her breath, the way she leaned into you instead of away from you.

This performance has edges now, sharp ones. And they hurt.

So you keep your hands to yourself.

But still, the distance never fully holds. Her shoulder finds yours when she laughs. Your elbow grazes her arm when you reach for your glass. When she leans closer to hear Sabrina over the music, her hair brushes your cheek and you tense up so suddenly it steals the air from your lungs.

Across the table, Becca watches the two of you with contentment, sipping her soda and swaying faintly to the music that only she seems to be paying attention to. Both Charlie and Sabrina remain blissfully unaware, long since settling into the comfortable assumption that this is how the two of you behave together.

By the time the tab is paid and chairs scrape back from the table, the night has changed and the air is filled with a strange electricity that you don’t fully know what to do with.

Back at the apartment, the ritual of bedtime unfolds in tired smiles, far too late to avoid the hangover that’s sure to haunt you at work tomorrow. Charlie and Sabrina reclaim the couch with gratitude and soft blankets. Becca disappears into the her own bedroom long enough to change before reemerging to hug you goodnight with affection.

And then it’s just the two of you again.

Mel changes in the bathroom while you sit on the edge of her bed, staring at your hands like they might confess what you’re too afraid to say. When she returns, the room feels smaller. Quieter.

You slide beneath the blankets on your usual side and she turns off the lamp.

Her breathing evens out beside you, slow and steady, the rhythm of someone who has surrendered fully to sleep. Or is pretending to.

You lie on your back, staring into the dark, the nerves in your body aware of the mere inches between you.

Tomorrow, her friends will leave. Tomorrow, her spare key will be returned to her. Tomorrow, there will be no reason to stay the night, or hold her hand, or call her babe in any capacity. No reason to kiss her.

Your chest tightens.

You don’t know how to go back.

You don’t know how to fold your heart back into the safe little shape it fit into before this weekend.

Beside you, Mel shifts in her sleep - or something like it - and her fingers brush the back of your hand where it rests on the mattress between you.

You freeze. She stills.

Neither of you pull away.

You stare into the dark above you, heart pounding, and try to memorize this: the warmth, this unbearable tenderness of wanting something you’ve already begun to lose.

Tomorrow, this ends.

And you’re not ready to let it go.

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The bar, where she finally let go and danced with you beneath blue and white lights. Then your place, after, where she peppered you with lazy kisses and fell asleep with her nose squished into your cheek.

Trinity usually trusts the voice. The dubious cynic who's built a settlement at the back of her brain, the one who reduces people to their simplest parts, because that's when they're at their easiest to read.

A patient lying about the amount of supplements they've been taking. A child who insists her father doesn't touch her in ways he shouldn't.

A senior resident helping himself to his patients' benzos.

As Trinity's fingers curl around the wooden picture frame, her heart suspended in abject terror, that voice finds its way home.

Most of the time, it's herself speaking. But every so often, in those moments of intense, crippling self-doubt, it's the very same raw, humiliating intonation as the man in the photo.

Stupid or arrogant, you need to realize that you are a beginner, which means that your job is to shut up, listen, and learn, because so far today? The only thing you have been successful at is proving repeatedly that you know nothing.

You know nothing.

Instinct screams at Trinity to hurl the frame across your apartment, the walls of which seem to be inching closer together with each passing second.

"Trin?"

Your clear tone yanks Trinity back to reality. She blinks once, twice, then looks to you.

"Your brother is Frank Langdon," she phrases it as a statement, but not one she's particularly pleased about.

Your eyes, slowly blinking in confusion, flick to the photograph, then back up to Trinity.

"You do know him," you conclude, plucking the frame from her hands and setting it on the table behind you.

Her nose twitches almost imperceptibly. You're not sure at all what to think of this newly unlocked version of the girl who slept beside you the night prior. Glitching out like a video game.

The silence is actually quite deafening, so you try cracking it from a different angle.

"Was he a dick to you?" You guess in that tutting, excusing way that sisters do. "He's just got a sensitive ego, that's all. Don't take it personally."

