"It’s…something :)"

She’ll admit, she gave Chad a LOT of shit when he got with Chloe. And maybe she’s the biggest hypocrite in the world when you’re just a little older than his catch of the week, closer to thirty, and you have that big smile every time her hands wrap around any part of your limbs to keep you from hitting face first on some grimey hospital tile. Or when you gently place a sticker that you keep for a snotty nosed child with a broken arm or a high fever and you make sure to find the driest place on tear stained cheeks.

She’ll admit that she was done for when you met Harrison and you lit up her whole house during a power outage and made smores over the gas stove and made up scary ghost stories to pass the time over a roaring thunderstorm.

She’ll even admit that she despises the way the fellowship papers just roll out begging for you to start a emergency pediatrics fellowship or even psych, and she has to sift through every state in the US while just trying to find the electricity bill, or Harrison’s field trip slips.

Because PMTC is right there, a 10 minute walk away, a fellowship with your name on it right across from her, a five minute walk to triage if you took the elevator down, and she can see you knock your wrist against a window before collecting yourself and adjusting the stethoscope that’s just a hair away from falling out of your scrub pocket.

Harrison’s school is a 10 minute drive, at most, and he can yap your ear off about his newest science project while you drive him to the house and get him ready for homework and a much needed shower.

She’s only 2 minutes behind you after handoffs and she’s finally released from hell and she can pull you into her arms after you get your street clothes on and you’re back to being her girl, her warm, safe, klutzy girl that she can walk to her vintage BMW and keep her hand on your thigh while driving and talking about the gnarliest cases of the day.

She could even be in bed right beside you now, waiting for you to wake up after the angriest conversation you two had ever since you two even started dating. Tracing the soft skin she’s memorized by heart during the sleepless nights when she can’t believe that you’re still here after all of the baggage and custody battles.

And she could be.

If she didn’t pick up a shift in the middle of a raging thunderstorm.

She really could’ve been in bed when she saw you looking like a wet dog and snatching a chart before you raced off to the locker room because you two are so alike that it’s almost infuriating.

“You two still at it?”

It’s Dana that brings it up, eyes forward on the current garbage can of call outs with glasses that make her look more like a librarian the way they’re hanging on to every inch of her sanity while scrounging through numbers.

“You could just tell her”

And Cassie can’t bring herself to make an excuse to just grab the chart and change into some dryer scrubs that aren’t nearly as comfortable as the sheets that smell like you.

“You think she’s letting those letters just collect dust for shits and giggles?”

She’s just gonna have to just grit her teeth and bare the borderline tongue lashing of a charge nurse that knows way too much about you because of the eyes and ears of the hospital, doubled on you having the title of favorite next to Emma.

She’ll have to wait 4 agonizing hours until Ellis and Abbot can get a little sleep and get back in action because everyone wanted to get sick in the rain today.

She’ll have to go without the coffee that you make her without fail because she can’t bring herself to say-

“We need some hands over in triage. Make moves.”

You can’t even get enough time to trip over a gust of wind. Let alone have a moment to process the searing rage that bubbles inside of you like Harrison’s science experiments.

“We need some hands!”

Sure, maybe you were wrong to say some things last night.

“Page Garcia.” Robby calls to Princess over his shoulder.

Hell you could even admit that it was wrong to bring it up after dropping Harrison off at his dad’s for the week and didn’t even bother to give Cassie five minutes to get in the door good enough.

“And Walsh.” You add a smile just to be on the safe side before the nurse dials the numbers.

It’s not a secret that you were desired, even through tripping over your residency, you were too good. Abbot wanted you with the night crawlers, Dana would’ve eyed you for charge nurse if you wanted a change of pace, Robby might’ve gotten carpel tunnel from the amount of recommendation letters he had to write for every specialty that asked about you.

It’s also not a secret that you were the world’s worst decision maker and you only had a few weeks at best to choose something.

It was a stupid argument that shouldn’t have even happened if you just kept your mouth shut.

But no, poke the mama bear that’s missing her baby boy something fierce, lay the offers on the table to at least let her look at the opportunity to just say it, don’t communicate that you just want her back in your arms in bed and tell you-

“It’s like a family reunion in here” Garcia takes no time to find a scalpel and inspect the damage, and throw a nod towards you for good measure. “Wanna tell me why I still haven’t gotten a response about surgery?”

“Let’s stop the patient from having a reunion in heaven and I’ll tell you over coffee.”

“You know you only have-“

“A week, I know.” Rolling your eyes might as well be your baseline at this point. “I’m just waiting on one more.”

Robby doesn’t miss a beat.“Letter? Or person?”

Damn you Robby.

“Don’t push it.”

At least you can mark talking about your feelings over a patient on your bucket list.

“Look-Fuck, he’s tanking.” Never mind.

Light hands make quick work to find the source of the bleeding, and Robby’s picks up speed to intubate. It’s too fast for your eyes to see Garcia’s save but you know she’ll gloat about it as soon as she gets back to the attendings lounge.

It’s never fucking ending from there.

Gloves on and off as you move through beds like a wildfire spreading through this stupid forest, bedside manners left somewhere in the north wing, frustration hits you like a train when Langdon doesn’t want to listen to you and talks over your instruction, abandoned hospital coffee on the desk as soon as Victoria finds apparently the only person she can present her case to.

You can barely breathe right before something else just has to come up every time without fail. You should’ve just did literature, you didn’t have to shoot for medical school you really didn’t. You wouldn’t have had to worry about making the biggest life decision right after finally settling down somewhere that you…that you…

Dear god what’s wrong with your mouth now? Did the coffee burn off the words you were so confident in saying to her last night?

Or was it the regret that you couldn’t even finish the thought before you saw that faded red in your peripheral?

It’s still damp, her hair never dries completely unless you used your blow dryer and run your hands through the strands with the patience of a saint.

You could’ve done it if she wasn’t so quick to jump out of the shower last night, and you could’ve at least known the sheets were just stained with tears, not the remnants of her shampoo.

It’s easy to shake it off, move to the next bed.

Smile, nod, assess, diagnose. Rinse, repeat.

