Professor Sapphic

The apartment is quiet when Emery finally pushes through the door, the kind of silence that feels like a balm after fifteen hours of controlled chaos. Her scrubs are rumpled, her hair escaping the bun she'd tied it in yesterday evening, was it really only yesterday? The night shift has a way of stretching time, pulling it taut until minutes feel like hours and hours collapse into nothing.

She drops her bag by the door without bothering to hang it up. Her keys clatter too loudly against the bowl on the entry table, and she winces at the sound, though she knows you're awake. You're always awake when she comes home, no matter how many times she's told you to sleep.

The bedroom door is half-open, morning light filtering through the curtains in soft, golden bands. You're there, propped against the headboard with a book in your lap, though Emery can tell you haven't turned a page in a while. Your eyes find hers immediately, and something in her chest, something that's been held together with surgical precision and sheer force of will, threatens to crack.

"Hey," you say softly, setting the book aside.

"Hey." Her voice comes out rougher than she intends, scraped raw from fifteen hours of rapid-fire assessments and decisive calls.

The night replays in fragments behind her eyes, clinical, precise, the way she's trained herself to process. GSW to the abdomen, nineteen-year-old male, BP 80/40 and dropping. She'd made the call in under thirty seconds: straight to the OR, no time for imaging. Her hands had been steady as she opened him up, methodical as she packed the bleeders, her voice calm as she called for more units. Textbook damage control surgery.

He'd arrested on the table at 3:47 AM. They'd called it at 4:12.

She doesn't tell you about the exsanguination she couldn't get ahead of, about the mother's keening in the waiting room, a sound that bypassed every professional barrier she'd built and lodged somewhere behind her sternum. Doesn't tell you how she'd stood in the scrub room afterward, her gloves still bloody, mentally reviewing every decision with the detached precision of a post-op debrief. Earlier laparotomy? Different approach to the mesenteric tear? The variables had cycled through her mind like a differential diagnosis, searching for the answer that would make it not her fault.

She'd found none. Sometimes there isn't one.

She'd given herself ninety seconds, counted them, before she'd stripped off the gloves, scrubbed her hands until they were pink, and gone back out to the ED. Because it was 4:30 AM on a Saturday night, which meant the real chaos was just beginning, and the night shift didn't stop for grief.

She can't tell you this. Not yet. Maybe not ever. She's learned that some things don't survive translation from the clinical to the personal, that the compartments she builds to function at work don't open as easily as she wants them to.

Instead, she moves through the familiar motions of coming home: shoes kicked off and left wherever they land, scrubs peeled away in the bathroom, the quick shower that never quite washes away the antiseptic smell that clings to her skin. She doesn't bother with pajamas, just pulls on one of your old t-shirts, soft from a hundred washes, smelling like laundry detergent and safety, and a pair of cotton shorts.

When she emerges, you've shifted down in the bed, lying on your back with the covers pulled aside in invitation. You don't ask if she's okay. You learned years ago that the question has no good answer when she comes home like this, hollowed out and held together by muscle memory alone.

Emery crosses to the bed and climbs in without ceremony, her movements lacking their usual grace. She's clumsy with exhaustion, her limbs heavy, her body finally registering every hour she's been on her feet. The mattress dips under her weight as she settles beside you, and for a moment she just lies there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the warmth of your body next to hers.

Then, like a tide she can't hold back, she turns into you.

She shifts onto her side and then further, pressing close, her arms wrapping around your waist as she buries her face against your stomach. The soft cotton of your sleep shirt is warm against her cheek, and underneath it, she can feel the gentle rise and fall of your breathing, the solid reality of you. Your body is soft here, yielding, and she presses her forehead against you like she's trying to burrow into that softness, to find shelter there.

Your hand comes to rest on her head immediately, fingers threading through her damp hair, and the tenderness of the gesture nearly undoes her.

"I've got you," you murmur, and your voice rumbles through your body into hers, a frequency she feels more than hears.

Emery makes a sound that might be an acknowledgment or might be the beginning of something breaking. She curls tighter against you, her knees drawing up, making herself smaller. At work, she's the attending who makes the call, laparotomy or conservative management, clamp or cauterize, keep going, or call it. She's the one the residents look to when a patient is crashing, when there's no time for a second opinion, when someone has to decide right now and live with the consequences. Her authority fills the trauma bay, her voice cuts through chaos, her hands don't shake even when the outcome hangs on a single decision. But here, in the sanctuary of your arms, she doesn't have to be the one who decides. She doesn't have to carry anyone's life in her hands. She can be small. She can be the one who needs holding, the one who gets to let go.

Your other hand finds her shoulder, stroking down her arm in long, slow movements. You don't try to make her talk. You don't try to fix anything. You just hold her, your fingers gentle in her hair, your breathing steady and even beneath her cheek.

She can feel your heartbeat against her cheek. For fifteen hours, she's been listening to cardiac monitors, that relentless electronic beeping that demands constant vigilance, each tone a question she has to answer: stable or declining, intervene or wait, live or die. The monitors don't let her rest. Every beep is a test, a responsibility, a split-second assessment her brain performs automatically even when she's elbow-deep in someone's abdomen. Sinus rhythm or v-tach? Compensating or crashing? The sound has burrowed into her nervous system, kept her wired and alert, because a change in that beep could mean she has seconds to act or someone doesn't make it home.

Your heartbeat is nothing like that. It asks nothing of her. It's organic and imperfect, a gentle thud-thud beneath her ear that doesn't require her to do anything but listen. There's no alarm that will sound, no decision she needs to make, no life hanging in the balance. It's just you, alive and warm and steady, and for the first time in hours, a heartbeat means only this: you're here, I'm here, and nothing is dying. The difference breaks something open in her chest, the relief of it, the permission to finally stop monitoring, stop calculating, stop being ready. She can just be held.

Emery's hands clutch at your sides, fisting in the fabric of your shirt with a grip that borders on desperate. She knows the physiology of what's happening to her, cortisol still flooding her system, adrenaline that has nowhere left to go now that the crisis is over, her sympathetic nervous system stuck in overdrive. For fifteen hours, her body has been primed for threat: pupils dilated, heart rate elevated, every nerve ending tuned to detect the next emergency. Fight or flight, except there's no fleeing a trauma bay, so it's been all fight, rapid decisions, controlled chaos, her entire organism calibrated for survival.

Now her body needs proof that the danger has passed. Her nervous system is searching for the signal to downregulate, to shift from crisis mode back to baseline, and it can't do that in the abstract. It needs something tangible, something real. The solid warmth of your body beneath her hands. The resistance of muscle and bone. The texture of cotton twisted between her fingers. This isn't about being clingy; this is proprioceptive grounding, her body's desperate attempt to orient itself in space and time, to anchor to something that isn't coding or bleeding out or slipping away despite her best efforts. She's holding on because her nervous system literally needs the input: you are here, you are solid, you are safe, and so am I.

"Breathe with me," you say quietly, and she realizes her breathing has gone shallow and quick, her body still locked in the tension of the ER. Your hand on her back presses gently, encouraging her to expand into the touch. "In... and out. That's it. I've got you."

She tries. Focuses on the rise and fall of your stomach beneath her cheek, matches her breathing to yours. In. Out. In. Out. Slowly, incrementally, she feels her body begin to release, muscles unclenching one by one. The knot between her shoulder blades loosens. Her jaw unclenches. Her fingers relax their death grip on your shirt, though she doesn't let go entirely.

"That's my girl," you whisper, and your lips brush against her temple. "You're home now. You're safe."

Safe. The word settles over her like a blanket. Here, she doesn't have to be Dr. Walsh, doesn't have to be the attending who makes the call, the authority everyone looks to when a patient is crashing, the one who carries the weight of whether someone lives or dies. For fifteen hours, she's been the person the entire system depends on: the residents waiting for her orders, the nurses looking to her for direction, the families trusting her with their loved ones' lives. Every decision has been hers to make, every outcome hers to own, every failure hers to carry home in the hollow of her chest.

Here, she doesn't have to carry anyone. She doesn't have to be responsible for survival, not even her own. She can surrender that burden, let you be the one who holds her together, trust that you'll keep watch while she finally, finally stops performing. She doesn't have to be competent, decisive, or strong. She can just be Emery, held and human, and let someone else bear the weight for a while.

Emery nuzzles deeper against your stomach, her nose pressing into the soft warmth of you. She breathes in the scent of you, clean and familiar and utterly unlike the hospital. Your fingers continue their gentle movement through her hair, and she feels herself finally, finally beginning to drift.

"Sleep," you tell her, your voice a low murmur above her. "I'll be right here."

The summer months in Pittsburgh seem to trigger a surge in hospital visits. The entire PTMC can feel it, but for some reason Yolanda Garcia was really getting the brunt of it today. She’d drawn the short end of the straw with the guys upstairs and at hour 10— she was losing her patience. Since she’d started her shift, she’d been up and down the floors of the hospital at a minimum of 10 times. Most of the calls had come after Robby’s ragtag band of residents thought they knew better than the rest of the hospital and every elevator ride wore on her patience. The number of patients actually needing to head into the OR had thankfully not been too high but she was probably one minor inconvenience away from hurting someone’s feelings.

She’d just pushed through the doors of the room of her recent consult when Trinity fell in step with her expectantly. “Hey,” the younger woman pushed out, trying to catch Yolanda’s attention.

Yolanda stepped out of the never ending traffic of the ED’s halls and met Trinity’s eyes. “What’s up?”

Falling into Trinity had been easy for Yolanda. Trinity aimed to please and that much was apparent from her first day at the hospital. Her cheeks heated anytime Yolanda eyes fell to her. She was competent, a little eager but nothing too serious. By her second consult she’d already decided, Trinity might be just the after work distraction she needed. Until the intern dropped a scalpel into her foot. An accident, yes. But a deduction in the “should i bed her?” score, nonetheless.

The scalpel didn’t do too much damage to her foot or Trinity’s chances. And shortly after her first day, they’d commenced their little fling. The sex was good and Trinity wasn’t bad company but as the months had progressed things were starting to feel less casual. Ramen in bed, roommates using toothbrushes…and the face Trinity was sporting now. That mix of apprehension and hope that she’d been pining Garcia with a lot recently.

“Do you wanna do something tonight?” Trinity rocked on her heels and watched Garcia’s face for any signs. She wouldn’t get any, but she still looked.

Garcia looked around the hall noncommittally, “We’ll see how the rest of the shift goes.”

Trinity huffed in thinly concealed annoyance, “Right, well if you do want to come over. I figured we could get dinner somewhere before.”

Yolanda could read between the lines of the younger woman’s statement. She was trying to get something concrete, more serious on the books. And just the thought of it made her skin heat. She was far past going on dates and romancing women long term. Been there, done that and it hadn’t landed her any place good. She thought she’d been pretty clear on that, I mean just last week she’d confirmed that this was ‘just casual’ with Trinity. But obviously she hadn’t been clear enough. She shrugged her shoulders and turned to continue walking through the ED, Trinity trailing behind her again. “Let’s just see how the rest of shift goes, huh? No need to pin anything down now. We’ve still got at least two hours left— a lot can happen between now and then.”

Trinity tried to disagree but caught Dana’s eyes from the nurses station. The charge nurse motioned to one of the rooms she’d been in early that shift and mimed a signature in the air pointedly. Trinity nodded dutifully and steered the surgeon along with her, hoping to get a little further in their conversation. “We don’t have to, but it’d be nice. Don’t you think? Sharing a meal— not in my bed?” She tried to sound casual, even threw in a noncommittal chuckle. But Garcia wasn’t buying into it. They stop outside of the room, Trinity pulling at the stethoscope around her neck awkwardly as she waited for any form of agreement from Garcia.

“We shall see.” Yolanda enunciated each word, pushing down the irritation at having to repeat herself again. She really had to remind herself, that Trinity was young and obviously looking for some sort of community. Some sort of romantic arc in her time here at PTMC, but they’d agreed like adults on this. That wouldn’t be her and maybe she’d need to sacrifice having a consistent fuck buddy to help her realize that. Garcia pushed the door open behind Trinity, as a reminder of their location but also an easy end to the conversation. And urged her inside. Trinity obliged under her gaze and turned to pull the curtain back on the patient.

“Okay, so—” Trinity started as soon as the woman came into view. Garcia was ready to turn, already half a step back toward the hallway—anything to put space between herself and another interruption—when she froze.Right there in the middle of the open doorway. Eyes unblinking on the woman sitting across the bed. And for a second, nothing made sense.

Her eyes moved frantically over the scene taking in every detail. Trying to verify that this was real, that she was here. In Pittsburgh, wrist in a splint, clipboard balancing precariously on her kneecap, and red readers hanging low on the bridge of her nose. Eyes looking right back at Garcia.

Neither woman moves. Y/n’s unwavering rooting Yolanda to her spot in the doorway. Yolanda scared if she looks away, she might disappear again.

Oh, and Trinity trying to explain care instructions in a room of deaf ears. She followed the patient’s line of sight to Yolanda still in the door looking like she’d just seen a ghost. “Uh Garcia, you didn’t have to stay …” Trinity frowned at the silence that followed. “Unless you think I can’t handle this either?” It’d been mumbled under her breath but was just pinched enough to somehow break the spell of the other women in the room.

Y/n adjusted her grip on the clipboard, not nervous—just grounding. Her expression stayed composed, but her eyes didn’t waver. “

“…Hi, Landa.”

Her voice was even. Familiar in a way that landed heavier than anything else in the room. Garcia exhaled quietly, the sound almost lost under the hum of the monitors. Her lips twitched at the nickname, one she only heard in her dreams now.

you sit up, rubbing your eyes. “i’m sorry, babe. it was crazy last night with eli not wanting to brush his teeth and olive-“

“yeah, well, i have a showing in forty minutes and now i’m screwed.” her voice raises just a fraction and you reach out instinctively, touching her arm.

“shh, the kids-“

she glances back over her shoulder with this look that stops you cold. not full anger, just pure annoyance, like you telling her to quiet down was the last straw. your hand drops fast. gigi doesn’t say anything else, just turns back to the closet and starts digging through hangers for her blouse. you slip out of bed and start straightening the sheets, trying to stay useful without getting in her space, but your chest already feels tight. this isn’t her. not with you.

“where the hell is the blue one? the silk one i like?” she asks, more to the closet than to you, but you know she’s expecting an answer.

“i think it’s in the laundry basket? i washed it yesterday but didn’t get a chance to fold everything yet.”

she lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh but not the good kind. “of course. great timing.” she grabs something else instead, a white button-up, and yanks it on. you’re standing there in your sleep shirt feeling small, like everything you touch today is going to turn into another problem for her.

the kids start stirring then. you hear olive’s little feet padding down the hall first, followed by eli’s louder ones. gigi brushes past you toward the kitchen without another word, no good morning kiss, no hand squeeze. you follow, heart thumping too hard.

in the kitchen eli is already climbing into his chair at the table, still in his dinosaur pajamas, hair sticking up everywhere. olive is rubbing her eyes, asking for cereal in a sleepy voice that always melts you. you start pouring bowls while gigi makes coffee, moving fast.

“mommy, can i have the blue cup?” olive asks you, and you nod, reaching for it.

gigi is right behind you grabbing her mug from the counter. your elbow bumps her arm as you turn and hot coffee sloshes over the rim and down the front of her fresh blouse.

“fuck,” she hisses, switching to farsi under her breath, something sharp and quick that you only catch parts of. she sounds pissed and you want to cry. she sets the mug down hard. “you stood too close. seriously?”

“i’m sorry, i didn’t mean-“ you start, grabbing a towel fast and trying to dab at the stain. your hands are shaking a little. eli giggles from his seat, pointing with his spoon. “maman spill!” he says happily, like it’s the funniest thing he’s seen all week. olive looks between you two with big eyes, quiet because she senses tension.

gigi takes the towel from you, wiping at it herself. “it’s fine. whatever. i’ll just change. again.” but her tone says it’s not fine. she glances at the clock and curses again, softer this time. you stand there useless, the towel dangling from your fingers now, feeling the heat in your face and the sting behind your eyes.

she doesn’t stop there. she complains about the traffic she’s gonna hit now that she’s late while you help olive with her milk. you try to joke about how eli always spills his own stuff but it lands flat. gigi barely looks at you when she talks, just quick clipped sentences about the kids’ lunches and what time she might be back. you pack the bags anyway, trying to be helpful, but every move feels like it’s in her way.

by the time she’s ready to leave, blouse changed again but still looking harried, you hover near the door with the kids. olive is holding your hand tight. eli is chattering about his toy truck. gigi grabs her keys, gives each kid a quick kiss on the head and a “be good for mommy,” but nothing for you. no hug, no “i love you,” not even a glance. she just walks out, door clicking shut behind her.

you stand there for a second, the unshed tears making everything blurry. the house feels too quiet except for the kids. your mind is already spinning, she’s never like this. what if this is it? what if she’s finally tired of your mess-ups, all the little ways you don’t get it right? gigi is passionate and strong and she built this life with you, but maybe you’re the one weighing her down now.