Trinity's jaw locks, her cheeks tightening with something you can only read as disdain.

Beneath her ribs, her heart tolls in slow, dizzying reverberations.

Fuck.

Trinity closes her eyes, disappearing without really leaving. Her throat bobs in a forced swallow, schooling her features into something she prays resembles neutrality.

"He was there on my first day," she says, fluttering her gaze open into yours. "The day of PittFest. I haven't worked with him since."

"Oh, my god, you were in the ER during PittFest?" You fiddle with the bottom hem of your t-shirt, dragging it between your thumb and forefinger. "That was your first day?"

She nods.

Your lips twist adorably in the side of your mouth.

It's a whack in the sternum when Trinity realizes she's seen your brother make the same exact expression.

"So, okay, what's your beef with him, then?" You ask after a beat, reaching for her hand.

She jerks back before you can touch her.

You pause, then take a step back to give her space. "Trin?"

Her seagreen eyes flick up to the ceiling, hands bracing the back of her neck.

"I have to get to work," she announces when she finally deigns to meet your gaze.

You frown. Confusion swirls around your head, trying like a failed private investigator to put the pieces together, but you come up short. You ultimately decide not to push it. Not right now.

She grabs her clothes from the night before off the counter behind her, then jerks her chin to the bathroom.

"You can wear those out," you nod warily to the sweatpants and hoodie Trinity borrowed to sleep in. They hang off her frame, probably one size too big, endearingly loose nevertheless.

A quiet reminder of how warm she'd been this morning.

Trinity's eyes meet yours blankly, as though she's struggling to compute the kindness you're trying so desperately to bestow.

As if you didn't buy her a drink last night.

As if you didn't give her your jacket.

As if you didn't ask her to stay, circling the pads of your fingers over her hipbone until she fell asleep.

"It's cold outside," you say by way of insistence, quieter now. Hurt, but unsure exactly why.

Trinity's lips purse and she gives a reluctant nod.

An impenetrable rampart has materialized between her and you. She can't bust it down to trace her fingers along your hairline or cradle your neck as she kisses you goodbye. She can't bring herself to promise that she'll call.

"Okay, thanks," is all she can say, clutching her folded clothes to her chest.

Her free hand reaches out, poised to touch you, then veers back at an awkward angle and into the pocket of her hoodie.

Your hoodie, that smells like vanilla and jasmine and clean linen sheets.

Last night had been nothing more than soft kisses and shared warmth, yet it might have been the most intimate interaction she's ever known.

But she can't hold that feeling and this new, unnerving one, at the same time.

When she disappears into the hall, you blink at the closed door with stinging sinuses.

Trinity schlepps into her apartment, and she can’t shake the lingering guilt that gnaws a hole through her stomach.

She hates leaving you like that.

With that abandoned puppy look on your face. The softly stricken downward tug of your lips, your eyes searching hers for answers she can't give.

Fuck. The realization hits her once again. Langdon.

Fuck Langdon.

His name itself is a trip wire, sending Trinity down crashing uncontrollably into self-doubt.

Fuck. Everything about last night was so warm and exhilarating and cozy and perfect. She could actually see this going somewhere.

She actually felt… wanted, instead of a way to pass the time.

In the course of twelve hours, you managed to worm your way into the dusty, forgotten basement of her heart.

You even started to clear some of the cobwebs.

Trinity finds Whitaker propped up against the kitchen sink when she locks the door behind her. One palm supports his weight while the other scrolls through his phone.

When he tears his gaze away from the screen, his eyes fix on the folded clothes in the crook of her arm.

"And just where were you last night, young lady?" He shoves his phone in his pocket, suddenly more interested in Trinity's debaucherous exploits than anything on the screen.

"Does this look like the face of someone who wants to talk about it," she says flatly.

"Hasn't stopped me from asking before," Whitaker shrugs. Only took two months of living together to learn how to bob and weave against her bad moods.

It's fucking irritating, being known like that.

She hangs her keys on the door.

"Whose clothes are those?" Whitaker's eyes follow her as she drags her feet into the kitchen against their will.