Always helping, always seeing glimpses of blue eyes on a chart, always seeing the freckle on her arm when she relocates a bone or does an intubation. Always smelling that perfume that makes you dizzy and reminds you of home and cheap takeout .

Always in her orbit, circling around the chaos. Can’t get away from it even if you tried.

Trust me, you tried.

It’s not as much timid as it is trepidation from Cassie “Do you have a second?”

“Not really” gloves are snapped on in an instant before you’re pulled into another fire to extinguish. “It’s a little funny you want me to find a second now when I had all the time in the world before.”

And just like the solar system you stayed up all night trying to comprehend so you could have a conversation with Harrison, there’s this stupid gravitational pull that could just kick rocks and play in traffic so you can stay away from those damn blue eyes that could make any problem disappear.

“I just want us to talk about last night.” You haven’t kept track of her attempts, if you had a second to go pee, maybe the numbers would catch up in your memory.

And it’s a damn shame she doesn’t make it any better when your eyes meet and you have to tear yourself away from the sheer possibility of restarting that conversation.

“I don’t think you do.”

But not this.

It’s helpful when Robby’s lessons of distance finally come to your recollection. Granted, you never took up his crueler approach of yelling, but walking away does the trick this time.

At least until handoffs.

Handoffs should be easy, they really should after a good amount of years mastering what needs to be said vs. what can be said on a chart. You walk every patient, a short introduction, diagnosis and plan for treatment. Maybe even a light conversation what what life is like outside of hospital walls.

It wouldn’t have taken a rocket scientist to explain why you stomp towards the elevator, and make the three flights of stairs and open the door to the rooftop huffing and heaving out a lung ready to rip Abbot something new. No one would write it off.

Until Cassie sees Abbot looking dry as a bone and you’re nowhere to be found.

“What the hell?”

You should’ve been at his side, right at his heels and tripping on a shoelace while talking about a patient.

“Where did she go?”

Robby places his glasses on his face before eyeing another chart. “If she went to go find Abbott, probably the roof.”

She makes moves, her body still having muscle memory from her former athlete days on the track as she races toward the elevator, doesn’t bother with a jacket, or even an umbrella before she finds herself pressing the button to the top floor.

It’s an agonizing wait, too long without you for her liking.

Too long where her fingers brush against your knuckles as you type away at the computer, too long since your break when she only caught a glimpse of your disheveled hairstyle of the day before moving out to another patient.

Too long that you haven’t been in each others arms and those stupid letters remained on the kitchen table.

The doors sticky, probably from the humidity, but when she hears the sound of a downpour, she knows she’s in the right place.

“Abbots downstairs!”

Your head turns, instinct you weren’t able to bury down for the sake of this stupid argument, and maybe even relief.

“No shit!”

You’re not sure why your shoes are planted to the concrete floor. Maybe it’s just simple defiance, maybe just to get the breath you’ve been wanting all shift. Maybe-

It does surprise you that she takes the chance first.

“Just say it!”

No, you’re gonna breathe, because if you don’t, it’ll just be like last time you got a letter from Seattle, or from Michigan or fucking Florida.

She doesn’t let up for a second, maybe she washed her hands of the reality before you did, you were never that sure. Maybe it’s the day finally coming to a head, maybe it’s just you and her and there’s nothing else stopping her.

“Say that you got the most letters, say that you’re booking flights to go visit the fancy departments that have more tech than anyone in the country, say you’re going to Florida-“

Red is a color you’re used to seeing, but never like this.

“WE’RE NOT TALKING ABOUT FLORI-No! I have begged you to say something, anything about the fellowships, I have tried every trick in the book to get you to talk to me and you have said nothing!”

You’re not sure if you’re screaming or whispering from the way she keeps coming in and out of focus.

Is this what it feels like? Anger? Pure unbridled passion and fury all mixed into this five letter word?

It’s too much like the color of her hair when you first met her, too bright, too overwhelming by the warmth of those blue eyes that finally meet yours.

“We can’t keep doing this! I’m not going to keep doing this!”your voice breaks through the thunder roaring in both your ears. “If you don’t want to talk about the fellowships, fine, we wont! But we need to get through this without killing each other! ”

It’s cruel.

“I’m open to suggestions!”

Fuck.

If you had more time. It wouldn’t have been a problem.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do.” You blink away the rain drops before meeting crystal blue eyes. “You’re gonna tell me three-no five, no-seven! seven things- Seven damn good reasons why you love me, why it’s worth while, why we’re still here!

If she had a little longer to think of a good reason why you said anything to her about the possibility of not seeing that smile again and why her heart cracks in two, she would’ve been fine.

“I love the way you clothes smell in the morning before you wake up”

She would’ve been fine if she never heard anything about the fellowship at all and if you just named a place, a department and the departure time, she would’ve let it go.

“I-I love the way that your feet’s always freezing cold no matter what the weather is, and you use me as a heater.” Her hands try to find something, anything close to yours placed at your sides.

She’d grit her teeth and barely manage through the conversation with Harrison on when you’re leaving and how they have to be happy for you.

“And I love how you’re honest, and trip over anything you can get within three feet of.”

Even though he’d beg her every day to get you to change your mind.

“I love how you get mad at how I do the dishes even though I don’t know how to use that damn dishwasher and make Harrison dry and you put them up”

She’d take an extra five minutes in bed to hold you a little tighter, a little longer while she counts down the days that you’ll finally be heading off to this next chapter in your life.

“I love the way you always leave your clothes all over the living room right with Harrison’s so I can yell at you both.”

It would’ve been easier if you just made your mind and let her pick up the pieces after you boarded your plane.

You take a step forward. “I love your kindness, and that never ending empathy, and the way you smile whenever I trip over a cart at the grocery store after making fun of you.”

But you’re right here, she’s not dreaming and you’re both soaking wet while you look up at her like she’s the only thing that matters and her heart screams for her to hold you in her arms and never let you go.

“I love how you didn’t give up on me once you saw my ankle monitor after I told you that I might be in love with you!”