“mommy? you okay?” olive asks, tugging your hand. her voice is small, careful.

you blink fast and force a smile, squeezing her fingers. “yeah, sweetie. let’s get you guys to school.”

the drive is filled with kid noise that helps a little. eli sings some made-up song in the back seat, olive corrects him on the words and they both laugh. you grip the wheel tighter than usual, replaying the morning in your head. the way gigi looked at you when you shushed her. the coffee stain spreading dark across white fabric. how she left without touching you.

by the time you drop them off - olive with her backpack bouncing, eli leaving a sloppy kiss on your cheek - the insecurities are sitting heavy in your stomach. you text gigi a quick “sorry about this morning. love you” on the way home but the screen stays dark. no reply.

the house is empty when you get back. you pick up the discarded towel from the kitchen counter, fold it slowly. gigi’s favorite mug is still there, half-empty and cold now. you wash it by hand instead of putting it in the dishwasher, thumb tracing the rim where her lips were.

part of you wants to call her, to explain or apologize more, but the other part is scared it’ll make things worse. she always communicates, talks things out even when it’s hard. but today she didn’t. she just left.

you sit at the kitchen table for a while, staring at nothing. the morning light is coming in sideways through the window, catching on the faint coffee spot on the floor that you missed. your phone buzzes once. not gigi, just a reminder about some parent thing at school next week.

the day drags after that. you clean up the rest of the breakfast mess, fold the laundry that started the whole thing, and try to keep busy so your brain doesn’t spiral too hard.

every little thing reminds you of her sharp tone, that look she gave you. by the time afternoon rolls around your phone lights up again, this time with a text from gigi saying she’ll grab the kids from school since her last appointment canceled. no emoji, not even a “love you.”

you type back “okay” and leave it at that, even though your thumb hovers over the keyboard wanting to say more. or sorry again. or ask if she’s still mad. instead you set the phone down and go fold more towels.

when the front door finally opens hours later you’re in the living room, reading something on your laptop. eli bursts in first, backpack half off one shoulder, yelling about the cool bug he found on the playground. olive trails behind him, more quiet, clutching a paper with crayon drawings. gigi comes in last, keys jingling, looking worn out but softening a little when eli tugs at her leg to show off his find.

“look maman, it’s a beetle! can we keep it?” eli asks, holding up a plastic cup with holes poked in the lid.

gigi crouches down to his level, peering inside. “that’s a good one buddy, but i think he wants to go back outside with his friends. we can look him up in a book later though.” her voice is gentler now, the morning sharpness gone, but she hasn’t said anything to you yet.

you close the laptop and stand up, forcing a small smile when olive comes over to show you her drawing. “that’s really pretty, baby. is that our house?”

“yeah with the flowers,” olive says, pointing. “maman said we could plant some this weekend if it’s not too hot.”

you nod, smiling for him. “that’s a good idea.” but your throat feels tight. gigi glances your way as she hangs up her bag, eyes searching your face for a second like she’s trying to read you. you look away first, heading toward the kitchen. “i’ll start dinner soon.”

“i picked up some tacos on the way,” gigi says, following you in while the kids dump their backpacks. “figured it’d save time.”

“thanks.” you pull plates out of the cabinet, movements a little stiff. part of you wants to lean into her, ask how her day went, but the fear is sitting heavy in your gut. what if she’s just going through the motions? what if this morning was the start of her pulling away, realizing she could do better than someone who forgets alarms and bumps into her and spills coffee all over her.

gigi’s always been steady, fighting for what she wants. maybe she’s tired of fighting for you.

she sets the takeout bag on the counter near you, close enough that her arm brushes yours. “you okay?” she asks quietly, voice low so the kids don’t hear.

“yeah, why wouldn’t i be?” you try to play it off, unpacking the tacos like it’s the most important task in the world. “kids eat first?”

gigi pauses, watching you. “sure.” she doesn’t push, but you feel her eyes on your back as you call the kids over. eli chatters the whole time about his bug and how olive almost stepped on a worm at recess. olive giggles at him but keeps glancing between you and gigi like she senses the weird vibe. you laugh at the right moments, but it sounds flat even to you.

dinner is mostly kid noise filling the silence. gigi asks you about your day once, something simple like if you got any work done, and you just shrug. “it was okay.” you don’t mention how you spent half of it replaying her leaving without kissing you, or how the house felt too big and empty. she tries again later, offering you the last taco, but you shake your head. “i’m good.”

after the kids are done gigi helps wipe eli’s face while you clear plates. your hands move on autopilot. she says something about one of her clients being a nightmare today, trying to pull you into conversation, but you just hum in response, loading the dishwasher.

the space between you feels bigger than it should in your own kitchen. gigi’s good at talking things out usually, but right now she seems to be waiting for you to give her an opening and you’re too scared to make one. what if she confirms it? what if she says she needs time or space or something worse.

olive tugs on your shirt after a while. “can we watch a show before bed?”

“yes, baby, pick something short,” you tell her, ruffling her hair. gigi catches your eye again, brow furrowed just a little, but you turn to the sink instead, rinsing a cup that doesn’t need rinsing.

later when the kids are settled in front of the tv with their show, gigi comes up behind you in the kitchen where you’re wiping the same counter for the third time. her hand rests light on your lower back, warm through your shirt. “hey. talk to me. you’ve been quiet since i got home.”

you shrug again, keeping your eyes on the counter. “just tired i guess.” the words feel small. inside your head it’s louder - the worry that she’s seconds from saying this isn’t working, that the morning proved you’re more hassle than you’re worth. gigi’s usually so soft with you, always has been. until today. and now everything feels off balance.

she sighs softly but doesn’t pull her hand away. “about this morning… i was stressed. the showing went fine but i shouldn’t have taken it out on you like that.” her thumb moves in a slow circle on your back, casual but careful. still, you don’t lean into it. the insecurity has you locked up, giving her short answers like armor.

“it’s whatever,” you mumble. “kids need to get ready for bed soon.”

gigi’s hand lingers another second before she steps back. “yeah. it’s getting late.” she sounds tired now too, but she heads to the living room to wrangle eli anyway, leaving you alone with the clean counter and the knot in your chest that won’t loosen.

the rest of the evening feels like walking through thick fog. you keep it together for the kids, forcing smiles when olive asks for her favorite pajamas and eli wants the dinosaur ones even though they’re in the wash.

gigi’s already in their rooms starting the bedtime routine, voice soft as she tells eli to pick up his trucks. you hang back in the hallway for a minute, listening, before forcing yourself to join in. you don’t want them catching the weird vibe but it’s hard when every time gigi moves near you your body tenses up.

“i’ll do olive’s hair if you handle eli’s teeth,” you say, keeping your tone even as you grab the detangling spray. you avoid her eyes, focusing on olive’s hair instead. gigi nods from the other side of the bathroom, calm like she’s choosing her words extra careful.

“sounds good.” she’s got eli on the step stool, squeezing toothpaste onto his brush. he’s giggling about foam beards and gigi plays along a little, making a silly face that usually makes you laugh too. tonight you just watch quietly, brushing olive’s hair slower than needed.

olive shifts under you. “mommy your hand is cold.”

“sorry baby.” you warm them up by rubbing them together quick. gigi glances over at you again, something soft in her expression, but you turn back to olive’s hair like it’s super important.

you end up in eli’s room for stories. gigi is reading from the book, doing the voices like always, but you cut in when she skips a page on accident.

“you missed the part where the truck finds the treasure,” you say, sharper than you mean. your arms are crossed over your chest as you lean against the wall, eyes on the book instead of her.

gigi pauses, finger marking the spot. she looks up at you but her voice stays steady, patient because she’s trying not to escalate. “right, sorry. here.” she goes back and reads it again without arguing back. eli doesn’t seem to notice, just snuggles closer to her side.

you feel bad right after but the insecurity keeps pushing words out anyway. “he likes that part the most. it’s his favorite.”

“i know,” gigi says gently, turning the page. no bite in her tone, just calm. she reaches over and adjusts eli’s blanket, her hand steady. you shift on your feet, feeling stupid for snapping but unable to stop the spiral in your head. she’s being too nice now. like she’s already checked out and just going through the motions until she decides what to do about you. you think.

in olive’s room it gets worse. you’re tucking her in while gigi plugs in the nightlight. when gigi leans down to kiss olive’s forehead you move to the other side of the bed quick, fussing with the stuffed animals like they need rearranging right this second.

“did you remember her water cup?” you ask, even though you know gigi did. it comes out clipped.

gigi straightens up, nodding. “yeah, it’s on her table.” she doesn’t snap back or roll her eyes. she just stands there a second, watching you with this quiet look that makes your stomach twist more. “you want me to read her the extra chapter tonight?”

“no it’s fine. i got it.” you sit on the edge of olive’s bed, back turned a little toward gigi. olive hugs her bear tighter, sensing something’s up. gigi lingers by the door like she wants to say more but doesn’t. she just says a soft “goodnight, i love you azizam” to olive and slips out, leaving the room feeling smaller.

you read her the chapter, voice mostly steady for olive’s sake, but your mind’s racing. gigi’s staying so calm, not rising to any of it, which somehow makes it worse. usually she’d push back a little, talk it through, but tonight she’s letting you have the jabs like she knows you’re hurting and doesn’t want to make it a bigger thing. or maybe she’s just done. the thought sticks hard while olive drifts off, her breathing evening out. you stay there longer than necessary, staring at the wall, before finally kissing olive’s forehead and whisper an i love you before walking out.

out in the hall gigi’s waiting by the laundry basket, folding one of eli’s shirts slow. she doesn’t say anything when you walk past, just gives you space, but her eyes follow you toward the bedroom.

the tension hangs thick between you, all the unsaid stuff and your short answers and her careful calm making the house feel like it’s holding its breath. you want to turn around and let it spill out but the fear of what she might say back keeps your mouth shut and your steps heading away instead.

gigi finds you in the bedroom a little while later, pushing the door half closed behind her. the lamp on your side casts a warm low glow, throwing long shadows across the rumpled covers where you’re already sitting up.

she peels off her day clothes slow in the corner of the room, slipping into her sleep shirt. the mattress dips when she finally sits on the edge near you, close enough that you feel the warmth from her but far enough to leave space if you need it. her hand settles on the blanket between you two, palm up like a quiet offering.

“can we talk for a minute?” she asks, voice low and steady, the kind she uses when she’s trying to untangle something without making it worse. “please. i can’t go to bed like this.”

you swallow hard, the knot in your chest pulling tighter instead of loosening. the whole day crashes back - her sharp mutter about the alarms, the looks she gave you, the coffee spilling down her blouse which somehow was your fault, how she walked out the door without even a brush of her hand against yours. the short texts. the careful distance when she got home with the kids.

tears burn at the corners of your eyes before you can shove them down and you blink fast, staring at your hands twisted in the sheets.

“do you still love me?” the words slip out smaller than you want, all shaky and raw around the edges. you hate how needy they sound but they just keep coming. “or are you… are you thinking about leaving? because if this morning was too much, if i keep messing everything up and just being in the way all the time, you can tell me. i’d rather know than keep guessing.”

gigi’s face changes right away, something pained flickering across it quick before she shifts closer on the bed. “hey, no. don’t talk like that. of course i still love you. that’s not even a question for me.” she reaches out slow, giving you every chance to pull back, and settles her hand warm on your knee over the blanket. her thumb starts rubbing gentle little circles, the kind that always ground you. “i’m not leaving. not ever. you and the kids are my everything.”

you shake your head, the sadness from all day tangling up with the leftover frustration until it spills out sharper than you mean. “then why didn’t you say anything when you got home with them? you just walked in with tacos like it was any other day after snapping at me all morning. i’ve been losing my mind all day thinking you were done with us, that maybe you realized you’re better off without my screw-ups, and you barely even looked at me.”

gigi stays quiet while you talk, listening close without jumping in, her hand steady and warm on your knee the whole time. she gives you all the space to get it out, thumb still moving in slow circles like she’s afraid you’ll pull away if she stops.

when you finally run out of breath and the words die off she lets out a soft sigh, eyes searching your face like she’s trying to see every piece of hurt. she glances down at her hand on your knee for a second, swallowing before she speaks again.

“i wanted to talk,” she starts, voice low. “i tried a couple times in the kitchen and after dinner but…” she trails off, shifting a little closer on the bed, her free hand coming up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “you didn’t give me much to work with. you were giving me these short answers and turning away every time i got near you. i don’t blame you, but it felt like you needed space so i was trying to respect that instead of forcing it and making it worse.”

she pauses again, thumb pressing a little firmer into your knee as she meets your eyes. “but i hate that i made you feel like this all day. this morning i was so stressed about the showing running late and i took every bit of it out on you in the worst way possible. the alarms, the blouse, the coffee spilling… none of it was actually about you.” her voice cracks just a fraction on the last part and she looks away for a second, jaw tight, before coming back to you. “i was running behind and pissed at myself and i handled it like complete shit. i’m sorry, baby. i’m really, really sorry. please… forgive me, azizam.” she’s looking at you with such soft eyes, it’s hard to not forgive her.

you feel the tears spill over, hot and messy on your cheeks, and gigi shifts closer right away without hesitation, wrapping her arm around your shoulders and pulling you into her side. you let her, the fight draining out as you bury your face against her neck, breathing in the familiar scent of her lotion. her other hand comes up to rub your back slow and steady, up and down in a soothing rhythm she always falls into when one of the kids is upset or when you need it most.

“i’m not going anywhere,” she murmurs against your hair, lips brushing there before she presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. she holds you tighter for a second, arms wrapping a little more securely like she’s trying to squeeze the doubt right out of you.

“you’re not messing anything up. i got too stuck in my own head and i shut down instead of coming to you right when i got home. that wasn’t fair at all.” she exhales slow, chin resting against you. “i saw you pulling away and i didn’t know how to fix it without pushing and making everything worse.”

you sniffle hard, one hand fisting lightly in the front of her sleep shirt as the relief starts to creep in slow, tangled up with all the leftover hurt from the day. your voice comes out muffled against her shoulder, thick and shaky. “it just scared me so bad. you’re never like that with me.”

you pause to catch your breath, fingers tightening in the fabric. “usually you’re soft, kissing me goodbye even when we’re rushing out the door, pulling me close in the kitchen… and today you didn’t. you just left. and i thought… i don’t know. that maybe you were finally realizing you could do better than someone who forgets and makes everything harder.”

gigi doesn’t pull back. she just keeps rubbing your back, her chin resting gentle on top of your head while she lets you finish. “no one’s better for me,” she says quietly, her voice warm and sure. “you make everything better, even when it’s messy. i love coming home to you. i love how you are with olive and eli, how patient you get when they’re bouncing off the walls. today was on me, not you.”

she presses another kiss to your temple, lingering there. “i’m sorry i made you doubt that even for a second. let me make it up to you tomorrow, yeah? i’ll set the alarms tonight, stay in bed a little longer with you in the morning. we can take our time before the kids wake up.”

she smiles against you. “then, i’ll make breakfast, your favorite. i’ll do anything.

a small laugh slips out of you despite everything, and she smiles soft at the sound, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “you’re forgiven.” you say and she kisses your forehead again, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, each one slow and deliberate like she’s trying to kiss away the whole shitty day. her lips linger a little longer on that last one, warm and reassuring, before she pulls back just enough to look at you.

you lean into her more, the tension finally cracking as she tugs you down to lie together, pulling the covers up around you both. her arm slides around your waist, holding you close under the blankets, bodies fitting together. her fingers trace lazy, soothing patterns on your hip, slipping just under the hem of your shirt to brush bare skin, sending warmth through you.

she keeps pressing little kisses wherever she can reach - your hairline, the tip of your nose, the sensitive spot just below your ear that makes you shift impossibly closer. her mouth stays there a second longer, breath warm against your skin, before she whispers, “i love you,” lips brushing your temple again. “so much. we’re okay. more than okay.”

you settle against her chest and nod, the knot in your stomach loosening for the first time all day as her heartbeat thumps steady and strong under your ear. “i love you too.”

the fight drains out slow, replaced by her warmth and the familiar way she holds you. gigi doesn’t stop the gentle touches, her hand sliding up to card through your hair, nails scratching lightly at your scalp in a way that always melts you.

she murmurs more soft promises against your skin - about slow mornings tangled up in bed, family weekends and how she’ll make sure you feel loved and wanted every single day, that she never wants to make you feel the way you did today ever again. her voice stays low and intimate, lips grazing your jaw every now and then, until your eyes get heavy and the last of the insecurity fades into the quiet comfort of her arms, her body pressed warm and close against yours.

Cassie had just stepped out of the ambulance bay. She is supposed to take a ten-minute break and call Harrison to know how her kid is doing but no, she can't have that now apparently because another ambulance parks in the emergency bay. She sighs loudly, shooting a quick text to Harrison then putting the phone back in her pocket.

“What do you - hey.” Cassie stops for a second and smiles at the sight of you, disheveled and sweaty. “You can't just stay away from me, can you?”

“Why would I wanna do that?” You quip, smirking. You jump out of the back of the ambulance while your partner helps you wheel out the patient.

“What do we have here?” Cassie asks, rolling up the sleeves of her jacket.

“This is Kennedy Ramos, 35. BP is 140/80, sats are 95% at 6 liters nasal cannula. Fractured right leg, secured through a splint. Multiple abrasions on legs and arms. Neck secured, just in case. Fell from a two-storey building, hit a small roof, then a trash can, then the ground. They were filming a parkour video,” You say and Cassie makes a face. “Don't ask me.”

“Mr. Ramos, how’s the pain?” Cassie asks the patient, pressing on a tender spot on his leg, as you and your partner wheel the stretcher in.

“Oh, it's… it hurts everywhere. But pretty eyes here made it all a bit better,” Kennedy answers, looking up at you with a hopeful smile.

You roll your eyes, glancing at Cassie. “No signs of head injury then?”

Cassie chuckles. “We’ll see about that, pretty eyes.”

“Shut up.” You try to bite back a smile as you push the stretcher.

Once the patient is transferred into a bed, you let the doctors and nurses do their job and step aside. You and your partner pull the ambulance stretcher out but stop once the patient calls you again. Pretty eyes.

Cassie looks at you, too. Well, everyone does now.

“Can I get your number?”

This man, this incredibly stupid parkour man. You got to admire the audacity of him shooting his shot despite the pain though.

“9-1-1,” is all you say to him.

Everyone laughs except Cassie.

Uh, oh.

“See ya later, busy bees.” You offer a salute before leaving.