"No one's," her voice is edged with warning. She rummages through the open box of K-Cups on the counter, then jabs at the power button on the Keurig.

"Well, they're not Garcia's, because you didn't stay there last night."

She props herself up by her palms against the counter, then angles her head to the side. "How do you know—"

"You think I don't check your location when you don't come home at night?" Whitaker crosses his arms over his chest.

The concrete wall around Trinity's heart cracks the tiniest bit.

"You check my location?" she asks, her lips jutting out a little.

"Well, yeah," he shrugs, like caring for her is the easiest thing in the world.

They're locked in a staring contest for a few moments, Dennis arching a brow as he waits expectantly for her to open up.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to tell someone.

The Keurig sputters alive, so Trinity slams the K-Cup into its slot. If she's going spill her heart out all over the linoleum, she needs coffee first.

In the next ten minutes, Trinity relays the whole story to him. She ends up with her back against the arm of the couch, legs extended across the cushions and coffee in hand.

"Holy shit," is Huckleberry's intital reaction once Trinity finishes. He sits on the opposite side of the sofa in a mirrored position, his legs slotted between hers and the back cushion.

"That about sums it up," Trinity agrees, using her free hand to flip the hood of your sweatshirt up over her head. Your lingering scent envelops her in a warm embrace she knows she doesn't deserve.

"What did you say?" He asks. "That must have been…"

"Horrifying? Yeah, it was."

"I was gonna say 'difficult', but, sure."

She sips at her coffee, peering at Whitaker over the rim of the cup. He's so patient, giving her the space to process her emotions in real time. It's unnerving, especially with the knowledge that he doesn't have some kind of hidden agenda.

Trinity isn't used to that.

"I kinda…" she sighs, leaning in to the embarrassment. Might as well, right? "I kinda freaked out. Clammed up. Told her I had to get to work."

"But we're off today," says Huckleberry in the most Huckleberry way possible.

"That is correct."

"What are you gonna do?"

"Not a fucking clue."

"Shit," Dennis taps his fingers on the back of the couch, his expression twisting pensively. "Is it really that big of a deal? I mean, Langdon's not even been at work since PittFest."

Her jaw tenses. "What happens when she finds out I was the one who…" Trinity waves her free hand fruitlessly.

She doesn't regret telling Robby about the librium, or the lorazepam. Langdon could have, and might have already, hurt somebody. Even himself. But the people who've caught on have avoided her like she's radioactive for the past two months.

She's been busting her ass to prove herself to everyone, even without Langdon around to belittle her every decision.

"Do you think she'll even care?" Dennis asks.

"He's her brother. She has pictures of him in her apartment."

"And?"

"And?" Trinity repeats impatiently. "It's too messy! I don't have room in my life for messy!"

Huckleberry purses his lips.

"What?" she asks, already knowing she's not going to like the answer.

He gestures to her. "You're still wearing her clothes."

"Yeah, so what?"

Dennis shrugs, then swings his legs off the couch. He squeezes Trinity's sock-covered toes as he stands up, comfort-in-passing. "Seems like you already made room."

"What the fuck does that mean?" She scoffs, rolling her eyes at his simplistic, platitude-adjacent bullshit. "You've been watching too many Oprah reruns."

"I think you're scared, Santos," he shoots back. Brusque isn't exactly Huckleberry's forte. Trinity could laugh out of discomfort.

"What the hell do I have to be scared of?" She retorts. "I don't need her, especially not when she'll be a constant reminder of… of…"

"Someone you reported for committing a crime?" Dennis presses his lips into a flat line. "You didn't do anything wrong!"

"I know that!" Trinity exclaims, setting her coffee down on the side table. She crosses her arms over her chest indignantly. "But what happens when she realizes it was me, and she hates me for it?"

"Why do you assume she's going to hate you for it?" Dennis's palms open up. "You're not even giving her the chance to react, you're just deciding that she'll hate you."

Because people always hate me when they get too close, Trinity thinks.