And to hear that laugh again…that bright, loud laugh that makes her lean in just a little more to hear every note like it’s a music to her ears. Even in the pouring rain, she can still make out the way your cheeks rise, and your nose scrunches up.

“And I love that you still wanted to date me after you met my family!”

You both can’t help it. Laughter washing away the anger from the past few minutes, even a few days.

It hits her, a little too late for her liking, where tears mix with her laugh and she raises a hand to wipe at them with the back of her hand.

“And I love that you are the most stubborn, most competitive, most challenging person I’ve ever met, and I love every single part of you.”

They keep coming, like this dam that’s broken open. It makes her close the distance, hold you against her chest as she struggles to find the words to what she’s been feeling all this time.

“And I don’t want to let you go to Florida, or Seattle, or anywhere except here, where I can keep sharing my life with you, and loving you.”

She says your name like a prayer to some higher being, some divine source that could grant her the words to get you finally get it.

“I want you to throw out every single one of those letters when we get home and stay because I haven’t gotten close to loving you enough, so I can keep loving you until you tell me to stop.”

It’s more than enough even now as you find the strength to pull away from her hold and press your lips to hers. You taste raindrops and salty tears and you promise you’ll never let it happen again on your watch.

“I want what’s best for this department-patients and staff”

You can hold the remote in your hands.

“I am cleared for my drivers license.”

“You shouldn’t be driving at all.”

You can press every button, punch in every combination till your fingers go numb.

“If you were a patient we’d have to report you.”

“I’m not your fucking patient.”

“No, but I cannot let you work in my emergency department until you’re fully capable of doing so.”

And it’s still there.

All the colors in the rainbow all in one place, on one tiny screen that cant seem to handle it, and it makes room for what it can. 

“That is not your fucking call!”

“You’re fucking a-right that’s my call!”

Loses sight of what it can’t understand. 

Make noise, unintelligible, grating noise that almost tears your eardrums, like a knife cutting through a piece of paper.

You make it right, or you give it your best shot. Press the buttons, change the channels, find that magic spot where the noise can go back to oblivion until the next off day comes.

“My department. My patients. All you fucking think about is yourself! Do you hear yourself?!”

Still remaining under the surface when you finally get it right.

Even when all the colors come back in her Burgundy tank top and jeans. 

Even when she feels the thump of the elevator once it hits the floor where her SUV is parked.

“I kicked him out of the department until he got the appropriate help he needed, and the same goes for you.”

Even when the lights of her infotainment system come on as soon as she presses the button to start the engine and put it into reverse.

“You got until Monday to let the administration know”

She can do it.

It’s only 5 miles. 10 minutes, tops. Pull it back into drive, press your foot on the pedal. 

“or else I will.”

But it’s still static.

Static that makes Baran press on the break, put the gear shift in park and thank the universe that she has tinted windows.

Noise that bubbles through the depths of her stomach and reaches out towards her throat to make a sound akin to a child when they get hurt.

Color that reflects the street lights as hot tears run down her face.

5 seconds.

Five seconds to hold her face in an exhausted hand that held everyone else together and she can’t feel anything but metal pressing against her tear stained cheeks. It’s not enough, it never is, but she’s cold and tired and in so…so much pain that she never thought was humanly possible, and she studied the human body.

It’s longer to put the pieces away in her passenger seat. Buckle them up, and put the car back in drive.

5 miles. No traffic, no speeding, no music.

Just enough sound leaks through an open window to give her a peek into the outside world, the booming fireworks, the jeers from the younger adults as they walk back to their apartments.

10 steps when she pulls into the garage, shuts the car off and presses her fingers against the key fob until she hears a click.

1 minute to walk from the garage and pull open the door to the pantry, minute and a half if you count her attempt to kick off her sneakers near the shoe organizer.

She can always get them off.

No matter how hard the day is, no matter how much blood, sweat and tears soaks through them. She can get them off. Sift through the laces, pull them off with ease.

“Baran?”

What’s so fucking different? 

She’s home. Her son is at a sleepover and probably up way past his bedtime for her liking and eating an obscene amount of popcorn for a 6 year old. 

She’s home and it smells like lavender and mint just like she left it, the kitchens untouched aside from the tea kettle she used this morning and it’s hers, when she rushed back to your bedroom and gave you the gentlest of kisses before she set off for her first day.

“Baran?”

It’s not sterile, it's not another hospital visit.

it doesn’t need to be fixed. It’s her fucking mess to clean, the mess she already cleaned before she even stepped foot in that goddamn hospital.

God why does this shoe not want to come off?

It’s not the laces because she never ties them enough to have this much of a death grip leaching on her like she’s stuck with this for good.

It’s not the shoe because she tried so many before finding this perfect fit, and she’s worn the brand for so many years.

It’s not her because she did the work, she did all the tests, all those interviews and sending those letters just to step into that place with her head held high and ready to make a difference.

So why is it not coming off? 

Even when she damn near slams herself against the shelves, even when she gets down to the tiled flooring in her kitchen she spent weeks picking so she can make sure mud from soccer practice and blood from the hospital doesn’t seep into the floorboards. 

Even when she tries so hard to keep it together and just get her fucking shoe-

“It’s okay, I got it.”

It’s only a moment, but she can’t compute how long it’s been. 

15 hours, she’s sure of. She remembers her time card punch.

The amount of time where your knees are pressing against cold tile, fingers gently untangling shoelaces and metal frames pressing against the bridge of your nose fighting for dear life to stay there…she’s not sure.

How long was it?

That you were right here, in front of her.

So gentle as you pull the heel, and fabric that was grating against the heel of her foot is replaced with a gentle hand.

Soft caresses, mindful to avoid the growing redness, just a few presses around it to get the blood flowing.

Baran knows she doesn’t have a leaky ceiling, it rains a lot in Pittsburgh. The real estate agent assured her the house was in perfect condition. 

So why is there still so much water coming out?

Like it’s never going to stop. 

You make quicker work, still mindful, but purpose fuels you as soon as you hear the dam cracking. Loosen the laces, thumb brushing against her Achilles heel like it’s the most precious thing on earth. 

One hand finds the back of her head and the other under her legs. 

One good pull.