“I saw that,” your partner says, grinning. “Girl, you're in trouble.”

“I am not.” There is a slight quiver in your tone. “Why would I be?”

“I don't know. Probably because that stupid parkour guy was flirting with you.”

“And how is that my fault?”

“Not my problem, dude.”

-

You’re back in the ED of PTMC around 4pm with another patient. You're on the stretcher, hovering over a patient's body, legs on both sides of the patient's waist and doing continuous chest compressions as two people push the stretcher that you're in.

“Code blue!” You shout as you enter the pitt.

Your partner endorses the patient's details to the receiving doctors and nurses - Robby, Dana, Princess, Samira, and Victoria - while you're being wheeled into a trauma room with your coding patient.

“I need a sub!” You call out, losing your strength from performing CPR for nearly half an hour now.

“I got it!” A med student steps in for the compressions and you carefully alight the stretcher.

“Careful, pretty eyes,” you hear Princess say as she assists you in getting off the bed.

“Pretty eyes?” You huff.

“That’s right. I hear things,” Princess replies with a smirk.

“Did Cassie talk to you?”

“Chismis finds its way to me, girl.”

“No doubt about that.”

“Princess, we need a little help here.” Robby calls before she can answer.

You step out of the trauma room, dusting yourself off and smoothing out your uniform. The light blue is now covered with spatters of dry blood. You wash your hands and arms on the nearest sink you can find.

“You look like hell, baby.” You turn around at the familiar voice. Cassie moves closer to you. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, Cassie.” You reassure her. “The patient coded twice in the ambulance. Vehicular accident.”

“Do you have a spare uniform in the ambulance?”

“It's fine. I’m clocking out in three hours anyway.”

“I have a spare uniform for you in my locker.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “You have?”

“Why do you think a pair of yours went missing?”

“Cassie Mckay?!”

You follow her to the locker room. She punches in her code which you immediately recognize is your birthday. Something flutters in your stomach.

“Why do you have my uniform here?” You ask.

Cassie shrugs then takes out a neatly packed pair of your uniform from her locker. “For emergencies like this.”

“That's…” You're speechless at her thoughtfulness. Cassie has always taken care of you in many ways but sometimes, it still surprises you. You have no idea what you did to deserve her. “Thank you, baby.”

“You're welcome, pretty eyes.”

“God, stop with that already.” You huff in annoyance, unable to hide the blush on your cheeks.

“He has not shut the fuck up about you, by the way.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Ramos.”

“He’s delirious.”

“And smitten.”

“Are you mad?”

“No,” Cassie quickly answers, folding her arms. “Just a little annoyed. With him, not with you.”

“He’s a patient.”

“A stupidly annoying one.”

Cassie doesn't get jealous. Not really, at least. She trusts you and you will forever be grateful for that privilege. But you know she's possessive and territorial and at times, she finds it hard to reign it in especially when it comes to you. She's just very protective when it comes to those she loves - you and Harrison will always be on top of that list.

“Come here.” Your hands grip on the hem of her scrub shirt, pulling her close to you. “I’m yours.”

“I know,” she says with a scoff, looking anywhere but your eyes.

Your finger tugs on the chain on her neck. “Look at me, Cass.”

And just like that, Cassie looks like an obedient puppy. Her blue eyes meet yours and she's pouting slightly. Your heart melts at the soft and vulnerable look on her face. One she saves only for you.

“I love you, Cassie.”

“I love you too.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I just worry. Sometimes.” Cassie sighs deeply. She knows it's ridiculous. She knows you are hers. In all the ways that matter. “It’s stupid.”

“You have nothing to worry about, baby. I promise.” You give her a quick peck on the lips. “I’m yours.”

You were not supposed to be in Baran’s ED.

That was the first thing.

The second thing was that you were definitely going to die.

Maybe not immediately. Maybe not dramatically. Maybe not in a way that involved alarms and people yelling “clear,” though you had already asked the triage nurse if that was likely and she had stared at you for three full seconds before saying, “No.”

Eventually though…probably from sepsis or tetanus or some blood disease you had not heard of yet because the body was a haunted house full of wet machinery and every door had teeth.

You sat on the edge of the ED bed with your left hand wrapped in a thick towel that had once been white and was now a deeply upsetting shade of red-brown. Baran’s hoodie swallowed your frame, the sleeves pushed clumsily up to your elbows. You were taller than most people in the room, taller than Baran, but sitting there with your shoulders hunched and your knees pressed together, you looked smaller than you ever did at home.

At home, Baran called you her girl.

At home, Baran kissed the top of your head even though she had to make you bend down for it.

At home, Baran bought your favorite cereal without being asked, refilled your water bottle before you remembered you owned one, and never laughed when you asked if chicken could still be raw after three hours in the oven because “what if heat only works on the outside?”

At home, she loved you gently.

At PTMC, everyone was trying to figure out why. You could feel it. The looks. The little glances between nurses. The way one resident had repeated the same instruction three times, each one slower than the last, until you finally said, “I understand the words. I just don’t understand what they mean when they’re friends.”

You had cut yourself on a broken ceramic planter. That sounded stupid when you said it out loud, which was unfortunate because you had already said it out loud six times. You had been trying to repot Baran’s basil plant because she always complained that the one from the grocery store died too fast. You had watched a video. You had bought soil. You had gotten distracted halfway through because the roots looked “too trapped” and then you tried to loosen them and the pot cracked in your hand.

A jagged piece of ceramic had sliced deep into the meat of your palm, near the base of your thumb. There had been soil in it. So much soil. Too much soil.

“I’m going to get dirt in my bloodstream,” you whispered.

The nurse at your bedside, Vivi, glanced up from where she was setting out irrigation supplies. “We’re going to clean it out really well.”

“But what if the dirt already moved in?”

“It didn’t move in.”

“What if it unpacked?”

Vivi pressed her lips together like she was trying very hard not to smile. “It did not unpack. I promise.”

You swallowed, staring at your wrapped hand. “Can you test for sepsis before it happens?”

“Sepsis is a clinical diagnosis. We look at your whole picture. Fever, heart rate, blood pressure, labs if needed.”

“My heart rate is fast.”

“You’re scared.”

“My blood pressure?”

“Fine.”

“My temperature?”

“Normal.”

You blinked at her. Then looked down at your hand. Then back at her.

“What if I’m pre-sepsis?”

Vivi’s mouth twitched. “You’re pre-stitches.”

That should have been comforting. It was not. A doctor you didn’t recognize walked in a few minutes later. White man. Tall. Short haircut. Badge clipped crookedly to his pocket. He looked vaguely annoyed before he even reached you, which made your stomach fold in on itself.

“Alright,” he said, picking up your chart. “Deep laceration from broken ceramic pot. Soil contamination. Tetanus status unknown?”

“I had one,” you said quickly. “I think. Maybe. Baran keeps the records. She has a folder. It’s blue. Or green. It was blue but then I put stickers on it, so now spiritually it’s green.”

The doctor paused. Vivi looked down at the tray. You knew that look too. The one people did when your brain took the scenic route and they decided the scenic route meant there was no destination.

The doctor gave a thin smile. “Do you know when your last tetanus shot was?”

“I think three years ago? Or seven. Three and seven have the same shape in my head sometimes.”

“They don’t,” he said.

Your face warmed.

“I know they don’t visually,” you said, quieter. “I mean in my memory.”

The doctor sighed. Actually sighed. You felt yourself shrink again, even though there was nowhere for your body to go.

“We’ll update it if we need to,” he said. “I’m going to take a look at the cut, irrigate it, maybe get imaging to make sure there’s no retained ceramic. Then likely close it with sutures.”

“Will it hurt?”

“We’ll numb it.”

“Will the numbing hurt?”

“A little.”

“Will I get sepsis?”

“Not if we clean it properly.”

“But not impossible?”

“Nothing is impossible.”

Your eyes widened.

Vivi cut in fast. “That is not a helpful answer. It’s very unlikely.”

The doctor’s mouth flattened. “Sure. Very unlikely.”

You looked at your hand and tried not to cry. The curtain shifted again and then Baran was there.

Black scrubs. Hair pulled back. Stethoscope around her neck. Her expression was calm in the way it got when she was forcing it to be calm, which meant something inside her was already sharpening itself. She had probably come straight from a trauma bay. There was a faint crease between her brows and her sleeves pushed up. Her eyes found you first. Everything in her softened.

“Hi, habibti,” she said.

Your mouth wobbled.

“I broke the basil.”

Baran came to your side immediately. “I don’t care about the basil.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“You are the surprise,” she said, and her hand came to the back of your neck, warm and steady. “The basil was garnish.”

You sniffed.

“I’m bleeding a lot.”

“I see that.”

“Do I have a blood disorder?”

“No.”

“You didn’t check.”

“I don’t need to check to know this is not how we diagnose a blood disorder.”

“What if this is how mine starts?”

Baran’s thumb stroked once under your jaw. “Then you would be very original.”

You let out a wet, startled laugh. There it was. The thing no one else understood. Baran could do that. Take the terror out of your chest and tilt it sideways until it became absurd enough to breathe around.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Dr. Al-Hashimi, I didn’t realize this was…”

“My girlfriend,” Baran said.

The silence after that was not huge. It was worse. Tiny. Precise. Needled. The doctor glanced at you again. Then at Baran.

His eyes moved down your oversized hoodie, your bloody towel, your tearful face. You watched the math happen behind his eyes and knew, instantly, that you had come up wrong.

“Oh,” he said.

You wished the bed would open and swallow you. Baran’s hand stayed on your neck.

“She cut herself on contaminated ceramic,” the doctor continued, professional voice snapping back into place. “She’s anxious and having some trouble following instructions.”

“I follow instructions,” you said, humiliated. “I just ask questions.”

The doctor looked at you with a tight smile. “A lot of questions.”

Baran’s fingers stilled. Vivi’s eyes flicked up. You did not notice because your brain was already running in frantic little circles.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly. “I know I’m being annoying. I’m trying not to. I just don’t want to die from a plant pot because that’s a really dumb way to die and then everyone would have to say it at the funeral.”

Baran looked at you. “No one is planning your funeral.”

“They might.”

“They are not.”

“You don’t know what they’re doing in their heads.”

“I know what I’m doing in mine.”

“What?”

“Deciding whether I can convince you to let me throw away all the ceramic planters in the apartment.”

You huffed.

The doctor muttered, not quietly enough, “I’ll never understand it.”

Baran’s head turned. The room chilled.

“Understand what?” she asked.

The doctor froze for half a second.

Vivi closed her eyes like she had just heard a tray fall in slow motion.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

“No,” Baran replied. Her voice stayed gentle, which somehow made it worse. “You had a thought, Dr. Langdon. Finish it.”

You looked between them, confused.

 Langdon shifted his weight. “I just mean… people are surprised. That’s all.”

“People?”

He glanced at you. Your stomach sank. You understood now. Not the whole thing maybe, not the polished social knife of it, but enough. Enough to know the blade had your name on it.

“You’re Dr. Al-Hashimi,” he said finally, with a weak laugh. “You’re brilliant. You’re respected. You could date anyone. It’s just… why would Dr. Al-Hashimi ever date you?”

The words landed so cleanly that at first you did not even feel them. Then your face went hot. Your throat closed. You looked down at your bloody hand like maybe the cut had been useful after all because now you had something else to stare at.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Baran went very still. Not frozen. Still. There was a difference. Frozen was fear. Still was control.

“Get out,” she said.

The doctor blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Step out of this room.”

“I’m assigned to this patient.”

“No,” Baran said. “You were assigned to a patient. Then you insulted her while she was scared and injured. Now you are no longer touching her.”

“Dr. Al-Hashimi, I didn’t mean…”

“You meant enough.”

He looked toward Vivi, like she might rescue him.

Vivi suddenly became extremely busy adjusting the saline bags.

Baran’s voice lowered. “You are going to leave. You are going to grab Dr. Santos to take over. Then you are going to document the handoff accurately, without editorializing her cognition, her affect, or her worth. After that, you and I will have a conversation with whoever is supervising you today.”

The doctor’s jaw worked. Baran smiled. It was not a kind smile.

“Now.”

He left. The curtain swayed behind him. For a moment, there was only the hum of the ED, distant monitors and rolling carts and someone coughing two bays over.

Then you said, very quietly, “I know I’m not smart like you.”

Baran turned back to you.

Her expression cracked.

“Don’t do that.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m just saying true things.”

“No,” she said. “You are saying cruel things in other people’s voices.”

That made you stop.

Baran moved closer, standing between your knees so you had to look at her. You were still taller than her even sitting on the bed, but somehow she had always been the one who could make the whole world sit down and behave.

“You process differently,” she said. “You need more time with some things. You ask questions. You get scared and your brain latches onto the worst possible outcome because it thinks that is how it keeps you safe.”

You swallowed.

“That does not make you stupid.”

“But I say stupid things.”

“So do I,” Baran said.

You blinked. “You do?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“When I told Robby I was fine after working sixteen hours and drinking only coffee.”

“That is stupid.”

“Exactly.”

A tiny laugh escaped you.

Baran cupped your face, careful not to jostle your injured hand.

“And for the record,” she said, “I date you because I love you.”

Your eyes burned.

“Even though I thought basil needed emotional support?”

“Especially because you thought basil needed emotional support.”

“It looked trapped.”

“I know.”

“And I was right.”

“You were absolutely right.”

You sniffed again, but the corner of your mouth twitched.

Baran brushed her thumb over your cheek. “She makes me happy,” she said, not looking away from you. “She makes me laugh.”

Vivi made a very small sound behind her, suspiciously close to a sniff.

Baran continued, voice steady. “She remembers that I hate cold rice but love cold pasta. She puts my socks in the dryer before I get home because she says my feet look sad after shift. She sends me pictures of pigeons and names them after hospital administrators. She once cried because a grocery store lobster looked resigned to his fate.”

“His name was Benjamin.”

“I know his name was Benjamin.”

“He was innocent.”

“He was very innocent.”

You breathed out a shaky laugh.

Baran’s face softened further. “She makes my life lighter. Do you understand? I spend all day in rooms where people are hurt, terrified, angry, dying. Then I come home and you ask me if ducks know they’re waterproof.”

You looked down.

Baran tilted your chin back up.

“And I get to breathe.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

“She makes me happy,” Baran repeated. “She makes me laugh. That is not small. That is not silly. That is not less than intelligence or ambition or whatever shiny thing people think I should want. It is everything.”

The curtain opened again before you could answer.

This time, Trinity Santos stepped in.

Black scrubs. Hair pulled half up, a few strands falling out. Tablet in one hand, gloves tucked into the other. Her eyes moved from you, to Baran standing between your knees, to Vivi, then to the empty space where the previous doctor had been.

She took in the room in one quick sweep.

Something in her expression flattened.

“Okay,” Trinity said. “I’m taking over the lac repair.”

Baran did not move from between your knees. “Thank you.”

Trinity glanced at her. Not casual. Not exactly.

There was a question there.

Baran answered it without words.

Trinity’s jaw shifted once.

Then she looked at you, and her face softened enough that your chest loosened a little.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Dr. Santos. I’m going to fix your hand.”

You stared at her.

“Am I going to get sepsis?”

Trinity blinked once.

Then she pulled the stool closer with her foot and sat down. “Starting strong. I respect it.”

Baran’s thumb brushed your cheek.

You swallowed. “The other doctor said nothing is impossible.”

Trinity’s eyes flicked to Baran again.

Baran’s mouth did not move, but her expression said plenty.

Trinity nodded slowly. “Yeah. That was medically useless and emotionally violent.”

You breathed out, startled.

Vivi made a small noise that might have been a cough if anyone wanted to be generous.

Trinity set the tablet aside. “Here’s the actual answer. You have a deep cut with dirt in it. That means we take it seriously. We clean it aggressively, check for foreign bodies, make sure your tetanus is handled, and decide if you need antibiotics. You came in quickly. Your vitals are okay. You are not currently septic.”

“Currently?”

Trinity pointed at you with one gloved finger. “Do not litigate my adverbs.”

You shut your mouth. Then opened it again.

“But my blood?”

“Your blood is staying inside your body at a socially acceptable rate.”

You looked down at the towel. “It doesn’t feel acceptable.”

“That’s because hands bleed like they’re trying to win a drama award.”

You looked at Baran.

“She sounds less haunted,” you whispered.

Baran’s mouth softened. “She is less haunted.”

Trinity gave a tiny shrug. “Debatable, but I hide it better.”

That made you laugh, small and shaky.

Baran’s hand slid to the back of your neck again. “There she is.”

Trinity washed her hands, then came back with the supplies. “I’m going to unwrap this and look at the cut. No surprises. No sudden movements. If you need a second, say so.”

“I need a second.”

“I haven’t touched you yet.”

“I’m preparing.”

“Valid.”

You nodded seriously. Trinity waited. No sigh. No eye roll. No impatient shift of her weight. She just sat there, one hand resting on the tray, letting your brain catch up to the room.

After a moment, you said, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Trinity said back, and carefully peeled the towel away.

You watched her face because doctors always tried not to react, which meant their not-reacting became its own reaction.

Trinity did not make a face.

She only looked.

Then she said, “That is a very committed cut.”

Your eyes went wide. “Committed?”

“Deep enough to need stitches. Not deep enough to make anyone in this room start running.”

“Is it going to get infected?”

“It could, which is why we’re cleaning it well and possibly giving antibiotics. Could is not the same as will.”

You nodded slowly.

Then looked at Baran. “Could is not will.”

Baran squeezed your uninjured hand. “Exactly.”

Trinity glanced between you two, and something faint passed over her face. Not confusion. Not judgment. Understanding, maybe.

Then she leaned back and said, “Before I irrigate this, I’m going to numb it. The numbing part burns. I’m not going to lie to you because that’s rude and also you seem like someone who would remember and bring it up forever.”