"Fuck off, Huckleberry," she says halfheartedly, her jaw tightening. "I can deal with it myself, actually. Anyway, don't you have a widow to comfort?"

The humorless laugh that ekes out of her roommate is the kind where someone acts exactly the way you expect them to. He nods, then disappears into his room. 

Trinity drags her hand over her face. "Shit," she mutters, bringing her knees up to her chest.

She was right. She didn't like his answer.

Later, when she's climbing into bed at nearly eleven p.m, her phone vibrates. After spending the entire day grinding her teeth and wandering aimlessly around the empty apartment (because Huckleberry did, in fact, bumble off to his widow), the tug back into reality isn't particularly welcome.

She frowns when she sees the notification from you.

Trin, I spent my entire shift thinking about you. I know that's earnest and people don't really do that anymore, so I hope that isn't weird for you to read.

Trinity's heart buckles, and she tugs the hoodie string a little tighter, shielding her face.

A second text buzzes under the first.

But I also hope I hear from you soon. Sweet dreams.

The words ripple down Trinity's spine, and she stares at them for a while. Reads them, then rereads them.

She types up a reply, then immediately erases it.

I had a great time last night, but I don't think this will work out.

Gnawing on her lip, she tries again.

I'm the one who got your brother—

She abandons that one immediately.

You might be the freshest breath of air I've ever inhaled, but I'm terrified my lungs will collapse.

That gets deleted, too.

By midnight, Trinity slams her phone face-down on her nightstand, elicits a string of curse words, then forces herself to try and fall asleep.

Two days pass, and Trinity still hasn't responded.

She’s been crabby at work. More than normal, which has even Javadi concerned.

“Are you alright?” Victoria asks around two p.m, during a rare lull at the Central nurses’ station.

Their shift’s more than halfway over, but Trinity’s been lugging her feet behind her the entire day.

She drags her hands over her face, then forces a stretched, saccharine smile.

“I’m perfect,” she buckles, as always, under the weight of someone showing even a modicum of concern for her. “Don’t I look perfect, Crash?”

Javadi rolls her eyes at the nickname. “Not really,” she points out, her perceptive brown eyes flicking over Trinity’s figure. “You’ve been kind of sluggish, like, all day.”

“Who’s been sluggish?” Mateo sidles up beside Victoria, presenting a tablet to her. “Weird puncture wound in Triage," he explains. "McKay told me to pull you in on it.”

Javadi, to her credit, doesn’t immediately burst into a fit of girlish giggles like she has been each time Mateo so much as looks at her.

It's a unique kind of torture, watching two people blink at each other with swirling, cartoon hearts in their eyes. She nearly gags.

But with the spotlight now shifted off of Trinity, she takes the opportunity to flee the conversation.

Almost as soon as she pivots, a finger points at her from across the hub.

“Santos!” Robby beckons from the opposite end of the counter. “Incoming rig. You’re with me.”

“You got it, boss,” she adjusts her stethoscope, grateful for the distraction.

She bounds around the countertops.

Maybe it’ll be something gruesome, like a struck pedestrian or a GSW, Trinity thinks as she flanks Robby. That guy who got trapped under the refrigerator last week? Man, that was a great save.

She's surprised to find it's pouring down rain when they emerge out into the ambulance bay. It falls in sheets, slapping against the concrete and rattling the top of the rig as it comes to a halt beneath the canopy.

"What do we got?" Robby grunts as he hauls open the back.

“Twenty-five-year-old female, took a fall off an eight-foot ladder," the paramedic explains as Robby and Trinity help lower the gurney. "Struck her head on the edge of a picnic table. Laceration to the right temple, appears superficial. Brief LOC per bystanders. Complaining of dizziness and nausea en route.”

Trinity falters when she realizes it's you.

Propped awkwardly on the gurney, pressing bloody gauze to your head and completely soaked from the rain.

You squint, then blink hard.

"Trinity?" Even the aching in your head and black spots peppering your vision can't keep you from recognizing her.