One good press of a button.

And the colors start to become more clearer.

Her arms wrap around your neck and she clings on to a lifeline. 

Hiccups and snot and tears mix together and turn into this knife that keeps digging into your heart as you try to rub the stress out of the side of her thigh. 

Her forehead presses against your lenses, and you feel the indent underneath your eyes, but make no inclination to move. 

Trembles rip through her body like earthquakes. Loud, and…devastating on the ground beneath you 

You bury yourself in her curls, lips pressing against any skin that you can find. Your thumb moves to her face, worry seeping through the pace with how fast you're trying to keep up with her tears.

You’re not sure if she’s even able to hear you, you’re not sure if it matters. 

But you have to try. 

Try to make a place on the floor until she’s ready to come up for air and drink her favorite tea while she clings onto your waist. 

Try to get her to feel her body again. Even if it means getting up at 5:30 to go to that hell she calls Pilates and she treats you with an actual iced coffee.

Try to unbuckle the seatbelt with all those delicate pieces sat in the car. And hold her against you while she explains every piece of that puzzle that makes her the love of your life. 

Okay, so maybe Cassie wasn’t listening to her son's spiel over dinner, but to be fair, she was tired and really ready for bed by the time he wanted to start yapping about what he learned. But she listens, she nods, she might’ve fallen asleep at the part with something on photosynthesis. But she got there, and in bed, with a half-opened book of words on a page before her eyes closed shut.

But that’s neither here nor there.

It’s not rocket science. Even as she prepares sterile instruments , puts on gloves, and explains the procedure as second nature. It’s easy to understand if you look at it from a different angle.

“Take a deep breath in for me.” Her clinical edge is softened with a rasp, always focused, always sure.

There’s a sun; it has a purpose.

“Again.”

It grows plants, it grows cells in any life form to give it a fighting chance. It heals; it has the power to affect the earth and the stars. It’s the burden of her freshman-year biology homework in high school. It’s a system.

Just like the hands that held charts that made no sense in their perfection, heat still lingered on her fingertips from a rushed coffee run. They trace over past reports, dosage adjustments, and referrals. No stone goes unturned.

The sun revolves. Round and round the earth and all the other planets she lost track of trying to make sense of some new science book he wanted to be read to one sleepless night.

“And out.”

It’s heavy, like taking a second skin off. But it’s…normal?

She takes a step back, maybe she went too fast.

“Are you feeling any pain at all?”

It’s met with a shrug that reminds her of when she asks Harrison how school was on one of the hard days. Eyes downcast at the ill-prepared dinner on the kitchen table. If the patient had a fork, she’d probably pick over the green beans, then the protein, until it was barely recognizable.

“Not really.”

“Okay…” Careful, controlled, just enough softness to know not to poke the bear. “Have you been able to eat anything? Keep fluids down?”

“Yep…” It sounds like when she gets off an unexpected double, when she has the 3 B’s waiting for her at home.

“Have you been taking your medication as prescribed?”

“Like clockwork.”

Fine, maybe she’s not a conversationalist. Go through the list, check every box. Clean them, then street them or whatever Robby said during the team meeting.

“Any feelings of hopelessness?”

“Loss of interest in things you normally enjoy?”

“Thoughts of harming yourself or not wanting to continue treatment.”

Just get through the discomfort, dance the steps you’re taught, do the best you can with what you have. Even when you have it all.

Even when it’s just perfect answers. Even when the answers block the light, you see a shadow. Dark, stagnant, stuck.

But shadows are meant to be quiet.

Her eyes betray her first, a momentary glance out of the exam room, familiar pastel-colored scrubs, and the color of your stethoscope come into view.

It’s just a moment, she swears.

The sound of laughter seeps through the room, enough to know it’s you, whenever you get a little silly, and beg for a joke of the day from Trinity, the one where it’s actually funny, and you have to try to cover your mouth and not get a look from the Charge Nurse. A laugh that's too good and kind for the chaos and possibilities for death and pain.

Her brain tries to recalibrate, go back to doctor mode as you buzz in, tablet tucked up under your arm in a careful hold. Your smile is tempered, but the sparkle in your eyes still remains, still shiny, still-

Blue?

It reminds her of a spring sky. A stark contrast to your black scrubs.

You get closer to the patient, take softer steps, and smile more kindly.

“I’m working with Dr. McKay today.  I’m also a student, so fair warning that I will ask way too many questions.” You can’t help but chuckle. “Starting with your name?”

There’s a pause. But it’s a start.

“Nora.”

“It’s really nice to meet you, Nora.”

—

It’s routine.

It is ingrained in every person who wants to hold something bigger than themselves.

“Is it okay if I sit in while Dr. McKay finishes up?”

You ask questions. Too many of them for your liking. You listen, you learn, you take a beat and figure out what you did wrong and why.

“Sure, I guess.”

It’s a song that plays on repeat as shifts change and patients are discharged. You learn it with time, patience, and more time.

But you start small.

An open roller chair invites you to sit; height gives you a slight disadvantage, but you can see Nora’s eyes a bit clearer from this angle.

Cassie’s halfway, from the charting that seemed to have been abandoned for the physical exam portion to how her eyes try to capture everything that vital signs can’t. Her hands hover, just enough to alert a presence, but it’s only when Nora focuses that she continues. Gentle, waiting until she completes her task and moves to the next.

It’s a rhythm, waiting and listening. Even as an R2, there’s still room to learn and understand the melody of a hospital. Notes you never recognized, unexpected beats that flow with the ensemble.

But sometimes you have to make one.

“Have you always lived in Pittsburgh?” It breaks through the silence just enough to gather both of your focus.

“Oh, um, no. I was in New York for a while for school before my health took a nose dive….” It drags, only for a moment. “Then transferred here and did classes online.”

“I never really understood virtual learning. When my son had to do it, he was miserable.”

“It’s not the greatest. Especially when you’re supposed to be in museums and looking at Van Gogh.”

“You study art?”

“Art history.”

You can’t help but see it.

How her eyes look down to the floor for only a moment, asking and organizing a million questions before she decides on her next course, how her eyebrows meet in the middle and almost turn into one. It’s only a second, before she looks back up at Nora.