“I would.”

“I can tell.”

Baran looked at her. “She once reminded me of a mushroom fact from six months ago because I questioned it.”

“You did question it,” you said.

“I said I did not want mushroom facts during dinner.”

“That is different.”

Trinity glanced at Vivi. “I’m learning a lot about this relationship.”

Vivi nodded. “Same.”

The numbing hurt. It hurt enough that tears spilled down your face before you could stop them. You tried to hold still, but your shoulders jumped, and Baran immediately leaned closer.

“Look at me,” Baran said.

You did.

Her eyes were steady. Warm. Yours.

“You’re doing well.”

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“Do I have medical trauma now?”

Trinity, without looking up, said, “You can schedule that for later. Right now we’re doing hand trauma.”

You made a strangled sound that turned into a laugh.

Baran’s thumb stroked over your knuckles. “Breathe, habibti.”

“I am breathing.”

“You are bargaining with oxygen.”

You sobbed once, then laughed again, which made Trinity pause with the needle.

“No moving,” Trinity said.

“Sorry.”

“You’re fine. Just don’t giggle your way into a crooked stitch line.”

“I’m not giggling.”

“You are medically adjacent to giggling.”

Baran looked down at you with helpless affection. The irrigation was worse. Not painful exactly, but horrible. Pressure and cold and the strange sensation of your body being cleaned from the inside out.

You stared at the ceiling and asked, “What if the bacteria are hiding?”

Trinity said, “They’re not paying rent.”

“What if they have tiny apartments?”

“Then I am evicting them.”

“What if one refuses?”

Baran leaned close to your ear. “Then I’ll handle the legal side.”

You turned your head toward her. “You can’t sue bacteria.”

“I can be very persuasive.”

Trinity snorted softly. “I’d pay to watch that deposition.”

By the time the X-ray came back clear, you were exhausted. No ceramic left inside. Tetanus up to date, confirmed by Baran through the sacred sticker-covered folder she had pulled up on her phone. Antibiotics prescribed because of the soil contamination. Stitches placed cleanly across your palm while you squeezed Baran’s hand and whispered increasingly strange questions about bloodstream behavior. 

Trinity answered every single one. Not sweetly, exactly. Trinity was not sugary. She was sharp-edged in a way that made the room safer because nothing vague could survive her.

“No, your veins are not a highway for dirt.”

“No, pus is not guaranteed.”

“No, you should not Google necrotizing fasciitis.”

“No, I’m not going to describe it to you.”

“No, Baran should not describe it to you either.”

Baran’s brows lifted. “I wasn’t going to.”

“You thought about it.”

“I did not.”

“You’re an attending. Of course you did.”

You looked between them, mildly betrayed. “You both know what it looks like?”

Trinity pointed at Baran. “Do not answer that.”

Baran pressed her lips together.

You gasped. “You do.”

“Almost done,” Trinity said quickly.

When the final bandage was wrapped around your hand, Trinity sat back and peeled off her gloves.

“Alright,” she said. “You survived the basil incident.”

“The basil was not the aggressor.”

Baran’s expression hardened. “The basil is on thin ice.”

“It’s a plant.”

“It knows what it did.”

Trinity handed Baran the discharge paperwork. “Keep the bandage dry for the first twenty-four hours. No dishes, no soil, no lifting anything heavy with that hand. Watch for spreading redness, warmth, pus, fever, red streaking, worsening pain. Come back if any of that happens.”

Your eyes widened.

Trinity immediately pointed at you again. “That is a watch list, not a prophecy.”

You slowly closed your mouth.

Baran’s voice softened beside you. “We’ll check it together.”

“Fifteen times?”

“As many as you need.”

Trinity looked down at the chart, but her mouth twitched.

You noticed.

“You think I’m annoying too.”

Trinity looked up.

The room quieted.

“No,” she said, very plainly. “I think you’re scared. There’s a difference.”

Your throat tightened.

She stood, tucking the tablet under her arm. “And for what it’s worth, Dr. Al-Hashimi has good taste.”

You blinked.

Baran looked at Trinity, surprised.

Trinity shrugged. “What? She does.”

Then, after a beat, Trinity added, “Also, anyone who gets Baran Al-Hashimi to make that face over a basil plant is clearly powerful and should be respected.”

You looked at Baran. “What face?”

“No face,” Baran said.

Trinity nodded toward her. “That face.”

Baran narrowed her eyes. “Santos.”

“I’m leaving.”

Trinity slipped out through the curtain, but not before giving you one last look.

“Don’t Google anything weird.”

You nodded.

A pause.

Trinity leaned back in. “I mean it.”

“I won’t.”

Baran looked at you.

You looked at the floor.

“I might ask Baran to Google.”

“No,” Trinity and Baran said at the same time.

The curtain fell shut.

"The same size," you agree. "But they're lumpy." A small frown graces your face. "You need to roll them more."

You'd do the whole thing if you could, Emily knows. But since you can't, she'll be trying her damndest. Even though she could argue that the cookies will be going into the oven anyway, spreading flat and even, with perfectly non-lumpy edges.

She could, but she won't.

"Okay." She gives in, setting down the scoop. Anything for your frown to ease.

And it does, and so she doesn't mind the trouble, but before she can reach for the sheet in front of you, you shift it further away.

"You're forgiven for these."

The kitchen cranks a few degrees warmer. It's hazy outside, not fully sunny, not fully cloudy, and the shifting light dances across your face. You have a sprinkle of sugar caught on your bottom lip, flour staining your sleeve where she'd spilled some of it on the counter. Your tone is light and your eyes are sunlit and it takes everything in her not to kiss you, sugar crystals melting on her tongue, your smile plush and soft against her mouth.

Emily tears her gaze away and instead bobs a minuscule bow. "You're so generous, honey."

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth quirks.

It makes her heart all kinds of warm. She loves that you're getting more comfortable with her, flashes of your old self peeking through—in jokes, in mannerisms, in the split-second reactions that don't require thought. She missed more of you than she thought possible in just a week. Not just your easiness, your unfiltered nature, the naked truth of you—but also the tender drag of your touch on her skin, the sound of her name from your mouth.

God, she missed that. At first you'd said it stiltedly, your lips awkward around the syllables, Em-i-ly, stiff with formality, your tongue still shy, hesitant around it—then, eventually, warmer. Emily, soft as butter, all give. Em, almost unthinking, instinctive.

You're getting better, she knows you are. If not with remembering then with settling in, with healing. You're remembering bits and pieces here and there—old habits, frequent haunts. You remember Penelope and Dave and your closer coworkers. You tell her about them, replay the stuff that you remember so she can verify it, and she does, telling you good, see, you've got it, her heart lifting with each one.

It doesn't matter that you don't come to her with memories of herself. Emily doesn't mind, truly, whether you remember her or not. She ignores that voice in the back of her head, in her heart, that begs: remember me. Remember me and I won't ask for anything else.

She ignores it. Because you're making cookies and she's rolling out the dough and you're dipping it in cinnamon sugar, and she can see, despite your disapproval at her methods, that you're happy. So it doesn't matter that she's largely missing from your memory. You're here, you haven't left, you're still with her.

That's enough.

"How's this?" She asks, showing you the ball of dough she'd been rolling. It's smoother than a pebble, and it gains your approval.

"Perfect." You say, pleased. Then your smile collapses, a little, a crease dipping between your brows. "Sorry," you murmur. "I don't mean to be so anal about it."

"Hey, c'mon—they're Christmas cookies, aren't they? They have to be perfect." Emily says gravely. Your smile blooms back, pressed sheepish. She looks down at the cookie you're rolling in sugar and nudges your hip. "See, that won't do, chef. You missed a spot."

You laugh, dutifully roll the dough through the sugar again, and Emily ducks her head to hide her own smile.

-

The house smells sweetly of cinnamon. It's warm, familiar, curling around her like a hug.

Emily doesn't admit it, but she hovers. You watch her with poorly hidden amusement as you clean up the messes on the counters—she doesn't try to help, because you've already issued one warning, and, really, she doesn't want to risk a fight.

Her fingertips are still pruned from washing the dishes. She wipes them on her sweatpants and ducks again to watch the oven. Its heat wafts out to greet her, glowing red on her face as she peers in through the glass and watches the cookies melt from balls to puddles. Normal cookie progression—so far.

She nearly never bakes, only ever takes over the cooking. This is your domain, the sugar and butter and all the fuss, a thousand different ways for it to all go wrong—and they're Christmas cookies, for gods sake, and if she's fucked them up too—

"Emily," she can hear the laugh in your voice, can hear it without even having to turn, "you know you can't force them into baking any faster."

She looks up at you sheepishly, color rising in her cheeks. "I know that." She says, straightening. "I'm just—uh. Making sure they do their thing."

"They'll do their thing," you promise. "I set a timer."

You're overly fond, eyes soft as you reach over to tuck her bangs behind her ear. It's a half absent move, and she leans into the touch.

You've gotten bolder, these past two days. More prone to touching her, falling into the familiar rhythm of teasing. It all bursts explosively in her chest, and she's not sure if it's the hormones amplifying everything, or if it's the whole ordeal making her a thousand times more emotional, or if it's just, plain and simple, you. She's never been immune to your affections, but Emily thinks she hasn't been this terribly weak for you since you first met.

She's attuned to your every move. For every action you take, a reaction sets off in her.

She feels it, almost physically, when your eyes drift down to her mouth. It's a quick glance, your gaze shy, but Emily's pulse skips nonetheless. Her own eyes drop and find your lips—the familiar outline, the same shape and color, a little chapped from the cold. The crust of sugar is gone, swept away by an absent drag of your tongue.

Your hand drifts down to her elbow, and you weave your arm into hers.

"There's this movie I found," you say, tugging her out of the kitchen. "Some cheesy Hallmark thing. New release. Wanna give it a shot?"

Emily can only hum absently.

-

(The cookies turn out perfect. The relief is bubbly and sweet, and the cookies warm her from the inside out, vanilla and cinnamon and the taste of your hand, still carrying the heat of the oven as they slide down her throat. She presses kisses over your knuckles, mumbles, you're a magic worker, and watches as you visibly fluster, denying—Jesus, stop it, Emily, you practically made the whole thing. She steadfastly ignores you, brushing her mouth over the warm stretch of your wrist. Your skin still smells like the sugar, the sweetness of the dough, the earthy cinnamon.)

-

An exhale behind her alerts her to your disapproval.

"I'm not sure this is a good idea," you say from your perch on the closed toilet seat, watching her in the mirror.

"Have a little faith." Emily says easily. It's true, she hadn't cut her own bangs since she was in her twenties, but it's Christmas tomorrow and a fresh look is in order. Before everything, she'd planned on booking an appointment for sometime this week, but, well—the thought fled her mind.

Emily untucks her bangs from behind her ears. You're still looking unconvinced, nipping at your lip—always a worrier.

"Besides, I've done this before," she adds, tying her hair up in a ponytail.

"When was that?"

"…College."

You laugh, and it sounds just like it would've, two, three weeks ago. Her heart clenches. It's so strange, all of it—how her body reacts like you're someone new, sometimes, the person she'd bound her life to but still unaware that she would. It takes her back to nights on your living room floor, early mornings through the city that neither of you would admit were poorly concealed dates. Not until far, far later.

Inhaling, Emily gathers her grown-out side bangs and grabs the comb from the counter, running it through her hair. Your face is visible in the mirror, peeking out from behind her as you witness her process.

"Cleaning them up is easier than cutting them from scratch," she says distractedly, more for your benefit than hers—though the reminder is helpful. "They just need shortening."

You hum behind her. "I've only tried doing it once. It was disastrous."

Emily's mouth twitches. She hadn't known that. "Didn't take you for the type to try," she teases, peering close into the mirror and picking up her scissors.

"I was—unfortunately—a lot more adventurous in my youth," you say wistfully. "Couldn't look into the mirror for a week."

Emily laughs. She remembers her own first attempt, all kinds of catastrophic. She was eight, and nearly all the French girls in her class had wisps of fringe on their foreheads. When first her mother, then her au pair, refused to take her to the hairdressers, Emily had grabbed the nearest pair of scissors, a handful of hair, and watched the jet-black strands float down into the sink.

Elizabeth wouldn't look at her for weeks.

Emily straightens her shoulders now, pushing the image of her mother's sour face out of her head. She begins trimming, absently. Without her permission, her mind drifts back to the phone call she'd gotten yesterday—at exactly the wrong time, a blot on her otherwise finally uneventful day, as if her mother had had it planned to the second.

When exactly were you planning on telling me that Y/N had gotten into an accident? Really, Emily, am I supposed to find out everything from one of your friends just because you won't pick up the phone?

Emily's laugh had burst out of her in disbelief, bitter and sucked dry of humor.

She doesn't fault Penelope. She's more astonished at her picking up the phone in the first place, but what clouds it most of all is the shame. At herself, at Elizabeth, at the gaping rift between them that can't seem to stitch itself over. She hadn't needed the reminder, but Emily was plunged into it anyway—without you, she doesn't really have anyone to call her own.

Longer curls of hair float down into the sink, stark black against white. She thought she'd given up on it, mending this wretched thread connecting them—after so many years, after countless fruitless attempts that left her bitter that this is all she'll ever get from the woman that birthed her. But Emily still—naively—wishes she could glue the frayed bits together, make the string just strong enough for it to take some weight, for it to handle something as impossible as confiding in her mother. Admitting that she's pregnant, or that her wife has lost her memories, or that she's drowning trying to wade through it all. Just for her mother to be a mother, and for her to be her child; to have a place, momentarily, where she could lean.

But the shards of her hair fall into the sink, and Emily knows she wouldn't be able to bear having her mother look at her, see into the gaping hurt that tore her open. It'll be easier, it always has been easier, for her to turn away.

She swallows hard against the thought and focuses instead on the scissors in her hand. She had been trimming, carefully, bit by bit, and now her bangs dip just past her eyebrows. She adjusts a few strands then pauses, pursing her lips.

Maybe she could shorten them a bit more. It's a good length, she hasn't totally ruined anything, but if they're this long they take even less to grow out. She fluffs them out, runs her fingers through them. Maybe another centimeter or two.

Her stillness alerts you; your face, she just notices, has blipped out of the mirror.

"Something wrong?" You ask. Before she can answer, she hears your limbs unfolding as you stand. "Let me see."

Emily sets the scissors down and turns. "I haven't sabotaged my dashing good looks, if that's what you're wondering—"

Her heart plummets when she meets your eyes, glossy with unshed tears.

"Hey," she breathes. She's plunged back into being eight years old again, her veins slowly freezing over when her mother's gaze turned cold. "Hey, what is it, what's wrong?"

You swallow, shaking your head. "Nothing," you say thickly. The word comes out choked, and her hands twitch at her sides, restless, about to reach for you when you lean in, so close she can see the dampness making its way through your lashes.

Emily goes still. Your hand rises up, briefly hesitating, before you reach over the rest of the way and gently nudge her bangs over one brow. Your knuckles graze her temple. The touch is soft, exploratory.

She hardly breathes.

You sift your fingers through them, parting the hairs around her forehead. Fixing them. Adjusting them to fit the picture in your head—the memory.

The memory.

Emily sucks in a breath. Recognition blooms wide and beautiful in your eyes, unmistakable, draped like gossamer over your pupils. She feels it all at once, buried free and now bursting, the tremble running along her bones, squeezing the breath in her throat.

She doesn't know how she finds her voice again.

"I don't look that terrible, do I?" She manages to croak out.

You laugh tearily, pulling your hand back to wipe at your eye. She gracelessly helps you out, drying the shimmer of wetness from your skin, feeling it dampen her thumbs. Baby, she whispers under her breath, her lungs clenching tight. Baby, baby. Tears still flood your eyes; your attempt to blink them away is futile. They slip out, hot on her skin. She kisses their wet paths.

You clear your throat, your dewy lashes ghosting over her thumbs. "You know," you mutter, sniffling, "I'm kind of sick of all the crying."

Emily's smile is wobbly in its own right. You and me both.

"I know what you mean."

Careful, she dabs beneath your eye with her knuckle. Your gaze flicks back up to her. It's no less sharp, no less piercing, despite your tears. She feels your eyes hot on her face, sweeping. Emily warms beneath them, a flush rising where they trail.

"I remember you," you eventually say, quietly. "Not just your voice—you."

Her breath catches. Her hands go still, cupped around your face. "Yeah?" She manages, hoarse and low.

"Yeah." You step even closer, your bent arm gently pressing into her. She can still see the damp spots on your skin where your tears haven't dried yet. Where she's missed.

You mold your own hand to her cheek. Light as a feather, you sweep your finger along her cheekbone, dusting off stray shards of shorn hair. Then, you kiss her.

You kiss her.

She can't help the sound that punches out of her, half gasp, half sob, muffled against your mouth before she can stop it. Sorry, she wants to say, god, fuck, I'm sorry. But you're undeterred, rubbing a soothing path across her skin, and it's just the same, you're just the same—your lips and the way you go into it, your hand around her cheek—and Emily…shit, Emily kisses you back through the loud rush of her heart.

She's been deprived of your kisses before, of your affection—for a week, sure, sometimes longer. But it was never anything close to this. Nothing could ever cut as deep as this had.

She's almost embarrassingly breathless, chasing you despite herself, itching to keep the distance closed between you. She wants to stitch it shut, wants the knots buried and every inch of you against every inch of her, too close for naught but the air to slip through. Her mouth burns, aching for yours again, but you draw back, press your forehead against hers, swipe at the tears that dip out of her eyes.

"Em…" You mumble.

"Sorry." She shoves at them roughly, blinks, hard—and finds your own eyes teary again.

The state of you both.

A weak laugh huffs out of her. It cuts off, her breath hitching when you cradle her face in your hand, tug her in again, for a soft press of your lips.