"You know our Dr. Santos?" an imposingly tall, bearded doctor asks as he takes over the gurney from the paramedic. Something like amusement tugs at his voice.

He and Trinity roll you inside, the fluorescents bleaching your face in an instant. You groan, breathing heavily.

"Can you tell me your name, hon?" A nurse appears in front of you, trailing along the gurney as it rolls towards an empty space.

You rattle it off in a wobbly rasp.

A look passes between the staff at your last name, quick but not subtle. They wheel you behind a curtain, help you into a bed. Someone pricks your arm with a needle to start an IV.

"You're Langdon's little sister!" The nurse trills in affectionate recognition.

Through the haze, you can see the questions practically dancing on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn't ask.

You can't much bring yourself to care, too concerned with your heart pounding in your ears.

 “Frank’s your brother?” the older, male doctor clears his throat, glancing toward Trinity.

“Mmhm, yeah," you slur as the room around you tilts.

The nurse guides your hand to lower the gauze. The metallic smell of blood hits all at once.

Your stomach roils. You gag. “I’m gonna—”

Trinity anticipates it, quick to snap a plastic basin under your chin before you retch.

“Four of Zofran,” she instructs before inching closer to inspect the cut.

Suddenly all her training seeps through every pore, her mind racing at the sight of the laceration on your head. At the sight of you, here, a reminder that you weren't just a dream.

She blinks, forcing herself to focus on the things she knows to be true. A coping mechanism from her therapist.

"Santos," Robby's grunt from behind her presses her to vocalize her assessment.

"Um, no active bleeding, approximately three inches in length," she begins, her fingers brushing back your wet hair gently, and at the same time, the vomiting subsides.

The latex of her glove catches on the dried blood.

"Pupils?" the male doctor asks.

She produces a penlight at that, shining it in your eyes without warning. You flinch.

"Reactive," she swallows the stone in her throat.

"Can you tell us what happened?" Robby says your name from where he stands behind Santos, stance wide and arms crossed over his chest.

"I was cleaning the fairy lights at work," an uncomfortable frown stretches taut over your lips. "The rain came out of nowhere, and I slipped. Hit my head on…" you trail off, then close your eyes tightly as you strain to remember. "One of the picnic tables, I think."

The older doctor, presumably Trinity's boss, sneaks around her to examine the cut himself. He nods in agreement. "It doesn't look too bad," is Robby's conclusion, flicking his gaze from your injury to Trinity once again. "Dermabond for the wound, then get her in line for CT."

"I need a CT scan?" Your voice teeters then, abandoning your pride and your pain to seek comfort in Trinity's eyes.

Her gloved hand shoots to your forearm in an instant, squeezing.

"Just to make sure you don't have a concussion," She says gently. Her touch launches rockets through your veins, but somehow calms your nerves all the same.

How is it possible to feel so many conflicting things around one person?

The bearded doctor slides back around Trinity, then offers you a reassuring smile from the foot of your bed. "You're gonna be just fine, okay? Is Dr. Santos here a friend of yours?"

You smile weakly, unable to be impolite even in your current state. Whatever drug was injected to your IV starts to quell the nausea.

"Something like that," you murmur.

The doctor's eyes crinkle, catching Trinity's in a way you can't quite grasp. Fondness for her, definitely, but a glint of something more tense underneath. The kind of shared look passed between two people who share something they've agreed not to discuss.

"You're in good hands," he hums, then raps his knucles on the end of your bed before disappearing.

Trinity suddenly feels exposed to the elements, in North 5 of all places.

She realizes she's still holding your arm, so she releases it.

"A-are you in any pain?" She swallows once Robby's gone, her heart barraging against her ribs.

"Just a headache," you say softly, looking away. You think of the blank space below your texts and feel your bottom lip flip out on instinct.

"I'll get the Dermabond," the nurse on your other side announces, the curtain sliding behind her.

Trinity rolls a stool up beside your bed, then lowers herself onto it.

"No more nausea?" She asks. You shake your head, still wearing the expression of a disappointed toddler.

Trinity's voice lends itself to an apprehensive cheekiness. "Are you gonna look at me?"