A little kinder, a little more human than the mask she wore like a second skin.

“What happened after the move?”

“The doctors gave me a new med, it worked, and then…” Nora follows suit. “I guess everything turned off. I don’t really know.”

It’s hard.

Being human, holding pieces of yourself and carrying them with you while everyone else is unaware. It’s fine, it’s normal.

Everyone has something, some shitty baggage that gets tucked inside this neat little box for someone to uncover when they stop looking around them.

Until they don't.

Because of too perfect vitals, almost too perfect answers. Too perfect in the eyes of a sheet of paper instead of one human being to another.

She’s only just starting her life. And she’s…here.

Too perfect to see everything but the one thing in front of them.

It doesn't take a genius to see it.

A perfect mirror. Not disrespectful, never that.

She should keep asking questions, questions that get her to the same answer from when she started 20 minutes ago. Keep pushing for answers, keep being the doctor that she’s trained to be, studied, and practiced to a science.

But Cassie can’t see your eyes.

She can see your fingertips hovering over the tablet, your bottom lip hanging on to an inch of its life from the bite. Your nose is doing that weird mix of a crinkle in the midst of a sneeze.

But it’s not the eyes that would light up when she would turn to quiz you unexpectedly or even give you a momentary glance, the one where you grin grows at the potential of learning, understanding, feeling what it’s like to be someone who heals people.

It feels like someone kidnapped you mid shift and replaced you with someone she recognizes from across the hall, but never stepped to say hello.

It’s weird.

“I think your labs are ready.” Start with small bites that the patient can consume. “I’ll give you a few minutes to get redressed, and I’ll come back in a few.”

A beat passes, but you catch the hint. Your rise from the chair is a far cry from your normal pep in your step, a small nod, and a soft goodbye to Nora.

File it away, compartmentalize, keep moving until you’re out the door. A broken record, a promise if you squint

Curtesy is ingrained in Cassie as she opens the door for you, and when the door finally clicks, you both take in the sterile air.

Maybe it’s hard because you try.

Sure. R2 isn’t the hardest year of being a doctor. But it isn’t Grey's Anatomy or The Good Doctor. There’s no script for pain or understanding; you do the best you can, and you have every single day to learn.

But learning is tough, and it's almost painful before you can try to get past the pain and towards the cause.

“Take a few breaths.”

It’s too warm for a reprimand. Too soft for a doctor.

“The labs?”

“I made it up.” Her hands find a shoulder as she guides you to an empty stairwell. “I’m not hearing breathing.”

“I’m fine.” You are. Really.

“I know.” A little harder, guiding you until she sees you actually sitting instead of hovering. “I know, but humor me?”

It’s clouded, but a laugh escapes nonetheless.

“In….” Gentle, kind….grounded by the rasp.

Fingers stroke the fabric of your undershirt, something akin to a scratch. Nails dig, just enough to feel your shoulders flex upwards.

“And out.”

Then a fall. It’s not as heavy as before. A good start, enough to fall into a cadence.

You swear you could almost get lost, forget the scrubs on your body,, and the promise you made to do your best to make people feel better.

You remember your pajamas strung across your bed in the rush to get to work, and the warmth of your bed remaining from where you clung onto your pillow while the alarm was going off. Your AC and fan running overtime to give you a frozen tundra instead of a bedroom .

Your fingertips stop reaching for your badge, your eyebrows unknit, your shoulders fall just a hair back.

“I…I shouldn’t have let that get to me, she’s just…so young.”

You’re not sure when she stops, but you blink at the tapping motion on the back of your shoulder.

“The….the distance comes with practice.” She leans in, just enough to see the slightest quiver from your bottom lip. “But feeling something for your patients? That’s not something to apologize for.”

A hand flies over to your face, it covers the bottom half, but she’s quick enough to catch your eyes.

“We’re taught to treat the protocol first.”

It’s like a dimly lit candle, just enough to catch flickers in the dead of night and illuminate a small amount of space.

But….fragile.

“You’re not doing anything wrong. ”

Her nails feel caught in the fabric. She swears she tries to pull herself out.

But it’s too warm, smells too much like the perfume you always wear that makes her head spin a little when she leans over and looks at your charts. And you give her that damn smile when she has to pull a question out of the sky to distract herself.

“Cat got your tongue?” Teasing, kind, your baseline

She can only look away, but you can still see a hint of that winning smile of hers.

But she does. Willingly? Debatable.

“What am I missing?”

She was never good at admitting wrongdoings.

It felt like drowning; the tides changed with the situation. Sometimes she’s flailing against a storm, other times it’s a wrong dive off the board. But she’s so close to the surface…just enough.

So why is she still breathing when her lungs should be full of water?

You blink, your fingertips tapping against the corner of your lips, halting. “I’m sorry?”

Why is she still looking to you?

“We did the examination, we got the answers. So what am I missing?”

There’s a beat. You could almost hear a pin drop, or at the very least insert some Jeopardy music when you get the question that could change the course of your life.

“I…don’t think you are.” You’re still a little off balance, but you start the pace. “Physically?”

“You think it’s psych?”

“I think it’s a grey area.”

Your fingers find their way back to your abandoned tablet, eyes trail against numbers that seem to blur together after some time, like it doesn’t matter, like when you’re at home with piles of homework with nowhere to really start, like-

“Like when you don’t want to go to school.”

Huh?

“I’m sorry?”

—

When you think of diagnoses, you think Zebras, not horses.

It’s one of the first things Cassie taught you when you got paired together.

“Just…give me one thing, it doesn’t have to be right. We’ll never get it right if we don’t start with something.”

But when you see Robby and Cassie's faces now, maybe you should’ve started with a damn pony.

“Okay,” He graces you with a flicker of attention. “I saw your lips moving, but nothing made sense.”

You were known for causing high blood pressure, but this is a new one for Robby. He keeps looking for something to fall out of the ceiling, maybe a better answer, maybe a will to live; you can’t really be sure.

“Do I ever make sense?” Your lips tug at a smile when you see the older attending raise an eyebrow. “Don’t bother answering that.”