A choked sound wrangles out of her throat, and twin streams of tears burn their way down her face. They mingle with yours, dip down to soak her lips; the kiss is wet with salt, and she wraps both arms around you, breathes out your name, kisses the damp edge of your jaw. Then your chin, then the soaked corner of your mouth; a kiss anywhere she can, any part of you she can reach, and back, again, to your lips.

She's too frantic with it, she knows. But her blood rushes, hands trembling as she digs them into your flesh.

I remember you.

I remember you.

-

Christmas Day is a mostly uneventful affair. You wake up slowly, reluctant to leave the heavy warmth of the bed. Emily is, too. She finds a cocoon in your arms, nestling into the warm space on your chest, between your shoulder and your neck. It's quiet there, soft and gently rising, falling, with your breathing.

Between the tranquil thumps of your heartbeat, she finds herself imagining how different it'll be next year. All this silence, shredded, warped. A five-month-old, give or take, playing with torn wrapping paper, enjoying it more than her freshly bought gifts—in Emily's head, it's a girl. It's always a girl. She'd have your eyes, your laugh; the same curl of your hair and the exact way you tilt your head, brows cocking, when you're confused.

Your girl. Your girl and hers, entirely hers, and entirely yours, too.

She's hazy with the daydream, as if wrapped in a cloud. You ask her what's on her mind and she can't say it, so she says you and it's true enough, your posture shrinking inward as you fluster. She kisses the heat from your cheeks and hopes your baby inherits that, too.

The day is soft and pale, a blur of white outside, the cold rising and ebbing in waves. You're mostly entangled, huddling more for the company than for the warmth. Your legs twine together, and you stretch your side along Emily's, your good arm curled around her, the chilled tips of your fingers sneaking under her sweater to trace over her skin.

There's just enough room between you for shy kisses on your end. You space them out, dot them on her jaw and the middle of her cheek and her chin and wherever else you can reach, before you edge closer to the corner of her mouth, then the middle of it, as if you're trying to pace yourself.

Emily almost finds herself in tears.

Sergio curls close, lethargic in the absence of carelessly tossed wrapping paper and empty boxes—simple joys of his feline life. Emily gives him a few special treats to make up for it. Snow blankets the streets, frosting the windows; a neighbor, Martha, drops off a plate of gingerbread cookies ("Merry Christmas, dears", and, strangely, Emily feels warmer for it). The fire crackles, melting down the sharpness of the cold. Your tree is brightly lit and empty of presents.

"I got you something," Emily confesses, thumbing along your cheek, "of course I did, it's upstairs. I'll get it if you want me to. I didn't know if—"

"Can I open it later?" You murmur. Emily nods, of course, yeah, hon, definitely—"I—thank you. I know I'll love it, I will, I'd just…I'd rather wait, a bit."

Emily's smile is small. "It's not going anywhere."

You nod, biting your lip. "Which is a bit hypocritical, I think, but—" You disentangle yourself from her and cross the living room in a couple hurried steps. Emily frowns, but you return quickly, inhaling a big breath, holding something in your hand.

A box. A gift-wrapped, bow-topped box.

A present.

"Merry Christmas." You smile softly, nervously.

Emily blinks. She sits up on the couch, her eyes pricking with heat. "Wh…? When did you—" She swallows the lump in her throat, reaching for your wrist to gently tug you back down, next to her. "When did you get this?"

"At the market," you admit. "I'd been trying to find something while we were looking around. I almost gave up, honestly—didn't know how I could get it without you noticing—but then you got that call." Your smile presses thin, a little sheepish. Then it fades, your face sobering. "I know I must have gotten you something, before, but I don't remember it and it didn't feel right to—I don't know, give you something I didn't know the value of. Not that I could find it, anyway." A laugh bursts out of you, more breath than anything, "I mean, I'm not sure if you'll like this, either, but it's—"

She pulls you into as fierce of a hug as she dares with your arm still in its sling. You're close enough that she can feel your breath as it gets trapped in your lungs, your free arm curling around her neck, fingers dipping into her hair. Heat throbs in Emily's skull, a thin film of tears blurring everything out.

She's too scared to speak, for a while. The lump is too big in her throat, even though she knows you feel everything else—the ragged edge to her breathing, the tears smearing on your skin, the fabric of your hoodie. Emily buries her face in your shoulder.

"Thank you," she whispers.

"There's nothing to thank me for." You murmur, rubbing wide circles between her shoulder blades. You let her stay there for a moment, undone by the entirety of you, wholly wilted against your chest. When she tries to force some stiffness into her shoulders, you lean back, thumb at the wetness under her eye and press a kiss there. "I'm sorry it couldn't be more."

"Hey, no." She shakes her head, her voice hoarse. Your smile softens. You brush another kiss on her cheekbone then press the box into her hands.

It's small, barely larger than her palm. Emily carefully unravels the wrapping, blinking the heat from her eyes.

What lays beneath is familiar: a jewelry box. She opens the lid to find a necklace glinting inside, gold and dainty, flames of a sun surrounding a pale gemstone.

"It's your birthstone," you explain, quietly.

Her nail catches on the delicate chain. She lifts it out of the box and thumbs the opal center of the sun, the stone still cool beneath her skin. It's something she would've picked for herself, a similar style to the necklaces she wears regularly, all strung up on your vanity.

Emily once again marvels at you.

-

She had never enjoyed the holidays. It was all too superficial, right from the start—the picture-perfect decorations, her mother's impeccably painted smile, the flawless dinners Elizabeth hosted. The show they put on, a loving family of three, a pretty ornament ringing hollow.

There was always a sense of fragility to it. Like if Emily fumbled, misstepped, said the wrong thing, all of it would come crashing down.

Celebrating on her own wasn't much better—the space around her always felt too empty, the shadows mocking. A pathetic tree in the corner of her living room with barely any ornaments was no Christmas. She didn't have anyone to exchange gifts with, no one closer than a colleague, anyway. Even in the silence of her various apartments, she'd feel like she was playing a part, yet again, her mother's too-firm grip on her shoulder, Emily's own voice whispering in her head—how futile it was, how desolate. Why even bother celebrating for a religion she abandoned decades ago?

But, she later realizes, a small party of two makes all the difference.

-

Before long, you've wound up back in bed.

If Emily weren't forcing her way through a bottle of ginger ale, she'd have found this a little bit amusing. You're both sprawled amidst the sheets, her with a blanket around her and you with Sergio on your chest, nursing your separate aches. Your eyes are closed, but she knows you're not asleep; you open them every once in a while, blink against the dim light and the rom-com playing halfheartedly on the TV, then close them back, a brief attempt at respite from your headache.

It's fully dark out, the spirit of Christmas carried into the bedroom by way of muffled music and colorful lights from the neighbors. The two of you are too limp to greet it.

"Look at the state of us." She mumbles wryly.

You make a sound in the back of your throat. "Some Christmas."

Emily still wouldn't have it with anyone else.

You open your eyes again and give Sergio a few slow pets. He melts into you, and your gaze flicks up, to hers. There's a smile there, half-hidden beneath the faint blur of pain.

"Can you tell me something?" You ask softly.

"Anything."

You rub Sergio's velvet nose. "What was it like, when we first met?"

Emily presses her cheek to the ginger ale bottle. She still remembers it like it was yesterday.

You were in the apartment across from hers. You'd both glimpsed each other in your comings and goings, acknowledged each other with faint smiles on the way out to work in the morning, in the elevator, but you hadn't really talked. Not until Sergio darted out of her apartment and into the open door of yours as you were bringing in groceries.

"I'm sorry," she apologizes profusely, her cheeks hot, "he's just a few months old—doesn't look like it, but he's a baby, really. I think he gets antsy when I'm not around." He'd been meowing at her ankles as she gathered her keys, and before she could catch him, he'd slipped out the door and across the hall.

"It's okay," you smile. The culprit is cradled in your arms like a baby, his purring audible even from where Emily stands at the threshold. He blinks slowly at you, yellow-green eyes slitting closed as you scratch between his ears.

Traitor.

"I'm Emily, by the way." She holds out her hand.

You shake it and introduce yourself. "Y/N. And who's this handsome guy?" You look down at him, your voice going tender.

Emily's mouth twitches. "Sergio." She confesses.

His ears perk up at the sound of his name and you laugh, bemused. "Well, hi, Sergio." You give him one last pet and hold him out for Emily to take. She slips him into her arms in the same baby-like hold.

He meows pitifully into her chest.

You shift against the doorframe, your smile hesitant. "I—uh, I don't mean to pry, but I noticed you're not around often. If you don't mind, I could watch him for you."

"Oh—" Emily's mind blanks. The sun hits you in this angle, turning you gilded. "Oh, no, I couldn't trouble you—"

"I don't mind." You interrupt. "Really, it gets kind of lonely here. We could keep each other company."

He does seem to like you.

Emily hesitates. "Are you sure?"

"Of course."

"It was…I don't know, it was unexpected." Emily says, smiling into the rim of her ginger ale. "We'd been seeing each other around, you know? Coming in and out. But we hadn't talked for…I'd say maybe two, three months."

"Shocker." You mumble into Sergio's fur.

Emily laughs quietly. She drains the last of her ginger ale, feels it settle in her roiling stomach, and rolls onto her side to face you. Her fingers sink into Sergio's fur, lightly sifting alongside yours.

"Someone made a timely escape." She murmurs fondly. Sergio turns his head and butts it against her hand, chirping. Emily drops a kiss on his forehead.

"I was…I was taking the groceries inside." You recount under your breath.

Emily perks up. "Yeah. Yeah, that's right." She knows she probably shouldn't, but can't help herself. "What else can you remember? Tell me."

She presses so close that Sergio protests and clambers off of your chest. You loop your arm around her neck, pull her down, close, your noses an inch apart.

"He jumped up on the coffee table. Knocked my phone off." Your mouth quirks. "I offered to watch him, and you gave me your number. You were going out somewhere, but," you pause, thinking. "You invited me over. The day after. I…" your brows scrunch. "I made—cinnamon rolls, I think? No, that's not it. I made something. Was it…those snickerdoodles, maybe?" You frown.

"Don't force it," Emily soothes, rubbing your arm. "You'll make your headache worse."

Your eyes shutter closed, a thick hum pouring from your throat. "Yeah, it's really killing me here. Think I need a kiss," you mumble. "To make it go away, y'know?"

Emily bites down on a smile. "Just one?"

You open your eyes and pretend to think.

Her heart thumps hard in her chest. She leans in and gives you your kiss, careful not to crush you or your arm. It's short, and you tilt your head up for another one, and another, and Emily's head goes perfectly quiet.

I love you. I love you.

"I love you," she mumbles.

You say it back.

"Emily," you say, your voice a low, amused purr that cuts through the sizzle of the pan. "What, exactly, is happening in here?"

She doesn’t look up immediately, her focus intensely fixed on a bubbling pot of what was supposed to be David Rossi’s legendary, generational Sunday gravy. She wields a wooden spoon like a weapon, stirring with a fierce, stubborn determination.

"It’s Rossi’s authentic Neapolitan ragù," she declares, though there’s a slight, telltale twitch at the corner of her mouth. "Or, at least, it’s a Prentiss-modified, urban-survivalist adaptation of it."

You step closer, the hardwood floor cool beneath your bare feet, and peer over her shoulder. The sauce is a deep, slightly concerning shade of maroon. It smells heavily of oregano—and something distinctly sweet.

"An adaptation?" You slide your arms around her waist, chin resting lightly on her shoulder. The familiar, comforting scent of her—expensive cedarwood perfume mingled with garlic and fresh rain—wraps around you, warmer than the blanket. "Did you lose the recipe?"

"I have the recipe right here," she insists, nodding toward the tablet propped up against a flour canister, the screen splattered with red droplets. "What I didn’t have was a gourmet Italian market within a five-mile radius that was open after a twelve-hour shift."

She turns her head to kiss your temple, a lingering, soft press of lips that makes you close your eyes for a second.

"Rossi’s recipe calls for San Marzano tomatoes, Pancetta, and a very specific, aged red wine from a vineyard only he and three Monks in Tuscany know about," Emily explains, her tone shifting into that dry, rhythmic cadence you adore. "But the corner bodega had generic crushed tomatoes, maple bacon, and a bottle of Cabernet that was wearing dust like a coat."

You wince slightly, but keep your smile tucked into the crook of her neck. "Maple bacon? In a ragù?"

"It’s pork!" she defends, though a laugh bubbles up in her throat, vibrating against your chest. "And for the heavy cream, I might have used a splash of the vanilla oat milk we had left. It’s all about chemistry, sweetheart. Fat, acid, heat. We’re adapting."

"You’re a profiler, Prentiss, not an alchemist," you tease, squeezing her waist before stepping back. "Let me taste the experiment."

Emily presentation is flawless. She ladles a small spoonful of the sauce, blowing on it gently before offering it to you like a prize. Her dark eyes gleam with a mixture of hope and impending cinematic disaster.

You take the bite.

For a fraction of a second, your brain tries to process the sensory whiplash. The acidity of the cheap tomatoes hits first, followed immediately by a jarring, aggressively sweet wave of artificial maple and vanilla. It tastes like a pancake fell into a marinara trench. It is, without a doubt, the most spectacular, culinary tragedy you have ever encountered.

Your expression freezes. You try, you truly try, to keep your face neutral, but the sheer chaos of the flavor profile forces a slow, horrified blink from your eyes.

Emily watches you, her eyebrows slowly rising. "That bad?"

"Emily," you squeak, your throat tightening as you swallow the evidence. "I love you. I love your mind, I love your heart, I love your hands." You reach out, taking the wooden spoon from her fingers and setting it safely on the counter. "But David Rossi would have you arrested for war crimes if he tasted this."

She stares at the pot, then back at you, and then she breaks.

The laugh starts deep in her chest—a rich, breathless sound that fills the kitchen and chases away any lingering fatigue from the work week. She leans against the counter, covering her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking.

"It’s that bad?" she asks through her fingers.

"It tastes like a breakfast buffet collided with a pizza parlor at ninety miles an hour," you confess, laughing now too, wrapping your arms back around her to pull her against you.

Emily sighs, a beautiful, defeated sound, and rests her forehead against yours. The warmth of her skin, the crinkle of the lines around her eyes, the sheer ease of being held by her in the quiet sanctuary of your shared home—it washes over you like a wave.

"I just wanted to make you something nice," she murmurs, her voice softening into something tender, the playful armor dropping away. "A real, comforting dinner. We’ve both been running on fumes lately."

"Hey," you say gently, tilting her chin up with a finger so she has to look into your eyes. "This is nice. The burning, maple-scented catastrophe is perfect. Because you’re here, and we’re off the clock."

She smiles, the genuine, soft expression she only saves for the quiet hours with you. "So, no turning this into a pizza night?"

"Absolutely not. We are ordering Thai," you decree, reaching into your pocket for your phone. "And we are never speaking of the vanilla-oat-milk ragù again."

"Agreed," Emily laughs, already reaching up to pull the pins from her hair, letting the dark waves tumble down around her shoulders.

An hour later, the kitchen is dark, the offending pot soaking in the sink to be dealt with tomorrow. The living room is a sanctuary of cushions and shadows. You are curled into Emily’s side on the couch, the television playing an old movie on a low murmur, the blue light washing over the room.

The cardboard takeout containers sit empty on the coffee table—pad thai and spring rolls, a far cry from Tuscany, but exactly what was needed.

Emily’s arm is wrapped securely around your shoulders, her fingers idly tracing patterns on your bare arm, a slow, soothing rhythm that matches the rain outside. You rest your head against her chest, listening to the steady, comforting thud of her heartbeat.

She shifts slightly, kissing the crown of your head, her breath warm against your hair.

"Next time," Emily whispers into the dim light, her voice laced with sleep and contentment, "I’m just making grilled cheese."

You smile into the soft cotton of her shirt, closing your eyes as you pull the blanket higher up over both of you. "I’d love that. Just leave the maple bacon in the fridge."

She looks at it first in confusion, and then you watch understanding burst open behind those big brown eyes. “Are you—“

You nod before she even finishes and she's off the counter so fast the orange peel skids clean across the tile and splats onto the floor.

“Oh my goodness, eshgham!” She's got both arms around you, kissing your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “Baby, are you serious?”

“You're gonna give yourself whiplash,” you laugh, breathless, holding onto her while she's everywhere at once.

“Don't care,” Baran pulls back to fully look at you. You can't imagine it's the best you've ever looked, rumpled after a long day of work, scrubs dirty, shoes the same, but you've been together long enough you know she's seen it all. “Y/N. We're having another baby.”

“Technically it's one test.”

“I don't care about technically,” she says, grinning wide enough that it must ache, forehead dropping to rest against yours. “Science is science. There's chorionic gonadotropin in your pee.”

You pull a face. “Don’t be gross, Baran.”

“Oh, please. Don't 'gross' me, we're both doctors,” she laughs in response, smiling so hard she looks a little crazed, and you've never been more in love with anyone in your life than you are with your wife right now.

You giggle again, helpless at the intensity of it all, and let her fold you fully into her arms, rocking the two of you side to side against the counter like there's music only she can hear.

“We're gonna be second-time moms,” she murmurs eventually, into your hair, still holding on.

“Yeah,” you say, and feel her smile against your scalp. “More like second-time MILFs.”

“Y/N.”

“I've got it: SILFs.”

“Y/N.”

—

You're seven weeks along when the floor falls out from under you.

You'd agreed to wait until twelve weeks to tell anyone this time. Especially Kaveh, who's three and would announce it to the entire daycare, the mailman, possibly a stranger at the grocery store. It was meant to stay yours a little while longer. You just wanted to carry your baby, known to only you and Baran, for just a little longer. You wanted your little baby to be safe.