It's dawning on you in this moment, now that the panic has subsided, that this is where your brother works. His hospital.

Or, at least, it was.

The details of his dismissal never really come to light during the family therapy you tag along to weekly, with Abby and the kids. Just that he did something worthy of a dismissal.

You drag your eyes to Trinity's. She inches closer, wheels of the stool squeaking against the linoleum floor.

"You never texted me back," you murmur as she tears open an alcohol pad with her fingers.

"Can I touch you?" she asks. Your breath catches.

You release it when you realize she means your head.

You nod, then she starts to swipe the alcohol pad along your forehead.

She never asks permission to touch patients in situations like this, especially not ones with head trauma. Usually, circumstance negates any pleasantries, but guilt gnaws at her to take the extra step with you.

"You'll tell me if any of this feels painful?" she asks. You sniff in confirmation.

The nurse, a kind-faced woman in a hijab, pokes her head in with a sterile tray of supplies before ducking out once again. Leaving you with Trinity. Alone.

"Gonna flush the area with saline, okay? You'll feel cold down your face and neck," she says quietly, then squeezes the bottle over your wound. The saline drips down the side of your head. She curves her hand around the shell of your ear, protecting it from errant drops.

Even through the latex, warmth radiates from her touch.

Your chest aches, reminded of how softly she brushed your hair behind your ear just two nights prior. So many questions swirl around your head, but the blockade between your brain and your mouth prevents you from asking.

“You passed out?” Trinity asks, to which you hum in confirmation.

The din and fray of the ever-busy ER on the other side of the curtain buzzes into your ears.

“Do you know what day it is?”

You rattle off the answer.

You want so badly to do one of two things: make direct, forthright eye contract with her, or look away from her altogether. Neither would be conducive to cleaning your cut, so you pick a spot on the curtain straight ahead.

“Okay,” Trinity’s hands are suddenly a phantom touch when she pulls away. She reaches for the tube of Dermabond.

“It might feel a little tender when I apply the glue,” she explains, dabbing some on a cotton swab. “But I’ll be really gentle. If it hurts too much, just let me know.”

Your fingers curl around the sheets at your side, but not because of the glue.

“That’s ironic,” you murmur.

Trinity freezes, the cotton swab hovering just an inch above your cut. Her jaw tightens, and she sucks her tongue down her front teeth.

“Hold still,” she grounds out, the first real reaction you've gotten out of her since you arrived, then applies the glue.

It doesn’t take her long. The cool breeze from her lips that follows sends a chill down your spine.

Gloves are disposed into the bin by the wall, then she —finally— meets your eye.

That acidic, dreadful feeling boils in your chest again. This time, apparently, the feeling overflows, like a pot left too long on the burner.

"We're really not gonna talk about it, then?" You find yourself asking.

Trinity’s either stunned by your tone, or something in her finally cracks. Her gaze snaps to you, blank at first, until her jaw tightens.

You’ve dragged something into this place, her place, that doesn’t belong here.

This hospital is where everything makes sense to her. Where she knows the rules.

You're going off-script, dragging in the exact mess she was trying to avoid behind you.

"What is there to talk about, exactly?" Trinity mutters, not convincing anyone. Least of all herself.

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Seriously?”

The pounding in your head pulses, but you push through it. “We spend this really great night together," you recap, more convinced now that you still wouldn't have heard from Trinity if you'd not been brought to her place of work by an ambulance. "Then you find out who my brother is, freak out, and then ghost me?" 

She opens her mouth to protest.

“No,” you cut in, your voice climbing. “Don’t. What is your problem with Frank? Or is this not even about him?”

Her expression tightens. 

“Was I just a convenience?” you press. “Did you just not feel like getting an Uber that late?”

That is the straw that breaks the proverbial camel's back. 

“Would you shut up for five fucking seconds?” she snaps, color rising in her cheeks. “I’m trying to dress your goddamn wound, in case you forgot that you're literally bleeding from the head.”

You go quiet.

