#butch reader

“You and Sarah got way too touchy.”

Nikki tangles her hand in your hair and yanks your head back, leaning in to bite down on your neck, making you hiss at the feeling of her teeth sinking into your skin.

Humming, you place your hands on her hips and chuckle into her ear. It makes Nikki’s face burn.

“We were just messing around,” you tell her.

She huffs and nips at your neck, making her second hickey on your skin.

Nothing’s going on between you and Sarah. You’re like her annoying younger brother. Nikki knows this.

“I don’t like when you’re with her.” Nikki plays into that possessive girlfriend role she knows you love.

She moves to the other side of your neck and makes more bruises on your skin, moaning and whining into your neck as you hump her knee and breathe out her name.

“You’re mine,” she grunts, with your skin sucked between her teeth. She pulls back slightly to admire her marks on your neck, finding the bruises looking so pretty on your skin.

Her possessive marking goes on for a few more minutes before she stops. She’s more than satisfied with how riled up you are because of her words and marks.

Nikki kisses you on the nose so sweetly that it makes your head spin even harder than those rough kisses from earlier.

“You know I don’t actually care, right? I trust you. I like that you get along with my friends.”

Her tone is so sincere that it makes you feel sick. You get a rush of love for her that hits you so hard it sends you reeling. Nikki’s always been the sweetest. That’s why you love her so much.

Despite feeling so lovesick for her, you tease her. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Nikki smiles with you, and your heart flutters at the sound of her giggle. You look at her like she’s your entire world as she digs through her bag, thinking about how pretty she looks tonight. You admire her pretty lips. Her eyebrows. Her nose. That mole right under her eye that makes you melt. Your entire body starts melting into a puddle.

She pulls out the concealer that’s in your exact shade, and you realize that she planned this whole thing.

You push her hand away and shake your head. “Don’t wanna cover it up. Let’s just go back out.”

Nikki’s stomach flips and twists with arousal at your refusal to wear the concealer. She grows uncomfortably wet as she thinks about you walking back out to the party, covered in her marks. Marks to let everyone know that you’re hers. Marks to let Sarah know that you belong to her, even if she trusts both of you completely.

Blood was smeared across almost every touchable surface, warning people that this was not a place they wanted to be in. Agonized screams lacerated your eardrums, the background noise of the ED reaching heights previously unknown to man. Monitors beeped with increasing frequency, gurneys scraped across the tiled floor, people were speaking over each other with more and more urgency.

Members of the public were desperately crying out for their loved ones, the Pitt transforming into a missing persons billboard as well as an emergency room. Someone is trying to find their friend, was missing their mom, had lost their brother.

Patients were showing up 4 at a time, being yanked out of vehicles, rushed in through the back doors and shoved into the crowd of people clogging up the floor. There were warm bodies spilling out of every room the PTMC had. You could barely move without hitting a gurney, or a wheelchair, or a person crying on a gurney or a wheelchair.

Orders were flying at you from every direction, mind splitting to be in several places at once. Doctors beginning to grow more frantic with their attempts to save people.

Chest tubes were gone, O-positive was gone, O-negative was gone and you were starting to think you were gone too. That maybe this was all some fucked up dream and you would wake up clawing at your sheets with your throat raw but at least you would be in your bed and not underneath florescent lights that had been burning your eyes since 06:50 in the morning.

Another wave of disinfectant stung its way up your nose as the cleaning crew feverishly tried to stay on top of the mess, but were only suffering under the weight of PittFest like everyone else.

"Hey!"

You shot back into your body to see Robby snapping at you across the ER in a tone that suggested it wasn't the first time he'd tried to get your attention.

"We need help over here!"

Shoving away from the gurney you were hovering above with a final once over to the GSW you were checking, you pushed through sobbing patients and panicked staff before falling into step with Dr. Robinavitch.

Jaw grinding together with every step you take towards the back entrance of the Pitt, fingers flexing impatiently at your sides, grasping and ungrasping the papery fabric of your gown, cuticles red-raw from you tearing nervously at the skin with your teeth during the numerous briefings held today.

Your knuckles throb. You stretch out your fingers to soothe the ache and don't look down at your hands.

Steeling yourself against the cold to come, you follow your attending through the door and outside into the ambulance bay.

He looks as bad as you feel. Brows pinching together, dark circles forming under his eyes, head tilted to the side as he looks you over, scanning your face for something.

He must be satisfied with whatever he finds, or there just isn't time to have a proper conversation about it right now because he drops his eyes from yours and turns back towards the road leading up to the rear entrance of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

It's probably the latter as you're practically dead on your feet and you know people can see it because the last time you saw Santos she cycled through six different expressions, each one more horrified than the last, before settling on slightly horrified attempting neutrality.

He's gracious enough not to look at you when he asks if you need to leave, not giving you a visual of his trust in you slipping further away than either of you can reach.