You're halfway through morning rounds when the cramp pins you in place. You make it five more minutes before they have you doubling over, and that’s when you know something is seriously wrong.

Your hands are shaking too hard to find Baran's name at first. Her cell goes straight to voicemail because it’s mid-shift, of course, so you call the ED desk and ask for her by name, and Dana says hang on, hon, and you wait.

You sink to the cold tile, back against the door, doing the breathing you've taught a hundred frightened people to do.

“Hey honey, what's up?” Baran says, a little breathless, like she jogged to grab the phone.

You press the phone harder against your ear, blood slicking the side of your leg. “I'm bleeding,” you rasp, voice so thin it might snap. “It’s everywhere, B. I—I think I'm having a miscarriage.”

There's a beat where you feel her go still through the phone, a stillness with weight to it. Then, evenly: “Okay. I'm coming, don't move. Where exactly?”

“Bathroom. Third floor, by radiology.”

“I mean in the body, honey.”

“Oh, duh, vaginally. Sorry,” you shake your head, embarassed and overwhelmed and wanting to sob. Your brain's gone somewhere else entirely that isn't up at all for taking calls.

“Don't apologize, it's fine, baby. Stay where you are,” You can hear her moving already, a door, a hallway. “Try not to move around too much. I'm on my way.”

Ninety seconds later the bathroom door flies open. Baran’s in scrubs, eyes wide, and she’s on her knees beside you in one smooth motion. She drops her phone to her scrub pocket and cups your face with one hand, the other steadying the back of your neck. “Oh azizam,” she breathes. “I’ve got you, honey, it’s okay. Let me see”

You watch as she reaches inside the bag you didn’t realize she'd brought and starts pulling stuff out. Your sweet wife brought supplies. Your eyes burn harder.

“I'm going to get a pad on you,” Baran looks up through her curls. “Can you shift your hips just a little?”

You do, eyes trained on the ceiling as you will yourself not to cry. Baran is silent as her gentle hands move, but you almost wish she’d talk to you. It’s so suffocatingly quiet in here.

“Feet up.” She guides your heels onto the lip of the cabinet under the sink, then rolls her own jacket and slides it under your hips without being asked.

“Thank you,” you rasp, and she kisses you firmly. 

“Don’t say thank you,” she breathes against your mouth. “I’ll handle this, okay? I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

She reaches for her phone and unlocks it one-handed, her other palm resting at the back of your neck, steady and warm.

“Yeah, it's Al-Hashimi from the ED. I need OB down to the third floor bathroom by radiology, my wife's having a miscarriage, I need someone good, not whoever's free.” A pause. “No, get me Whitfield if she's in the building.”

Her hand moves in slow circles against your neck the entire time she's talking, cradling you gently. “Wheelchair too, she's not walking anywhere. Yeah. Now, please.”

She hangs up and is back to you immediately, both hands on you again, pulling you completely into her.

“Dr. Whitfield's good,” she says, low, close to your ear. "Samira and I did called her down for a consult earlier this week. She's very gentle. She'll take care of you.”

You finally allow your eyes to fall from the ceiling, and they fasten into your beautiful wife. Her eyes are shining wet too, hands shaking where they’re on you. She’s devastated, just as you are.

“Baran...”

There’s so many things you want to say, but that's all you have. Just her name and the way your voice breaks clean in half around it as the first of your tears start to spill and spill and spill.

"Come here, come here,” Baran moves in close and gets both arms around you, one hand cradling the back of your head, and she brings her mouth to your temple and just stays there, breathing. "Havâ-to dâram, you hear me? I'm right here, honey. I've got you, I’ve got you."

You press your face into her neck and she tightens her hold, and she is warm, and she is certain, and she rocks you just slightly, so slightly, like there is still music only the two of you can hear.

—

You work with ultrasounds enough to know your baby is dead long before the tech confirms it. You see it on the screen and it immediately makes your heart sink so completely you force yourself to tear your eyes away.

There aren't many other things to look at in the room. There's no art, no window, so you look at your wife, but all that's there to see is the sorrow shining openly in her eyes, her thumb moving over your knuckles, the way her breath keeps hitching and the proof shows in her chest.

Afterward she's waiting in the hallway with your scarf and coat already open in her hands. She’s always fretted about you being cold.

“I called Marisol, she's got Kaveh for the night,” she says, easing your arm into the sleeve. “So we're not rushing anywhere. Take whatever you need.”

You nod. You don't trust your voice not to break the second you use it.

“You want to just go home? Or sit in the car a bit first, your choice.”

You hadn't known that was a choice. You choose the car but don’t even make it to the parking lot before you’re sobbing in the elevator, Baran wordlessly pulling you into her side and cupping the back of your head, humming and humming and humming a lullaby to ground you.

—

You sit in the car for almost forty minutes, the engine running for the heat, her hand resting on your thigh the whole time as you two talk, and talk, and talk.

“I keep thinking about everything I did wrong,” you finally say, eyes fixed on the concrete pillar through the windshield. “Y’know, the shift I picked up Saturday. Plus, my back twinged getting Kaveh into the car seat and I had that one stupid iced coffee with Kiara, even though I knew I probably shouldn't.”

Your voice catches before your list can continue, but you trust your wife understands what you’re getting at. It’s a plea, a bid to be told your wrong; Did I do this? Was this me?

“Woah, no.” Her hand presses down, grounding. “Definitely not. Don’t even start going down that road, Y/N.”

You make yourself anyway.

“None of that did this,” she insists. "Most of the time there's just no reason in a miscarriage like this one. There’s no fault. It just… honey, it just happens.”

“But it had to happen to me. I failed, Baran. I couldn’t do it.” Your voice splits right down the middle. “I just– Why couldn’t it happen for me specifically?”

She's quiet a second, and when she talks again it's lower, rougher than before. "I don’t know, nafasam. I’m sorry. I wish I could give you an answer." She picks up your hand and presses it flat against her own chest, lending you her heartbeat. “But you didn't fail at anything, okay? Your body's not a thing that failed. You were so, so brave.”

You cry properly then, and she unclips her own seatbelt so she can lean fully across the console, the gearshift digging into her ribs, and just holds you there in the worst possible position for it, because the only alternative is letting go. That isn't a thing Baran has ever known how to do.

—

Baran takes leave for the first time since she was recovering from birthing Kaveh.

She makes round after round of meals without being asked. She runs you baths and sits on the closed toilet lid doing the crossword, reading you a clue now and then because she knows you like the guessing. Her hands are always somewhere on you; your foot in her lap while you read, fingers combing slowly through your hair on the couch, a palm flat against your back at the sink. You know she knows you like it, but you suspect it helps her too. Her baby may be gone, but you’re still right here.

Kaveh is only three. He climbs into your lap with his dinosaur and tells you all about it. He draws you little pictures, stacks his blocks into a tour for you to knock down because that’s what he does when he’s upset. He kisses your cheek right back when you lean down to tuck him in. He hugs you around the neck and tells you he loves you, and you hold him so close to your chest on those nights you sometimes hear him squeak like a little mouse from the force.

After two weeks, you tell Baran you don’t know if you can do it again.

You’re tucked into her side, the TV on more for noise than for watching. “I don't know if I  can do this twice.”

You wait for her to push, even gently, but you just feel her chin settling on top of your head.

“Then we don't,” she says easily. “You're enough. This family's whole already, Y/N. I just want you to feel whole again too, however long that takes.”

“What if I never do?”

“Well, my love for you wouldn’t change,” she says truthfully. “But maybe we can see if there’s someone else who can help you, not just me. I don’t want you just to ache always, azizam, not if there’s something we can try to do.”

You don't have an answer for that. You just turn your face into her neck and let her carry the weight of you for a little while longer.

—

It's two weeks before you go back to work. Baran walks you in that first morning even though her shift doesn't start for another hour. The winter air stings, but you feel the warmth of her anyway, her hand never quite leaving you. Your wife has always been so touchy.

“Call me,” she says, hands around your ears because she is a major fidgeter and wants always for you to be comfortable, wants to shelter you a little bit longer. “Whatever I'm doing, I'll pick up.”

“I think I’ll be okay,” you whisper. “But thank you, B.”

“Love you,” she murmurs against your lips. 

“I love you more.”

You watch her walk off toward the ED, that same brisk, sure stride that makes residents scatter out of her way, and you stand there a second longer than you need to, just to watch her go.

You check in with your first patient at nine, same as every Tuesday. Around noon your phone buzzes a gif of a little bear holding up a heart. At two, it’s a photo of you and Kaveh. At five, another corny gif of a sand timer and pink glitter letters screaming “TWO HOURS TO GO!”

She comes home and finds you on the couch that night, and immediately shakes off her shoes. She's quieter than you were expecting, and you usually anticipate your wife being a little more subdued after a long shift.

But she settles down next to you without a word, and you remember she lost a baby too. She had wanted it just as bad.

You guide her body into your lap, taking the claw clip out and fixing her hair. You work gently through the little tangles without a thought, humming that untraceable little song a half-beat behind how she usually does it, maybe a little off-pitch. You aren't suprised at all when she joins in.

“And which one are more you?” He tapped his finger to his lips as he looked at the different flowers in front of them. He pointed at some pink roses in the very back of the display and you nodded. 

You grabbed all three bouquets of flowers, some filler bits, and a couple of vases. When you and Kian got home he insisted on creating his own bouquet. You cut the stems to size for him as he arranged them and decided the perfect place for them was the living room table. 

You agreed it was the perfect place as you put the remaining two bouquets on the kitchen counter and dining table. You liked that you could see the flowers from every corner of the house. 

When Baran got home that night Kian had been picked up by his father and it was just the two of you in the house. She immediately smelled the flowers when she walked in. You were taking a lasagna out of the oven when she arrived and didn’t see or hear her come in. 

But when you heard sniffles you quickly turned around and saw Baran crying. You turned off the oven and rushed to her side. You caressed her arms and searched her eyes, trying to figure out why she was crying. 

“Honey, what’s wrong?” Baran blubbered for a few minutes and gestured to the flowers. 

“You got me flowers?” You smiled at her and relaxed. 

“Yes, actually Kian chose them and even made you a little bouquet. It’s in the living room.” Baran clutched her heart before grabbing your face and pulling you into a rather wet kiss. 

You smiled into the kiss nonetheless and wiped away her tears. 

“This is the first time anyone’s ever bought me flowers.” Your eyes widened as Baran’s watery doe eyes stared up into yours. Your jaw dropped. The thought had never even crossed your mind. 

“What do you mean?” She shrugged as she pulled you into the kitchen and served you both a portion of lasagna. You sat at the dining room table with her and brought two glasses of water. You were both sitting next to each other, angled towards one another as you ate. 

“Mark always thought they were stupid so he never bought them.” She was so nonchalant about the whole thing it made you angry. 

“He may be a good dad, but damn that man was such a crappy husband. I will now be budgeting for flowers for the rest of our lives. I’m going to add it to my spreadsheet now actually.” Baran chuckled at you. She thought it was adorable that you had an expenses tracker. 

“The rest of our lives?” You blushed as you realized what you said, but knew you meant it. Baran stared at you quietly as you put your phone down after adding it to your spreadsheet. 

“Yes. I loved choosing them with Kian and you deserve flowers.” Baran’s eyes softened as she grabbed your hand. 

“Good. Do you think Kian would enjoy choosing flowers for our wedding?” You almost spit your water across the table. Baran wholeheartedly laughed as she kissed your hand. 

Your heart was racing as your face flushed again and your palms began to sweat. 

“Don’t worry azizam, I’m not proposing. Not yet anyway.” Baran smiled into her water watching you squirm in your seat. This woman was going to be the death of you and somehow you were right where you wanted to be.

***

Samira glances up whilst typing, trying to finish up her charts before she lags behind. The day is still early and there seems to be a brief lull in activity, so it’s not too much of a hassle — yet. The midday rush can topple that in a second.

Samira gives Victoria a noncommittal shrug, a delicate crescent of a smile rising to her mouth. “I don’t exactly hide it.”

“But you also never told anyone!” Victoria guffaws, her voice comically rising in pitch.

Dana strolls by at that very moment, a clipboard on her hip. “Told anyone what?”

Victoria swivels around to face the nosy charge nurse, grinning like a conniving child. 

“Dr. Mohan is married. Did you know that?”

Dana hums, brows lifting in subdued curiosity. She leans over Samira’s shoulder. “Huh. No ring, huh? What’s up with that? Can’t stand the guy or somethin’?”

Samira huffs out a laugh, submitting her charts and crossing her arms. “I love my spouse very much, thank you. We just didn’t do rings. I’m afraid of losing it on the job.” The doctor narrows her eyes in amusement, glancing back at Victoria. “What gave me away, anyway?”

Victoria seems to remember herself, shyly fiddling with one of the strings on her hoodie. She talks fast, over-explaining as she tends to do when her nerves kick in. 

“Oh! Well, they were just admitted and I saw the same last name on the board so I was gonna ask you about it but you were busy with another patient and I didn’t want to keep them waiting so I treated them—”

Samira doesn’t let her finish. The moment she realizes you’re somewhere in the emergency room, she brushes past Victoria, searching the ER until her eyes finally land on you: comfortably propped up in a bed, scrolling through your phone. There’s an ice pack around your noticeably swollen ankle; your socks and shoes are neatly tucked beside the bed next to your bag.

Samira’s questions come all at once, startling you enough that you nearly drop your phone on your stomach. 

“What happened? Are you okay? Why didn’t you call me?”

You blink twice, setting your phone in your lap. “Good to see you, too,” you reply, nearly laughing at the sight of her distress. Her concern is far greater than it needs to be. “I came to bring your lunch. You forgot it. Again. It’s in my bag.” 

Samira huffs, crossing her arms and approaching your bedside with a stern expression. “I don’t care about my lunch. I do care to know what you’re doing at my hospital.”

You actually do laugh this time. “I’m at your hospital because I tripped on the way out of the apartment. I just wanted to make sure I didn’t break anything. Figured I’d get it checked out since I was making the stop, anyway. And I know you don’t check your phone during work, so don’t even start.” With a head tilt, you put on your most sorrowful expression. “Why? Aren’t you happy to see me?”

Samira pouts, trying to glare at you, but it’s weak. Your wife sits at the edge of the bed, putting her hand over yours.

“Not under these conditions, no. I never want to see you in here, chellam.”

“Ouch,” you frown, feigning hurt. “I’m already in pain. No need to make it worse.”

Samira manages a small smile, finally easing up to kiss your forehead.

“Dramatic. Did they already give you an X-ray?” 

You shake your head, turning your hand over to intertwine your fingers with hers. “Not yet. Dr. Javadi said she’s putting in the order now.” 

Your wife purses her lips, the vaguest hint of annoyance overcoming her at the memory of her brief talk with Victoria. She delayed putting in the order to ask about Samira’s marriage? She left you in pain for some gossip? The thought will only vex her the longer she thinks about it.

“Good. We’ll get you out as soon as we can,” she sighs. “Be warned: it’s gonna get crazy in here soon. There’s no telling how long it’ll take.”

“Sounds perfect,” you muse, gazing at her fondly. “I finally get to watch you work.”

Samira’s cheeks burn when your free hand reaches over to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She’s already a little frazzled from running around the emergency room; your touch makes her whole body shiver. 

You notice and chuckle, leaning in to brush your lips against hers. Samira tries to pull away, a bashful smile hidden as she turns her head. 

“I’m working,” she reminds you, sounding adorably whiny.

“It’s a kiss. You act like I’m trying to pin you down in public,” you mutter, guiding her chin until she’s looking you in the eyes again. You close the distance, and this time, she doesn’t stray from the path. Samira kisses you, slow enough to give the illusion that she has all the time in the world.

But you know she’s busy and frustratingly hardworking, so you’re the one to break apart this time. You lightly pinch her cheek — she always gives you the sweetest smile when you do so — and you set her free.

“Don’t forget your lunch again or I might actually die on the stupid stairs next time,” you playfully warn her.

Samira groans, rolling her eyes as she reaches down to retrieve the Tupperware container from your bag on the floor. 

“Don’t even start. I’m already going to feel guilty later when I have the time to process this little visit of yours.”

“Don’t you start. I’m just kidding,” you frown, taking her hand and kissing the knuckles. “It’s all my fault for being such a good partner that didn’t want their wife to starve.”

Your wife rolls her eyes and regretfully leaves you with a short “goodbye” and a look of longing.

When Samira is far enough away, Victoria finds her again, beaming like she won the lottery. “You guys are so cute.”

Samira has to agree.

fancy some more?

"I don't suppose your Splenda's run out?" She says without preamble, shooting for nonchalance.

You raise your brows and pick up the kettle as it goes off. Her charade is worn and tried: there's a whole box of the stuff squirreled away in her office, sequestered in the third drawer of her desk. This is also a familiar game, but, this time, you don't play your usual part.

You let her question hang as you pour the water into your mug, steam fogging your skin. She leans against the counter and crowds your peripheral vision, a blur of dark hues and the rich, familiar scent of her perfume. You see her arms fold.

She waits, silent, the heat of her gaze burning holes into your face as you set the kettle back down and grab your tea bag, bobbing it in the hot water.

"You know," you muse, still watching your tea deepen, "if you wanted to see me, you could've just said so."

Her heat presses an inch closer. "That wouldn't be too unit-chiefly of me."

You laugh, lifting the tea bag out and tossing it in the trash. As if no one knows of these little visits she takes up, the five to ten minutes of indulgence, a little break where she's no one but yours.

As if you don't enjoy them enough to have the gall to tease.

Emily makes a low, displeased sound in the back of her throat. You bite down on your smile, leisurely reaching for the sugar, spooning it in, and stirring it through your tea. Only after you toss the spoon in the sink do you look back up at her, your amusement poorly hidden, voice low enough to stay trapped just between the two of you.