Trinity takes the opening, pressing the dressing into place, firmer than necessary. You flinch but don’t make a sound.

She steps back immediately, like the contact burned. “I can’t do this here,” she admits, hands coming up placatingly. “You need a CT to rule out a concussion. Do you have someone who can pick you up in a couple hours?”

Her eyes flick up to yours, almost pleading.

You swallow, shoulders sagging. “Yeah," you concede, sniffing. "I’ll call somebody.”

“It won’t take long,” she adds quickly. “We’re not slammed. I’ll check your results when you’re back, and I’ll…” She falters, hand dragging over the back of her neck. “I’ll call you after my shift. Okay?”

A beat passes.

“Fine.”

The flatness of your voice punches Trinity in the gut harder than she anticipated.

You know when you're not wanted, and Trinity does not want you here. 

You're there another two hours, which is apparently VIP treatment around here. 

Someone brings you a gown while your clothes dry. A nurse checks your bandage, says there’s no more bleeding. Then you’re wheeled to CT, staring up at fluorescent panels as the hospital hums around you. Everyone moves with purpose, like they were born knowing what to do.

This is where your brother spent the bulk of his time. Before. 

This is where he saved lives. This is where his own life fell apart. 

By the time they roll you back, the adrenaline’s worn off, leaving you wrung out and heavy. 

You sit there for a while, twiddling your thumbs and avoiding your phone because the nurse said a screen might worsen the pounding in your head. Your eyes eventually grow heavier, and sleep starts to lull you in closer… 

…and then the curtain snaps open.

“You don’t have a concussion,” Trinity declares, already halfway inside. Flat and efficient. Almost disinterested, even. “We’ll get you discharged.”

She doesn’t really look at you. Just at the tablet in her hands. 

She wants this over. She wants you out of here. Why would she want you to stay? 

"I'm clear to sleep, then?" You ask, rubbing your arm to ground yourself. "I've heard sleeping with a head injury can make it worse."

"I just said you don't have a concussion," she snaps. 

The words shrink you. You sink back into the mattress, feeling quiet and small.

Trinity takes in the bandage tugging at your temple, gown slipping off your shoulder. Pathetic, pouting puppy. Just like when she'd left the other morning.

She presses her lips together, forcing the memory from her mind. “Is someone coming to get you?” she asks. “I can’t let you leave alone.”

Had this exchange happened two nights prior, you probably would've rattled off something smooth about how if she'd leave with you, you wouldn't be alone. 

But you just blink back at her, perhaps a little too guiltily.

  "What?" she demands.

  "I forgot to call somebody," you groan, reaching up to pinch the space between your brows. 

A humorless laugh escapes Trinity's lips. "Fucking figures," she mutters. 

It's your turn for your resolve to crack. "Excuse me?" 

"I said it fucking figures," she slows her words, making sure you hear every syllable. "Just doing whatever the fuck you want, without regard for consequence. Must be a family thing." 

You push yourself up in the bed. 

"Okay," you scoff, accompanied by a thin, incredulous laugh. Your eyes narrow at her. "I'm gonna give you a second to take that back." 

She just stares at you, shifting her weight to one hip and arching an immaculate brow. Cool and unperturbed. Your theory that she'd be a cat in another life only garners more evidence.

"What is your fucking problem with my brother?" You ask finally. 

"Exactly the same problem I have with you," she fires back. "You both take up too much space."

The words suspend between you, sharp and ugly.

You swallow, your throat tight. “That’s not fair.”

Trinity exhales through her nose, already shaking her head in dismissal. “I’m not doing this.”

“No!" You exclaim, heat flaring again despite the exhaustion dragging at your limbs. "You don’t get to say something like that, then just… walk away! You don't get to push me away when I still don't understand what the fuck happened. You don’t get to act like I’m the problem when you’re the one who disappeared without an explanation.”

“I didn’t disappear,” she shoots back. “I made a decision.”

“Yeah?” Your head tilts to the side. “And what's that?”

"That this was a mistake," her words bullet into you. "That it's too messy, and I'm not interested in it anymore."