Maybe the night shift attending was right.

It surprises you, that he asked, but the shock passes quickly. Sting slightly soothed when you remember he's your attending and it's on him to notice this kind of this, lest one of his doctors crash and burn in the middle of a crisis, leaving you only with the numbness that had been spreading through your body since the call came in about a shooter at PittFest.

Right as you open your mouth to say something, you hear rubber spinning against asphalt so you just shake your head and refocus yourself on the incoming vehicle.

The ambulance raced towards the empty space in front of you, swerving dangerously to the right and making a close call with the other vehicles littered around the back entrance of the Pitt before furiously lurching to a stop. A car accident is not what people need right now.

The EMTs jump out, shouting things that converge and fog together in your mind. There's a singular gurney being pulled from the rear of the ambulance, numerous hands flitting over the body, touching, pulling, poking. Robby turns to you, eyes wide, desperation and exhaustion tinging around the edges of an already grief-stricken expression.

"Get up there now."

You mount the gurney and something makes a sickening crunch when your knee hits where the patient's hand should be. Blood soaks through the right knee of your scrubs. Your thighs bracket the patient's hips and you slot your fingers together before ramming them down on top of his chest.

One. Two. Three. Four. Repeat.

The gurney starts moving towards the doors and you hear a crack beneath your fingers.

You keep going.

Crashing through the ED, gurney speeding towards red zone, yelling from all directions. You keep going. The gurney rolls to a stop as sweat stings your eyes, hair sticks to your forehead, one of your sleeves comes loose and starts slipping down your arm.

One. Two. Three. Four. Repeat.

"Hold compressions." It's said calmly but you can hear the anguish seeping into Robby's words.

Something orange flashes at your side. Fingers gently tug the fabric back onto your upper arm, the faint smell of smoke and warm vanilla fills your nose and you subconsciously relax into the familiar touch, deflating a centimeter or two. The hand wraps around your bicep and squeezes once, twice, three times before disappearing off, back into the ED chaos.

Everything else had already been tried, bagging, intubation, a procedure that went one in ear and out the other. Epi had been administered. Shocks had been sent through his body.

Your hands were the last thing that could bring him back.

You can feel yourself beginning to shut down. You drag your hand across your brow, palm returning slick from the moisture spiking along your hairline. Heavy breaths rattle through your body and slump you forward. The taste of salt fills your mouth and saliva starts creeping its way up the back of your throat.

Someone's saying something to you.

"Asystole. Resume compressions."

One. Two. Three. Four. Repeat.

More ribs crack underneath your ministrations. Bones caving in, trying to in vain to hold steady against your hands when you need them to do the opposite. Thighs protesting from being in the same position for so long, needles prick along the base of your spine and up your back, too cold and too hot all at once.

"Hold compressions."

It's as if you're all in a silent movie, waiting with stilted breath to see what will happen. The machine monitoring his vitals dropping into a continuous beep without your hands to do the work for him.

His pupils remained dilated. The patient beneath you remained unresponsive.

"Still asystole. Resume compressions." It's tense this time, an edge to it, you can't put all your energy into this one boy when victims are practically spilling into the street from how busy it is. He knows it, you know it, and the nurses crowded around the sides of the gurney know it.

Still, you keeping pumping your hands up and down.

One. Two. Three. Four. Repeat.

You stumble forward, grasping the metal railing barricading the top of the roof, and slump against it, the chill of the steel barely registering in your brain while you tilt over the highest bar.

People crawl through the streets of Pittsburgh beneath you, barely more than specks from so high up.

Couples heading towards restaurants after watching a movie that really should have been better when you consider the amount of money put into it, discussing the main character's plight in between laughter and soft touches.

Someone walking their dog, furry creature rushing up and down the street, herding their owner, thinking it's in control of where they end up and taking that role very seriously.

College students gathered around a streetlight, blowing smoke from their lips and trading lighters while scrolling on their phones.

You think of Morgan whose house is going to be one person quieter. Having to sit at a table with one less place setting, one less plate of food, one less voice asking about her day, chair undisturbed until some careless relative pulls it out without thinking and sends a fresh wave of grief flooding through the house.

You're on the other side of the barriers now, the cold metal meant to prevent people from doing exactly what you're about to do stood unrelenting behind you. A silent witness.

The tip of your boot hit the ledge in front of you, small pieces of grit breaking off and bouncing from your shoe onto the floor.

You took a step forward, boot striking the next brick harder than necessary and pain threaded its way between the muscles of your foot, settling heavy like the weight on your chest.

"Fuck!"

Sweat needles along your hairline and the shake returned to your hands. Fingers twitching up and down almost imperceptibly. Working its way through your body until you were shivering all over, despite the perspiration that clung to you like a second skin.

Wind licked at your scrubs, testing the bounds of the fabric, chilling you to the bone, luring you closer to the edge of the building.