"What do you want, chief?" You coax, tilting your head. "Tell me."

Emily's eyes go dark, glimmering. She glances about the room—steady and thorough, scanning the open, exposed doorway—a faint flush staining her skin.

Your smile breaks free when she turns her gaze back to you. There's a particular kind of delight you feel when you toy with her like this—especially when she gives in, settles so neatly into the palm of your hand. She knows it, of course.

It still hasn't stopped either of you.

"I wanted to see you," she says lowly.

"That's all?"

Her eyes drop to your mouth. It's a pleasant, tingling heat, blooming under your skin.

"No," she concedes.

In the solace of your home, maybe, you'd have dragged it out. But you're not at home and she's looking too unfairly good and—your last straw—she wets her lip with the tip of her tongue, sends fresh color blooming, and, really, truly, you're not thinking as you hook your fingers into her lanyard, wrap it around your fist, and use it to tug her into you.

She makes a little sound, surprised and gasping against your mouth. The heat of it burns in your blood. You feel her neck tilt to follow the lanyard in your grip and you have to break the kiss sooner than you'd have liked, before the awareness that you're at work completely fizzles out and you get lost in the haze, taking her bottom lip between your teeth, nipping at it to pull another sound from her—

"You have to ask for what you want, Emily." Your voice is only slightly strained, pitched low for her ears.

Her cheeks are awash with a blush. She blinks, but you can still see the slight, dazed look in her eyes.

"You're mean," she murmurs.

"I don't think I am." You thumb at the smooth slip of the lanyard still wound around your fist. "See, you didn't even have to ask."

Emily's hand finds the counter behind you, her arm slinging around your side and encircling you in her warmth. "So this is what I get for wanting a—"

"Hey there, lovebirds." A voice greets cheerily.

Alvez.

Emily whips around, her arm dropping to her side, your fingers letting loose the smooth fabric. You needlessly pick up your mug of tea, pressing its hot edge to your mouth.

Luke's eyes dip to the crinkled edges of Emily's lanyard.

"What?" She demands.

"Oh, nothing." He says in that exaggerated way of his, drawling the words out and making a big show of looking down at his watch. "It's just—well, you've been missing for a while and the team was getting jittery."

"The team." Emily says flatly.

You hide your laugh in a stinging sip of tea.

"You're not often missing, is all," he explains, his tone grave, a bold-faced lie. It clashes entirely with the boyish gleam in his eyes, the little twitch in his mouth.

Emily rolls her own eyes and turns back around. "A person can't even pee anymore." She mutters, grabbing her mug.

"I mean, you don't usually pee on the eighth floor, is all I'm saying."

Emily's eyes shut closed, the skin of her cheeks still dusted pink. "Alvez," she says without turning back around, "if that's all you have to say, I suggest you go back to your desk, quietly, and find something more useful to do. I can list out everything in your backlog if you'd like."

Luke begins to say something, but Emily quickly shuts him down.

"And no detours to Penelope's."

His mouth snaps shut. He dips his head, his sheepish, smiling eyes sliding over to you.

"Yes, Ma'am."

She runs incredibly warm, bundled in thick pajamas and a sweater over her top, fuzzy ankle socks pressed to your own bare skin where your pant leg had ridden up. All of her heat bleeds into you; you burn in your entirety, all the places where she has you trapped and everywhere else where you're not.

You find, even so, that you don't want to move.

It's all so different to the arctic, lonely spread of the king-sized bed back in your bedroom. Here, your space is not yours. It's hers, claimed in her sleep, and you don't do anything to take it back. You just listen to the rhythm of her breathing. Even asleep, she's—grounding. Solid.

The rooms don't feel the same without her. The air is too empty, the silence, somehow, too heavy, even more than it would be if she was there, just quietly. The way she takes up space…you're constantly attuned to it, her absence taking a big claw out of your chest, a gaping hole left behind.

Ridiculous. You don't remember ever being so attached to a partner—a person—this strongly before. It's not healthy, it can't be.

She shifts in her sleep and your heart lurches, promptly proving your own point. You hold your breath but she stays asleep, her eyes closed, face lax, knee slipping down from your hip and worming into the part between your legs.

Slowly, you let out your exhale.

At least you know your attachment isn't one-sided.

She doesn't let herself show it, too focused on not overstepping, considering and reconsidering her every move to make sure it won't set you off. (It won't. It won't.) This side of her is one you're fairly enjoying. It's nice, to see—feel—her like this, wholly unguarded. She's usually so careful around you. Here she's entirely unaware of her own boundaries, just giving in to instinct.

Pins and needles begin to numb up your hand. They creep up from your fingers, spread to your forearms, up your shoulder. You hold still for another minute before the feeling becomes unbearable.

Slowly, carefully, you try to slip your arm out.

But her sleep is light. You hear the hitch in her breath, a long, deep inhale before she starts to shift, burrowing into you, her forehead rooting into your collarbone with a sound like a whine. The action is so thoughtlessly tender you briefly stop breathing.

Emily doesn't notice. She wakes slowly, like a flower unfurling, all lazy hums and slow shifts of her limbs. A yawn against your shoulder, her cheek rubbing against the meat of your bicep. It's a slow, sweet eternity before her head tips up, her sleep-hazed eyes meeting yours.

She blinks. A smile spreads across her face, small, close-lipped.

"Hi."

Jesus, her voice. It sends a trail of goosebumps down your skin.

"Hi," you breathe. "Sorry I woke you."

Emily shakes her head. "No, no—" She pauses as she takes in your current predicament. Realization creeps up in a faint blush, staining her cheeks. "Sorry I trapped you." She mumbles, shifting back, freeing your arm.

You find your mouth tugging, find your thumb reaching over to brush off a fallen lash from her cheekbone. It's okay, you should say, but you don't. "You're—really clingy." You hum instead, sweeping the lash from your thumb.

The words unfurl something: her head on your collarbone, your legs entangled on a couch—You're clingy, your voice teasing, fingers threaded though her hair. The indignant huff of her breath, buried beneath your laugh.

Warmth flutters through you.

Emily smiles again, her eyes nearly squinting closed, still soft around the corners.

"I've been told. Sleep well?"

You nod. "Warm," you admit.

Maybe a little too warm, but.

Her gaze sharpens as you carefully shift onto your side to face her. There's a little breathing room between you, your head on your pillow and her head on hers, the sheets rumpled, loose with your movement.

"How are you feeling?" She checks in, her eyes sweeping over your face. "Any soreness?"

"No, I'm fine." You've gotten used to the dull pain in your shoulder. It's more manageable than it was, sometimes quieting down for long enough that you forget and pull an abrupt move, sending it flaring again. It's the only thing giving you trouble, apart from your lingering headaches.

You ignore the pins and needles in your arm and adjust the strap of the sling so it doesn't bite into your neck. Emily notices. She shifts an inch closer, tugs up the collar of your sleep shirt and shifts the strap onto the fabric instead of your raw skin. You exhale, warming under the gentle touch of her fingers, the brush of her knuckles against your throat.

"We should get some aloe—"

"I want you to come back." You blurt out, catching her wrist, keeping her hand there on your shoulder.

Emily pauses.

"To the room," you clarify, softer. The words are clumsy in your mouth, heavy with plain want. "You don't have to stay here. I don't want you to."

Her eyes are dark, impossible to read. You drop your gaze.

"I mean—unless you want to, of course—"

"Honey," she huffs, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Come on." She says it so softly, so matter-of-fact, you feel your blood start to boil beneath your skin.

You swallow, leaning into the hand she cups to your cheek. Every inch of you winds a little tighter at the contact. You can feel the slight rush of her pulse under your finger; the faint cloud of her exhales over your jaw.

Soft as down feathers, Emily's thumb draws slow strokes over your cheek. It catches the corner of your mouth as it comes down.

"Are you sure?" She murmurs, earnest, achingly careful.

You nod. Squeeze her wrist. "I'm sure."

It's like watching a sunrise—seeing her face as it softens, melts, totally, with the pleasure. Her lips press together against a smile and there's the faint shadow of a dimple in her cheek; you itch to touch it, smooth your finger over the dent, memorize its spot, press it in—

"I hog the covers." She warns.

"Hog them all you want."

Emily laughs, and it's soft, it's yours, the gauzy cotton of a cloud draping over your skin, wrapping you in it, your ears reverberating with the sound.

"Yeah?" She whispers. "Okay, then."

-

It comes without warning as you're slipping out of bed. Emily suddenly goes still, her hands curling around the edges of the mattress, head ducking down into her chest. Her voice abruptly tapers off into silence.

You frown at her hunched figure. "Emily?"

She makes a faint noise in her throat. You round the bed over to her side, already knowing before you see her swallow hard, inhale sharply through her nose.

"Nauseous?"

"A little," she says, her voice strained. Her grip is so tight, it turns her knuckles bloodless. She squeezes her eyes shut and shoves in a few more deep breaths, her jaw set. "It's fine. It'll blow over."

You don't get a chance to do anything before she jumps and makes a beeline for the bathroom, her hand clamped tight over her mouth.

You wince and follow her in, try your best to hold her hair back with your one hand, offer some semblance of something. But there's little you can do. Her body wages violent war against her; her skin beads with sweat, bruises standing out under her eyes.

It itches in you, drags under your skin. You've never felt more useless.

You're murmuring nonsense when she finally quietens, her skin damp, chilled where you sweep your fingers. You brush the sweaty bangs away from her face and feel her shiver with the motion, shoulders tremulous. Instinctively, you tug her into you, your lips brushing the skin of her temple.

"You're okay, Em." You murmur, rubbing her arm. "You're okay, honey, you did good."

She slumps into your chest, muffling a weary noise in your shirt. Your heart twists. Pulling up your sleeve over the heel of your hand, you dry the sweat on her temple, feeling it wet the fabric.

"I've got you," you say. The floor is hard and cold under you, your back aching from the awkward position, the added strain of her weight, but you force yourself upright and as steady as you can muster.

You'd already left her once. You're not going to do it again.

-

"It's really not that—"

She dies down at the look you give her. It thrills you a little, the way her jaw snaps, but it doesn't last long before she's giving you a look, imploring.

"Sweetheart."

"Emily. I'm not going to die if you don't make me breakfast. I can make it myself—"

"I know you can—"

"—and anyway, I'm not hungry. So just." You make an impatient gesture with your hand. "Stay put."

The sweat has dried from her forehead, her usual color back in her cheeks, but you're still uneasy. You can still feel the way she'd gone limp against you on the bathroom floor—tremors along her shoulders, the harsh staccato of her breath echoing on the tiles. You could see her heart beating fast under the thin skin at the base of her throat.

On some level you think you know you're overreacting—overcorrecting, flooded with guilt because you'd left her, you'd seen her go through it but you still left her, too absorbed in your own grief—but the image of her pale and drained is too clear in your head for you to care.

Emily seems to have forgotten the whole ordeal. She looks at you with her eyes soft. Too used to it by now, probably.

The thought makes you sick.

"Y/N," she says gently. "I'm okay. I'm not going to die just because I got sick a few times, it's fine."

"A few times," you echo. "Remind me again, it's been how many weeks of this?"

How far along is she? The question briefly unsettles you, a big blank throwing your head into silence.

It's like she reads it on your face.

"I'll be going into my second trimester next week," she says, her smile small, just a press of her lips. "It should ease up by then."

You don't know how many weeks that is, exactly, but you do know it's in the double digits. Early teens, maybe.

Just a couple of weeks now, and she'll start to show. Your stomach cramps at the thought. Just a couple of weeks, and she'll start to show, and then a few months will blur by and you'll have a baby between you, and you'll raise a kid with her even though she still doesn't fully trust that you will, she still doesn't let you in, she doesn't believe that you can or want to—fuck, you want to—she doesn't—

Emily sits up in bed and takes your hand. Hers is warm, her fingers skating over your knuckles, squeezing. Your eyes snap back to hers.

"Sweetheart, I'll be fine," she reassures. Slowly, as if she's explaining it to a kid. "I am fine. I'm"—she huffs out a laugh—"I'm hardly the first person to get pregnant."

A stone sinks low in your gut.

Just pretend I'm the old me. Please just pretend I'm the old me and stop pretending with me, stop lying, let me in, let me help, I want to help—

"Not the first," you say, "but you're mine, and it's—it all feels so—" You break off, losing your grasp on the words.

It's all jumbled in your head, everything you want to say, everything you don't know you have the right to ask. You inhale roughly, eyes fluttering closed for just a second—"It's so much, Emily, god. It's so much and it's all on you and I just—" The desperation rises in you, "I don't want you to pretend with me. You keep up these fronts and you think I don't notice. I do." Your voice goes thin, bending. You swallow it down, queasy at the way her face collapses back into its familiar guilt.

Her eyes flit away from yours; you cup her jaw, bringing them back, bringing her back.

Let me in, let me in.

"Hey." You say raggedly, holding her gaze. "You can admit that it's overwhelming," you whisper, "or that you're exhausted or just—just sick of it all. You're allowed to be, and you can tell me. This can't just all be on you, Emily."

You're startled at how fast her eyes go shiny, brimming with tears. Your chest collapses in on itself. It's too much, for anyone.

And she keeps taking it all without a word.

You speak past the lump in your throat. "I'm here for you," you mumble. "I'm not going anywhere, but you're not being honest with me."

Emily blinks, swallowing hard. It's like all her indifference drains out of her; she grows uncertain-looking—her face sobering, posture curling small, like a scolded child. She doesn't move, doesn't say a word, the room so quiet you hear the silence ring.

You lean your forehead against hers. "Please, baby." You murmur, pleading—for what, you don't know.

Emily sucks in a breath. "I'm sorry," she says hoarsely. "I'm—this isn't easy for me."

Your eyes flood with heat. "I know it isn't."

"Not you," she rushes out, grabs the hem of your sweater in a fist. "I don't mean you."

Her voice goes cracked, desperate. It gnaws at you, hearing her like this, seeing the glaze of tears in her eyes, but you want her to just stop burying it all.

I could've waited. I wasn't hurt, I was just uncomfortable. I could've waited.

It becomes harder to swallow. "You're not alone." You stroke along her cheek, just as desperate. "Do you know that?"

Emily's eyes close. "I do. I do know that. Fuck, hon, I—"

"You can trust me."

"I do," she breathes. "I swear I do."

"I don't have one foot out the door." The words crack, and Emily's eyes shoot open, go wide and round—and fuck, you're making it about you again, twisting it all to bring it back to—

"I'm not leaving you."

Her face crumples, a sharp sob gasping out of her. She clamps a hand over her mouth but it's too late, the sound is already echoing, her tears are tipping over fast, trailing down the length of her cheeks.

You can feel your own tears wetting your face. Emily's shoulders are heaving silently as you bring her into you, wrap your arm around her shoulder and bring her close—still far, too far—your neck tipping forward into the top of her head.

"I'm not leaving you," you whisper into her hair. "Get the thought out of your head, okay? It's not happening." You say hoarsely, damp patches growing on the front of your sweater. Emily sniffles and everything trembles—her hands, clutching your sides, her shoulders, your strained, pounding heart. The sound of her sobs cleaves through the rush in your ears.

You palm the nape of her neck, smoothing over the the taut muscles there.

"It's not happening."

-

"You can't just not tell me this shit." You're crying, tears pattering down onto the floor like rain. Emily is blurry, but you can still see the bruise staining her side, the bandages cutting across her ribs. "Jesus, Emily, do you think no one cares? You think I don't?"

"I didn't want you to worry." She says, almost desperately. "See, you're worrying—"

"Of course I am! I fucking love you, I'll always be worried!"

Emily sucks in a breath. You barely even notice what it is you've said, never mind that it's been on your mind for weeks now, taunting you. You can only stare at the bruise, her skin marred, marked, violent.

"I'm sorry." She cups your face, thumbs at the wet slip of tears. "I'm sorry, honey, fuck—don't cry. Please don't."

You can't not. You're not a crier, not really, but it's all you can see—someone with a boot to her ribs, an elbow, a gun, a knife splitting her skin open. Someone wanting her harmed. Dead.

You still see it as she brings you into her chest.

"You can't keep doing this."

"I know. I know, I'm sorry. I love you. I love you."

-

The near-empty jar of Will's granola balances precariously on your thighs as you sit in the living room, your neck craned down at the phone in your lap, eyes burning from the strain and everything else. Sergio purrs at your side, warding off the void. He's a welcome companion as the sky darkens around you and leaves you with a time capsule of memories.

You wade through it all with bated breath.

You keep your phone's brightness turned low, your eyes still sensitive to too-bright light. You've been combing it through for nearly an hour now, reading back text threads, searching through the photos in your camera roll, gathering bits of your life like an ant collecting crumbs. It's a bit surreal, to be able to poke around. The person in your phone is clearly you; you haven't changed enough in three years to become unrecognizable to yourself. It's more of a relief than anything, but you still find yourself factoring in the newer variables, wondering how they came about.

Your habits are the same. You text dryly, keep few pictures of yourself, have a hundred more or less useless notes taking up space in your notes app. Your social media accounts are as sparse as they've ever been. Your call log consists of the same three people—Emily taking up most of it.

There's no rhyme or rhythm to your searching. You jump from app to app—your photos to your messages and back, opening up a new text thread, scrolling through another album. There's things you ignore: texts asking after your health, some from people you recognize, others whose names are fuzzy; Christmas well-wishes, continuations to conversations you don't have the context for, fourteen new messages from Pen🩷, three missed calls from Emily—11:17 P.M., 11:18, 11:19, December 16.

You're briefly queasy again.

Some of it comes back, the fog drawing thin. Your high-school best friend is still in your life—you're still just as close—though no longer as easy to see. Your eyes glaze over when you read the latest message, dated six days ago.

I'm here for you, anytime you want.