"Why is it messy that you know my brother?" You snap, the simplicity of it grating into you. 

"Because!" Trinity groans, tightening her fist at her side. "I was the one who—" 

She cuts herself off, but the angry redness heating her entire face tells you all you need to know. 

"You…" you blink, then shake your head. 

She blows a breath out, as though she's both unburdened and horrified with herself at the same time.

"You're the one who reported him," it comes out as a statement. You blink, slow and heavy. 

The information tangles like a cord in your throat and your chest. You're not sure how you feel, exactly. You're so exhausted, but you don't think you're angry about this new tidbit of information. Just… surprised. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" You ask, quieter now. "Why'd you get all…" you trail off, trying very diplomatically to come up with another term for emotionally constipated.

"…all mean when I tried to ask you about it?" 

"Because this is what I do," Trinity throws her hand up, and when gravity brings it slapping dramatically into her thigh, you frown. "I push people away before they get too close. Once you do, you leave. You all do. And me being the reason your brother was dismissed from his job?" 

She shakes her head, averting her gaze from yours. "You have more reason to hate me than most people do." 

"I don't hate you," your voice softens. You're suddenly very aware that the walls around your bed is actually only a curtain. The patients on either side of you are surely very entertained by the soap opera occurring in this ER. "You didn't even give me a chance to react, you just assumed I'd react poorly." 

"Because everybody does!" Trinity's voice raises once more, before she seems to think better of herself. "Everybody does," she repeats, softer now. "You're no different. How could you be?" 

You think of the night you shared. How you danced with her under shimmering blue lights at the bar. How you kissed her more slowly and deliberately on the couch in your apartment. How you curled up next to her, in your bed, like a dog. 

Suddenly, all of it is more embarrassing than it is magical. 

Tears prick at your eyes, but Trinity doesn't seem to notice. Or if she does, she doesn't care. "I'll get your aftercare paperwork together," her shoulders heave, reverting to the script she knows so well. She reaches blindly for the curtain behind her. "Come back if it gets any worse." 

Isn't that the understatement of the fucking year.

Trinity isn't proud of the half-crouch she falls into when she sees you emerging from behind the curtain of North 5 twenty minutes later.

She isn't proud of it, but it is necessary. Her skin crawls with the words she said, the admission of guilt, the look on your face. 

You said the same thing Huckleberry did. That she didn't give you the chance to react, that she assumed you'd hate her for it. 

So Trinity ensured that you'd hate her, if not for that, then… 

I'm such an idiot, she thinks, sighing and rubbing her hand tiredly over her face. 

It occurs to her that she never made sure someone was actually coming to pick you up. She can't, in good conscience, let you leave alone. Not with a bandage over your head. Not with an aching fondness for you still haunting the chambers of her heart. 

She waits for you to step out through the waiting room before she follows, breaking into a purposeful, brisk walk. 

You politely shoulder through the crowd, making sure to say 'excuse me' or 'sorry' to each person in your way.

Trinity does not make the same efforts, barely looking anyone in the eye. 

The rain has faded into a diluted trickle as opposed to the toerrential downpour earlier. The sky looms overcast, but the sun remains behind the grey clouds. Looming. Waiting for her cue to come onstage. 

Trinity watches you scan the bustling street just outside the hospital, clutching the paper with your aftercare instructions to your chest. You step towards the curb just as a minivan rolls up, hazards flashing.

A woman in her mid-thirties leans across the console, propping the passenger's side door for you. The backseat windows are rolled down to reveal two kids in carseats, a boy and a girl, both waving at you excitedly. Trinity even spies the boy shouting 'Auntie!'. 

Jesus, she thinks, cursing the endeared uptick of her lips. Don't make me humanize Langdon. 

You clamor into the passenger's seat, yanking the door shut behind you. As you're buckling your seatbelt, you shoot a glance back to the hospital. 

On instinct, Trinity flattens herself against the nearest wall. To no avail, because your eyes lock directly on hers. 

As the woman signals and merges back into traffic, Trinity spies you cradling your head in your hands.