The attending sighs. “Run it by me again.”

“Nora’s labs, vitals-everything's fine, perfect even.” Cassie starts laying the foundation. “But nothing's adding up to her decline in movement, or her engagement; she scored high on depression but not suicidal, and she’s compliant with medication.”

“She had a history of depressive episodes after her health declined and she moved here. We gave her pills, and she got better, but she’s still here.” You pick up where she left off. “If this were a kid, they’d just say they weren’t feeling good and  just didn’t want to go to school.”

He sighs through his nose, “What did I say about your analogies?”  

You press on. “What if she can’t explain what's going on because there is nothing physical anymore? And when your life revolved around a decline, you can’t see anything else?”

It’s quiet, too quiet as looks are served back and forth like a round of tennis between Cassie and Robby. She’s thoughtful, strategic in her eyebrow raises and nods towards you. Robby’s… maybe frustrated, you can’t tell.

Robby leans against the nurses' station. “Wouldn’t that give her more reason to want to be discharged? Not less?”

“You’d think so, but she doesn’t feel good, and she can’t explain why she doesn’t feel anything at all despite getting better physically.”

Cassie can remember when Harrison tried it; of course, he didn’t go, but she gets it.

It’s medicine, it’s science, it’s a routine. It shouldn’t work.

“Like not wanting to go to school.” It’s a reach, Cassie knows.

But it’s worth a shot.

“Because you don’t feel well enough to go.” The attending's voice is a soft murmur. He takes a moment before handing the chart back to you . “So, say it properly, what do we do to get her discharged?”

Because it’s you.

You take a look at the chart once more, then towards Cassie. You see her head tilt, just enough.

“We give her a reason.”

—

Crazy is not the word that Cassie would use.

Not having a plan when you walk into the room isn't the craziest thing she’s seen in the emergency department. Far from it, actually.

“We just…talk. No tests, no…anything.”

Cassie can’t place the look on your face, but if she were to make a shot in the dark, she’d aim for confident.

“I trust you.”

Granted, she’s not a wordsmith. But she’s read a thasusrus, unusual, a little out there even.

But this is ridiculous.

“Okay, wait, you’re telling me you went to New York one day in med school for a slice of pizza you saw online?”

It’s a complete 180 when you both get settled back in Nora’s room. Charts long abandoned for a conversation, one where you made your younger self blush in embarrassment over your antics.

“I was hungry!” You laugh, putting your hands on your hips. “And it was pretty freaking good if I do say so myself.”

“That’s wild work even for me,” Nora chuckles. “I think the only thing close to that was going across town, in an Uber. Not a plane.”

“Even more reason for you to try it. Best pizza in the whole world. And they give dollar slices after midnight.”

It’s odd how you do it. Robby wasn’t wrong about giving you an inch.

Cassie swore there weren’t any windows, and if there were, it’d only be the pounding of water droplets against the glass like the FBI was coming in on one of her thriller TV shows.

But it feels like sunlight streaming through, the way you sit on Nora’s hospital bed as if you were her best friend. Your laugh reverberates through the confines of her room. The way you move your hands as you explain the walk in the pouring rain to get a slice of pizza.

It’s hard to turn away, to be Dr. McKay when all she feels is Cassie.

“Did you see anything else?” Nora leans in, a brightness that almost blinds Cassie.

Just Cassie, with her hair down and a long abandoned book in her hand, as you talk about your adventures in a past life.

“I did.”

Just Cassie, when she sees your eyes finding hers in the midst of a conversation about something so silly but so important because it’s you in front of her.

“Well?”

Just Cassie, when she leans in, just enough to graze her fingertips against your chin.

“I got to see the second sun.”

Just Cassie, when-

“Wait, what?”

Her fingertips halt against the keyboard. And her attention is fully on the two of you in the hospital bed. You have a smile she’s never seen before, it’s almost completely innocent, almost.

“A second sun?” Cassie’s careful with her words; it doesn’t even sound right.

“Not ‘a’, the second sun.”  You’re gentle in your correction.

Maybe her brain is mushed from the mental strain. But she gives you the last of her brain cells anyway.

“Elaborate?”

“It’s a painting made by this artist a few decades ago.” Nora sounds almost… fond. “One that was only there for a limited time, you were there?”

You give a cheeky grin. “Right place, right time, I guess.”

“What’s the story?” Cassie takes a look at the space right next to you, and it’s only when Nora nods that she takes a seat.

“It’s pretty simple, two people looking at the sun, in the same exact place, but there’s a second sun.” Your hands give you an anchor as you scoot back onto the bed a hair more. “And one gets to see it.”

“But there’s only one sun.” It’s too quick for her to stop herself.

“Is there?”

Cassie raises an eyebrow, her lips tug into a smirk. “I taught Harrison the solar system. I’m pretty sure there’s only one.”

“You don’t always paint what you see,” Nora interjects. “Maybe the artist saw something they felt.”

Your hands make quick work of finding the painting on your phone; it’s a lot of scrolling through spontaneous trips, but the look on Cassie's face is borderline priceless.

“Who feels a second sun?” Why does it feel like she wants to rip her hair off? “It scientifically makes no sense.”

You chuckle softly, maybe a dash of worry for the older woman. “I don’t think you go to art exhibits for science.”

“And what if I did?”

“You just have to see it.”

Both of you divert your attention to Nora, and your eyes can’t help but soften at the sight.

“Once you see it, you know, it just makes sense.” A laugh, before her gaze turned towards the door. “I know it’ll be my first stop out of here.”

A sparkle.

“And pizza?”

And a smile.

“And pizza “

—

“It just doesn’t make sense.”

There is a sun.

It can do a lot of things.

“What doesn’t?” You yank at the combination lock before opening the door and grabbing the remainder of your things.

It can produce colors ranging from steel blue to a faded red ginger.

“How it works.”

It can warm the hands that are always careful, always gentle when handing you your charts. Or the heart that never fails to give you an extra five minutes after one of the hard cases.

“You’re still on that?”

It guides the way to a discharge.