There's a few more from that same vein. Texts from Emily's friends, in varying degrees of familiarity—none from her mother, which doesn't surprise you. (Your lack of surprise, however, does). A name you vaguely recognize turns out to be a coworker you go out with on occasion; you dig through your camera roll and connect the face to the name when you find a picture, shadowy from the weak lighting of a bar.

Pictures of you and Emily, you find, are laughably rare. It's mostly her, or Sergio, or both of them together. They're sickeningly domestic—blurred, or in warm lighting, or posed up close. Emily mid-laugh, mid-yawn; deep in concentration with a book in her hands, Sergio sprawled across her legs.

It feels like you're intruding, somehow. You're not able to go through half the photos before you click back into your messages, an incessant gnawing in your stomach.

You have two new texts from her. Her name sits a few rows down (Em, the contact photo one of her with a beach splayed behind her). You tentatively open up the thread, not knowing what to expect.

December 16, 10:47 P.M.

You

Want anything else?

Em

My wife back.

You 

T-minus ten minutes

Em

That's a little more than ten minutes.

Honey, where are you?

Missed voice call

Missed voice call

Missed voice call

December 13, 10:04 A.M.

Em

Are we out of Advil?

You

There's a strip in my bag

What's wrong?

Em

Mother called.

You

Jesus

Em

Good news, though, she'll be out of state this Christmas.

You

Sweeeeet

December 11, 2:36 P.M.

You

Hey

Do you have a minute?

Em

Tell me.

Voice call

December 8, 7:23 P.M.

Em

Boarding.

It's around five hours, don't wait up.

You

Don't tell me what to do

Em

Seriously?

You

My bad for missing you

And for being a good wife

Em

A perfect wife, you mean.

You

Flattery will get you everywhere

Em

I love you.

Please don't wait up.

December 7, 8:14 A.M.

You

How's the nausea, baby

Em

Not so bad. I at least made it through breakfast today.

JJ caught me, though.

You

Better her than Pen

Em

That's what I thought.

December 3, 6:53 P.M.

You 

Okay so

Does anyone in your office happen to like peanut butter cookies?

Em

Babe.

How much did you make?

You

Well

Emily

I'm still waiting for an answer.

December 1, 5:18 P.M.

Em

In the store, you want anything?

You

Takis!!!

Em

Those things will genuinely kill you.

You

Two takis :))

"Hey."

Your head snaps up at the sound of Emily's voice. You turn the phone off. "Hi."

She sits down next to you, close enough for your arms to brush. Sergio trills and eagerly migrates onto her lap. She gives his chin a few lazy scratches, the sound of his purrs taking up space in the silence.

You notice, as your fingers itch to smooth out the reddened sleep lines on her cheek, that she sits on your good side. She always sits on your good side.

You set your phone down and reach over to stroke an idle path down Sergio's back. With the movement, your shoulder gently presses into hers. She turns to steal a glance at you, her wayward bangs brushing your cheek, lightly ticklish on your skin.

Her free arm shifts against yours and you feel her reach into your lap, pick up the abandoned—depleted—jar of granola, the few grains left inside rattling as she turns it over.

"Hungry?"

"Very." You sift your fingers through Sergio's fur, only a slight bit embarrassed. His purring cranks louder, seeping into your bones.

"What do you say to takeout?"

Her voice is so close, brushing your jaw, that you have to fight not to shiver. You take your hand back and keep your shoulder pressed against hers and suddenly feel it, all around—the stillness, in you, in her, in the house.

There's too much grief clouding you.

"Why don't we go for dinner?" You venture. "If you're feeling up to it."

Emily's eyes snap up to yours. "Yeah," she says, eager if a little surprised. "Yeah, sure."

"Sure?" You reiterate.

"Yes," she insists. "Anything particular in mind?"

You shake your head. "Just nothing fancy. Take me…" your arm loosely hooks around her hers, "take me somewhere I like."

Emily smiles, then. It still throws you off—how it softens her face, the shine of unadulterated pleasure making her glow. Beautiful, your stomach twists, tying itself in knots. Beautiful even with her eyes still shot through with red, the skin around them puffy with sleep, with tears, the heartache clinging to her even now.

"Okay."

-

The neon lights of a 24/7 diner glint off of her hair.

"Is this okay?" She asks, a thread of hesitation ringing in her voice.

You can't fathom the warmth flowing through you. You yourself hadn't known what to want or expect, but standing in front of the restaurant, a sense of rightness clicks. And, warmer than the weight of your hand in hers—

She knows you. Even when you don't.

You turn to kiss her cold cheek and feel the doubt slump out of her. "Perfect." You murmur.

Emily blushes a faint pink, pleased.

Inside, the lights are warm, the leather of the booths soft and worn. The whole place smells like sticky maple and deep-fried chicken. It's familiar, sugar and grease, setting off the hunger in you again.

A young, bored-looking waitress seats you.

"You sure this won't upset your nausea?" You ask Emily as she settles opposite you.

"I don't think so, this place is tried and tested. We've been a couple of times," she shrugs, "seems to be okay. What are you feeling?"

"Breakfast," you say resolutely, picking up the menu and skimming the options. "You?"

"Anything with maple."

Your mouth quirks. Much the same, your eyes skip over the egg combos and head straight down to the griddle dishes.

Belgian waffles, strawberry French toast, cinnamon roll pancakes…

"We missed pancake Sunday." You say idly. The image blooms in your head: your sun-drenched kitchen, Emily in just a t-shirt, humming some aimless tune and stirring pancake batter. You cutting up fruit, dotting chocolate chips on the still wet puddles she scoops out onto the pan. It's a ritual of sorts, implicitly sacred. Yours and hers.

Surprise washes over Emily's face. "Oh," she says. "Yeah—right. Slipped my mind."

"That's quite a serious offense, Mrs. Prentiss."

Her eyes go pinched, smiling. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, velvet-soft as she leans across the table. "How do you want me to make it up to you?"

She's teasing, you can distantly tell. But her voice, already low, drops lower, pours over your skin like honey. She looks at you from under her lashes and it sets you on fire, your wife toying with you, flirting.

"Are you guys ready to order?" The waitress comes over, clicking her pen, saving you.

You lean back into your seat and nod a little too quickly, the heat of Emily's eyes still on your face. You can hear the barest hint of a smile in her voice as she places her order—her menu still closed, hands folded neatly on top of it. You—a few degrees above your normal temperature, the words on the menu blurring before your eyes—go for the pancakes.

Outside, flecks of snow start fluttering down. They streak through the dark backdrop of the evening, sweep up against the window, stick and melt on the glass. A bell chimes as the door of the diner pushes open, a belated gust of wind rushing past you.

It cools your cheeks enough that you can pick up the conversation again.

"So." You look back at your wife. "How did we find this place?"

Emily's mouth softens, pulls up into a half smile. "It's not anything special, really. We were going out for dinner, but we didn't make it in time for our reservation. My flight was delayed coming back," she explains. "But we were starving and everywhere else was packed, so..."

As she talks, threads of memory start to connect.

It was a weekend. You'd been annoyed with her, but—I'm not the one flying the jet, babe.

"Our old complex is close by." You mention.

This earns you a proper smile. Dimpled and all. "Yeah. Yeah, it is." Emily says.

There's a new weight to her gaze, a heavy fondness, her eyes bright with it. It warms you up on the inside as she takes your hand from the table and lifts it up to her lips. "You're doing good," she whispers, kissing the ridges of your knuckles.

Air thins in your lungs, a swooping feeling rushing through your gut.

You're doing good.

You carefully twist your hand in her grip and reach over to cup her cheek. You see the breath rush in her, fast, then slower, quieter, like she's trying to pace herself. The table edge digs into your ribs as you brush your thumb over her cheek, not quite where her dimple lays—too high up.

Her eyes are so dark you can see tiny, twin reflections of yourself in them, pulled over her irises.

"How can you stand it?" You ask quietly.

She doesn't need to ask what you're talking about. She knows, squeezes your wrist, ghosts her thumb over your pulse.

"Because I love you, and you're my best friend."

She says it so plainly. It's near laughable—almost childishly simple. Still, your eyes grow hot, a lump expanding in your throat as Emily keeps her hand over yours, lightly skates her thumb over your skin. "I've always been alone," she murmurs. "Ever since I was a kid. I never had many friends, and the ones I could make—" she shrugs, "it was impossible to stay in touch. That kind of stuck, I think." Her voice seeps into your bones, through muscle, through skin. "Even as I grew up, I wasn't exactly popular. It was hard to…connect."

Your chest twinges. Emily rubs absent, soothing circles on your skin, almost like she can feel it.

"The BAU was my first time feeling like I belonged. Sappy, I know, but—I'd never really had friends, much less family." She says softly, passively. A tiny bit amused, like she's laughing at herself.

"And then, you came along." Her lips tug, brushing the heel of your hand—not quite a kiss, but not quite not. It's enough to send your heart in a tailspin, but then her eyes pin you in place, impossibly dark, brimming with such focus you nearly squirm. She exhales heavily, warmth fogging over your skin. "I've kind of been waiting my whole life for you."

The words burrow deep. There's such a palpable tenderness to them that you have to look away, catch your breath.

You. All of this is for you. Somehow, for some reason.

"Charmer," you muster out.

Emily smiles. She clasps your hand between both of hers and gently lays it back on the table. You barely notice the strain that loosens in your arm, your head overfull with her. She lets you stay in it, a little dazed, but before long she's nudging your ankle under the table, trapping your leg between both of hers, your knees knocking into each other.

"So, does that mean you'll let me sleep in your bed tonight?"

You're surprised when you laugh, so loud you have to clasp your hand over your mouth to muffle it.

-

With a sling, every normal activity takes about ten times longer. Changing; eating; showering; even sleeping is tedious. Brushing your teeth and washing your face take an eternity when Emily's not helping you—she insists, but so do you, that you've got it. Because you have. It just takes about two hours to get through what used to take you five minutes.

You flick open the cap on the bottle of aloe gel and squeeze out a cool dollop. Emily had gotten you the squeezable bottle after you'd struggled with the jar—you don't know when she'd gotten it, only that it was there on your nightstand the next time you needed to switch out your bandage. At the reminder, you find yourself biting down on a smile as you spread the gel on the half-healed burn.

Sweet. She's sweet—in a way that makes you fuss and flounder and go hot despite yourself. It's nothing overly loud or frivolous, just deeply earnest. You've never met anyone so thoughtful.

At least, you think.

Every day, it just becomes more surreal—the fact that she's yours, unwavering and entirely devoted. Funny. So beautiful it physically aches in your chest. You feel like you've done nothing to deserve her, like you just woke up and she was there, hovering over your hospital bed, her eyes glazed with tears.

Honey. Talk to me, please.

Honey, breathe. Honey, you're killing me.

Honey, I'm kidding. Honey, let me in, honey I love you, fuck, honey, there you go—

You wipe off the excess gel with a towel, somersaults in your stomach.

It's a strange thing, to be falling in love with your wife. You love her, you know you do, you feel it. It's dormant, living inside your bones.

But this, it's different. It trips along your insides, burning hot and growing hotter, glowing, in your chest, the pit of your stomach. You look up at yourself in the bathroom mirror, eyes bright, the ghost of a smile lingering around your mouth, and you think—yes.

You're falling in love with her.

-

"Oh—god, I'm sorry—"

"Hm?" Emily turns, to you, topless—nearly entirely topless, a shirt clutched in her hand, and that's—

That's a tattoo. Arched over her hip, curling to wrap around her waist.

A tattoo. She has a tattoo.

"I—" You mouth goes achingly dry. You swallow, hard. "Fuck, sorry, I didn't—I didn't know you were changing. Or that you have a tattoo," you blurt out, cringing as the words echo in the silence. Your back is still to the bathroom door, your feet firmly planted on the ground even as your eyes rove, heat ripping through you.

Your first thought is: she's not as soft as she feels. There's lean muscle in her arms, toned and firm even from afar, her shoulders strong, chest rounded and soft. Your eyes are gluttonous, eating across every inch of her pale skin. They skate up the plane of her stomach, to her exposed collarbones, to the curve to her neck, down to the ink splayed on her side—

The corner of Emily's mouth ticks up. You're still glued in place as she steps closer, much to the dismay of your poor, weak knees.

"I have a couple," she says easily. "You like this one?"

You tell yourself not to look—don't look, don't, don't, don't—but you fail yourself.

Your eyes drop to it.

Up close, it's even more catching—a little faded, worn into her skin. The inkwork is elegant—a string of lilies, arching up, curving around to cup her waist. Pale white stretch marks ripple through it. Loose, curling tendrils of stem reach up just to her ribs; the rest of the tattoo dips below her waistline, snaking down her hip, a petal peeking over—

You avert your eyes, too late, the ink already burned into your brain.

"Sorry," you mutter belatedly, blood rushing to your cheeks.

"What for?"

Your eyes snap back to hers. Emily's smile is now a full-blown grin, more than a little pleased.

"You can look, honey, it's okay." Her voice is faintly teasing. "Touch, even. I won't bite."

You swallow, feeling your back press against the door. "I'm sorry." Your voice is embarrassingly ragged. Her gaze is impossible to hold; you flick your eyes away, rubbing skittishly at your brow. "I didn't mean to put you on the spot."

"So polite," she murmurs, unbearably fond. "Sweetheart, you're my wife. I'm not on any spot."

Your brows scrunch. You look back at her to find a similar look on her face. It fades into a smile when your eyes meet, her shrug easy and careless. "You get what I mean. Really, it's okay." Her voice softens. Coaxing. "If you want to."

It feels like uneven ground. You're bared open, every inch of your want out on display and it's—it's new to you but it's not new to her and even though, in all technicality, she's the one stripped to her skin but you feel exposed down to your bones, falling after she's already fell, her feet steady on the ground while you're still tumbling and tripping over yourself.

Unfair.

But you still can't help yourself.

Swallowing your heart, you let your eyes drift lower.

"Twenty-year-old me was onto something, huh?" She murmurs.

Twenty-year-old you would have straight fainted at the sight. Current-age-you isn't faring much better, really.

"It's pretty." You manage.

"You think?"

"Emily," you inhale, swallowing to dispel the dryness in your throat, "I mean this in the nicest way possible—please put on your goddamn shirt."

She laughs, ducking her head. "Okay, okay. Sorry."

"No, you're not." You mutter, relieved and disappointed in equal measure when she shrugs her shirt on. It becomes marginally easier to breathe, a relentless flame flicking out.

Her smile is in her eyes as she pulls out her hair from under the shirt. "Want me to help? You didn't ice your shoulder today, did you?"

"Didn't, no." You finally find the strength to push off of the bathroom door and make your way to the closet.

You pick a considerably lighter pair of pajamas to account for the clinginess. (King bed, yes, but can you really trust her to stay on her side?)

There's no good reason to let her help you, but you hand her the shirt anyway.

It's become a routine of sorts. You sit down on the edge of the bed and take your arm out from your sling, carefully holding it stiff. Emily kneels down in front of you and reaches for the hem of your sweater, bunches it up to help you get your arm out of the sleeve.

It's easy to pull your good arm out, but the other one needs more maneuvering. Emily guides the collar over your head and gently tugs the sleeve down your injured shoulder.

"Bruising's getting better." She murmurs, eyeing the discoloration around the joint. She sets your sweater aside. "Have you been doing the exercises?"

You wince a little.

"Honey."

"Forgot."

She sighs. "Can we do them now, do you feel up for it?"

You're not sure she realizes it, but her voice does the thing. Sweetens, almost, goes softer than it already is. She doesn't push, but she does this. Gently coaxes and poses it all as a question, gives you the illusion of making a choice when, really, she makes it impossible to refuse.

"Fine."

Emily squeezes your knee, pleased. She helps you slip your pajama shirt on then shifts closer to your left, picking up your hand from its perch on your thigh.

"I've been doing the finger ones." You allow.

She hums. "What about this one?" She keeps your arm supported with one hand and takes your wrist in the other, gently bending it down.

You shake your head. She holds the position for a few seconds then switches, pushing your wrist up until your hand hovers in a high-five. Your head quietens as you let her guide you through the motions. It's nothing tedious or painful, but having her do it is strangely relieving.

Her hands are warm, the room quiet but for the shift of her knees on the floor, the springs in the bed as your weight eases and settles. You feel every thud of your heart in your chest.

Emily is quiet as she moves on to the other exercise—this one to help you bend your elbow. She gently guides your arm, searching your face for signs of pain, a faint crease between her brows. You're not really thinking when press your thumb to it, but she huffs out a sound like a laugh, her skin smoothing out, the crease disappearing.

As she brings your arm back down, she lays a soft kiss to the side of your wrist.

You're acutely aware that she has all of your hurt in her hands. Your biggest physical vulnerability, entirely in her control. She could pull an abrupt move, push or pinch or grab where it hurts, but she doesn't. You don't know why the thought even creeps up; she's almost unbearably cautious, sitting, on her knees, for you. Everything she's done has been to ease your pain. You don't even believe that she'd do anything to hurt you, but she just.

She could.

"You seem well practiced." You remark quietly.

Emily hums. "I've dislocated my shoulders enough for a lifetime."

You frown.

"How many times?"

Her lips purse. "Two on my right, I think. Three on my left."

"Jesus."

"Yeah." She smiles humorlessly. "Perks of the job. They heal a lot faster after that first time, though."

Your nose wrinkles. "It's still awful."

She gives a little hum. "It's not something I ever wanted you to know the feeling of." Her brows draw together, lips thinning as she sets your hand down. Quick and nimble, she grabs the sling and eases your arm back into it, careful to adjust the strap so that it sits on your pajama shirt.

"How's that?" She checks in.

"Perfect," you nod. "Thank you."

She straightens, takes your face in her hands and kisses your forehead. "Bed?"

"Bed."

-

You dream of her.