“How can I not? It’s not proven.” Her hands raise to some god, some divine intervention that could just plop the answer right in front of her, but all she gets are the rest of her belongings emptied out in her messenger bag. “I looked at every single article, and there’s nothing at all about a second sun.”

It can also illuminate.

“What if I proved it?”

And surprise even the most skeptical.

You’re bold, you’re aware. But it doesn’t make your smile waver; it doesn't make you step back and laugh it off like any other day at work.

She knows too. Her shoulders relax, and she leans against the locker. Never diverting her gaze, never wavering to some other task somewhere over the nonexistent rainbow.

“How are you going to do that?” Curiosity drips from the question, along with blue eyes that can’t help but go soft when she gets a whiff of your perfume again, and that cheeky smile… Jesus, she might need to rank her favorites again.

“Walk with me?”

Cassie feels like a puppet, a soaking wet puppet.

Maybe it was wishful thinking that the rain would have stopped. Maybe more so that you would’ve walked to a dry area, with a tunnel or anything that wouldn’t let her scrubs stick to her like a second skin. Maybe she should’ve brought an umbrella so you two wouldn’t both laugh at how you look like wet dogs.

“I should’ve said rain check if you were gonna have us outside!”

She’s hesitant, maybe a beat behind you, two if you had a skip in your step.

Despite the sound of the droplets coming down in rapid succession, you can hear the snort coming from the older woman.

“It’ll be worth it!” It’s a call over your shoulder as she plays catch-up.

It looks just about right.

Just a dark enough blue from the rain-heavy clouds, the arrival of golden rays signaling the night shift over to the hospital to do rounds and handoffs. Enough water that soaks your sneakers clean through, where all you needed was the warm sand to really make it perfect.

Cassie's closer, closer than you’d expect when you smell vanilla and fresh rain right behind you. You turn to meet her eyes.

They fit right in with the raindrops.

You take a step back, once, twice, until you’re in almost symmetrical view.

If it were dry, she’d hear the silence that comes with thinking. If she were dry, she’d wear an old hoodie over her scrubs to hide the fact that she got off a hell of a shift not too long ago.

“Why doesn’t it make sense?”

She’d see you, an effort made with your civilian clothes and a cardiagain for when the museums' air conditioning wants to take revenge against you for some unknown reason. If she had to guess, it’d be when you argued with some passerby on the meaning of ‘Sunflower’

“Because it doesn’t. Because art’s supposed to be real,” She blinks before another step forward. “How can one person see the impossible and convey that?”

You'd walk home with her, hand in hand, maybe stop for ice cream because theres never a bad time for it, you'd beg for a taste of hers. She'd let you with a smile and those eyes that could make your heart melt.

Because it’s reckless.

How you dragged her into a thunderstorm warning in the making to prove an impossible point.

“There are over a billion people in the world.”

How her steps keep betraying her to catch a better view of that smile.

“How? In so many odds, does only one person see something so….”

How if she just gets a little closer, she could see the raindrops clinging to your cheeks.

“So…”

Your nose scrunching when droplets poke at it with no time to recover.

“So…”

Your eyes holding that same warmth she wanted to hold ever since you were placed on her team. How you had her before she even got to say hello.

All the colors coming into place right in front of her like she's seeing the world for the first time all over again.

The arms around your waist.

You try to live… even surrounded by all the death. The sadness, the pain.

Warmth. Radiating through her whole body.

Even after all of this. The chaos, the struggles, the pain you couldn’t even begin to imagine.

God…how is she still so warm?

You should know. It’s not that hard. But maybe she has some magic powers that cloud that doctor's brain that you spent a small fortune on. It diagnoses, it fixes, it discharges. Rinse. Repeat. It’s simple, it works. So why does your brain feel like it can’t….get there?

Maybe it's the sheets, some imported expensive name you can't pronounce. She was never one to shy away from the finer things in life. That sigh that escapes from her lips as she lies down after one of the hard days.

Or her skincare? Products still littered on the sink when she begged you to join her in doing a face mask after today. That stupid grin on her face as her fingers press some substance lightly against your skin… A mess for tomorrow for sure.

Or the smell of spices that brewed her world-famous Chai. The scent curled into the room—cardamom, cinnamon, ginger—warm and sharp, carried on the rising steam.

Spices you have to extract with patience, efficiency, and effort, their deep colors blooming as you take turns grinding them fresh, their oils sticky between your fingers. The ritual was always the same: the rolling boil, milk swirling into the darkness, tea leaves sinking and rising again. Her laugh when you keep looking at her as if she can speed up time.

She swears the cup makes it. You think it's the hands that bring it to you, the heat pressing through the porcelain, with a warmth you can't describe.

You try to remain gentle as you turn towards her. It’s stupid. Insane even. But you need to check, just to be sure.  Even in the darkness, you know every small outline of her face, from the arch in her eyebrows down to every smile line that faintly rests near her lips.

Still asleep.

You can’t help it.

Still alive.

Fingertips hover, painfully careful, as if she could break from the slightest touch. A thumb brushes against her cheek, back….and forth.

Still here. Your eyes on her.

How?

How can she still be here?

Eyelids open and close, a metronome, balance, stability. Checking for any hair out of place, any shift, a twitch, a sound, something.

But she’s still here.

Chestnut curls spread like wildfire all over the side of the bed, trying to reach your shoulder, it’s almost invasive when she moves just a hair, and it actually gets closer than ever before. Like it needed to stop your midnight antics…like it needed to keep you here.

How?

How is she still here…it’s not like you don’t want her here. But how is she still right here…with you? Defying the odds of your worries, your…

Why?

Why is she still here with you in her arms? You were just supposed to make sure she was home, safe, and asleep. That was it, it’s all it ever was.

You can’t begin to think of it.

Not tea, not bending to her will because of those eyes, not being kidnapped in a bed that’s worlds better than the one in your apartment.

Three things, nothing more, nothing less.

Fingers wrap around her wrist. Cautiously, endlessly gentle. One wrong move and you abort, pretend it didn’t happen, hope she thinks it’s just a sweet dream after the most grueling shift in the world that she never deserved.

She doesn’t stir. Too exhausted, too eager to slip back into a perfect world of her creation. Too peaceful.

Too warm as you raise it towards your cheek, heated palms pressing against your skin. You wonder how it’s still so soft, so safe.

Just a minute. A promise. Just a minute, and you’ll let go.

Just a minute to feel her warmth, her sign of still being among the living.

Just a moment to not question when she’ll go cold, if the space that occupies her bed will ever be empty. One wrong move, one hair out of place, and it could all fall apart…before you had the chance to say it.

Just a moment longer

Before you could do anything to get used to it.

Just a moment.

Before you could actually-

“Hey…”

It’s graveled with sleep, but when you blink, you feel like you’re the one waking up.

You see her eyes. Awake, alert, alive. Still brown, still tired.

Abort. Abort.

Your hand moves faster than you can think, gentle, careful, worried. “I didn’t mean to wake you.

“It’s ok-“

She’s quicker. Stronger. Her hand remains, a hover against your skin. Even inbetween the world of living and of dreams.

“You should try to go back to sleep.”

It’s final, or a really good attempt at it. Your body forces itself to move against an…insanely strong grip for someone who’s tired.

Too strong, too warm.

She gives you the courtesy of letting you finish. Hearing your apologies, half-hearing is more accurate; your voice was too soft for her to wake up.

It’s a morning problem when she makes protein-filled pancakes that taste way too good to be healthy.

Too kind.

“It’s late, and I have to head to work soon-“

Her hand finds its place back on your cheek, soft, safe, honest. A little lower than when you had it, her thumb brushes the corner of your lips.

Too knowing.

It gives the desired effect, protests fading into a confused sort of silence in the darkened bedroom. It’s a fight to keep your gaze on brown eyes that you could practically drown in.

You blink.

She moves her thumb back to its place. Then back again.

Once.

You feel that tightness in your chest that makes you almost breathless. And that warmth that goes straight to your heart like a sharpened arrow.

Twice. What is in your eyes?

Until Baran’s thumb brushes it away, once.

“I’m fine.”

She didn’t need to say it.

Twice. Three times even.

It’s automatic, defensive if Baran looks deep enough. But she never needed to.

Her hold on you doesn’t loosen; she pulls you closer, a warm space on her chest where her heart lies. Her hands don’t waver, but they rest on your cheek, lazy back and forth motions just like she did with her son on restless nights.

“Stay….” She breathes.

It sounds like a drum.

“Please.”

Loud

You think it’s relief.

Strong.

Like a flood washing over you.

Here.

Like it mattered.

An attempt to settle makes her hold tighter, securing you for the night. You don’t get to respond, you don’t get to worry.

Tomorrow, she’ll push and hold you as you deserve, she’ll talk, she’ll make you whatever you want to get you to open your heart to her. But not now. Not in her bed, where you both reside. Not while she’s here with the one thing she wanted most ever since she stepped out of that god-forsaken hospital.  

Right where she wants to be.

“Okay.”

Trinity Santos who has to pick her jaw off the floor when she sees a very attractive farmer who has an insanely strong but gentle grip, and pretty eyes, and that body though...wait Dennis has friends?

Trinity Santos who has to remember she's supposed to be celibate.

Trinity Santos who forgets that as soon as you mention that while the car is a good method of transport, she might like to ride with you to save her tires from gravel roads.

"I'll ride you any time- I mean with you! RIDE WITH YOU- STOP LAUGHING FUCKLEBERRY"

Trinity Santos, who has to hide her blush when she hears the most handsome laugh ever, and how your veins show in your hand when you cover you mouth to save her the embarrassment of that joke.

Trinity Santos who has an amazing conversation with you during a two hour ride while Dennis takes his own truck following behind you about anything and everything

Trinity Santos who enjoys the view in front of her, how your hair blows when you get to a particularly windy spot, how you pull down the sun visor for her and complement her eyes.

"They're like the trees as soon as that sunlight hits it."

Trinity Santos who has to push down a marriage proposal when you get out and demand she sits her pretty ass there while you get the door for her.

Trinity Santos who stays with you the whole trip while you help Dennis with hay and bring her a beer so she can enjoy the beer, and gets treated like a princess in the middle of nowhere.

"Need some water?"

"I made sandwiches, want one?"

"I'll saddle your horse for you"

Trinity Santos who notices that you're nothing but gentle behind that rocking body of yours, and how your hand is so big compared to hers but she can't deny the safety that surrounds her when you look at her with those big eyes of yours as you help her up on the horse.

"Steady now."

"And if I'm not?"

"Honestly? The horse might try to kick you off, but if we're flirting, I'll catch you before anything happens"

Trinity Santos who immediately wants to go with you while Dennis takes another road, and who clocks that big ass smile and how you tighten your grip on the reigns.

"You sure?"

"I got her Denny, she'll be back in one piece"

Trinity Santos who's snark left as soon as you started talking about your life on the Farm, how you want to move a little closer to the city so you can study to be a doctor for rural areas. How Dennis had been helping you study for med school and got placed near the city.

"Well, when you get settled in, you'll already know someone."

Trinity Santos, who actually opens up to you, talking about some of her family, her aparment, her intrests. Who gets a little nervous at how intensely you're hanging on to every word.

"Jeez, golden retriever much?" "It's easy to listen when it's important"

Trinity Santos, who gets to see a sunset uninterrupted, but can only look at how your smile looks so pretty amongst the golden rays shining down on you both.

"I could never get sick of this view"

"Me either." Fuck, look at the sunset, look at the sunset.

Trinity Santos, who calls you sunshine immediately after the sun sets, and might be getting obsessed with that smile of yours.

Trinity Santos, who makes a move as soon as you both make it back to the farm and help her off her horse.

"Maybe you'll have more incentive to come back to the city if I asked you?"

"I think this is the beginning of me never being able to say no to you"

Trinity Santos, who is still celibate, but fiddles with the piece of paper with your phone number and brushes her fingers over the kiss you left on her hand.

Trinity Santos, who texts you as soon as she gets in her apartment.

Trinity: Any chance you're free this weekened?