Telling yourself you were just checking for loose fixings made it easier. Can't have loose pipes tumbling down from the top of a trauma center, sends the wrong message.

Chairs was already crowded beyond belief without adding 'easily preventable falling debris related injuries sustained outside an ER' to the check in list and Gloria had been hounding the senior staff like a wolf outside a hen house all day about patient satisfaction scores. If she got wind someone had a pipe fall on them? Her interference with the Pitt would only become that much more incessant.

You think of Jake, his body stiff on the gurney, knuckles rigidly gripping the plastic arm rests on either side of him while his face crumpled in on itself. Knowing he was leaving the ER with one less person in his life, that the blood fusing with the fabric of his clothes was all that was left of his relationship with Leah.

Maybe he'd have a few less people in his life if the growing animosity between him and Robby is anything to go by.

Would he still visit the PTMC? Skirting around Robby and pinning his hopes onto another hopeless doctor? Waiting until someone else he knows ends up in here and the staff fail to do their job once again, letting another innocent person die?

You didn't know him that well, knew Leah even less, only grabbing her name from Dana once there was nothing anyone could do for her anymore. But he was always polite when he came in and you were stopped in front of the nurse's station, shrugging off your duties for a moment to hang around your girlfriend like a needy puppy, exchanging pleasantries and current playlists.

He's the reason you listen to Mindless Self Indulgence.

Realizing you might not see him again makes something twist deep in your chest.

The open air around you starts to condense itself on top of your torso, vast abyss of the sky seeping its way into your lungs and down your throat, drowning you underneath the darkness.

Your breathing quickens, long breaths turned short and relaxed inhales turned panicked as less and less oxygen moves around your body.

Six people's families got a bit smaller because you weren't fast enough to save them. You weren't quick enough, capable enough and six people died.

How do you come back from that?

Logically you know it's not your fault, there were dozens of medical professionals flooding through the building, doing everything in their power to help. Some people were DOA, injuries too severe to push through without immediate medical attention. Others died from lack of resources, the ER not equipped to handle this big of an emergency amidst budget cuts and staffing issues, even with everyone putting everything they had into it. Even so…

How do you come back from that?

A step closer to the edge, the stones you'd knocked free from the row of bricks encasing the top of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center crunching under the weight of your foot.

Then you heard the door to the roof open.

Both of your shifts finished hours ago but everyone was working overtime to keep up with the victims of PittFest and the night shift had to be brought up to speed with everything that happened, patients needed to be discharged or transferred over and it all culminated with you finishing your shift 4 hours later than normal while Dana was still sifting through files at the front desk.

Lena had finally deemed the night shift up to date enough with the current patients and dismissed Dana from the desk with a wave of her hand and a promise to check in later if there's any issues with filing.

When she heads into the locker rooms, she sees your jacket still hung on its hook, undisturbed since you rushed in this morning, running late with a coffee in one hand, pastry for your girlfriend in the other.

You'd caught her right before she passed into the ER, grinning and bounding over to her with an excitement most commonly seen in children on their birthdays or overeager animals that almost caused the hot liquid to spill across the floor.

She'd taken the pastry with a kiss to your cheek and left you to stow your belongings while she let the weight of the Pitt settle onto her shoulders, pushing through the locker room doors and heading for the front desk to see what horrors awaited her today.

The last time she saw you had been less than an hour ago, influx of shooting victims finally slowing. You were covered in sweat and shaking, scrubs soaked through with blood. A dazed look in your eye as you stood in the doorway of the makeshift morgue.

You'd walked over to the nurse's station like you were in a trance, eyes unfocused, arms limp at your sides. Rounding the desk and slumping against her back, bringing your arms up and folding them around her waist.

Exhaustion flooded through her at the feeling of your touch, and she wanted nothing more than to pick up her bag, walk through the front doors and not look back. Warmth radiated through the fabric of your scrubs, flimsy plastic gown discarded on your way across the floor, nose brushing the side of her neck as you inhale.

"I'll be done soon honey." She reassured you with a pat to your hand. Your hair tickled her neck, the scent of your sweat and something that hinted at your shower gel filling her nose and she could feel the skin of your lips brush against the intersection between her jaw and her neck. She made a mental note to pick up some lip balm before her shift ended.

"Love you." It's muffled by the fabric of her scrubs, your breath warming a small circle on her shoulder as you squeeze your arms tighter around her hips for a moment, two, before they drop to the desk in front of her. Dana appreciates the way your muscles tense when you pull yourself into her slightly before pushing your body off of hers in a lazy press up. She mourns the loss of your warmth immediately.

Maybe that should have been her first sign that you weren't ok, the tone of your voice, or the lack of words coming from what is normally the human embodiment of a puppy but she just assumed the adrenaline was was wearing off and exhaustion had finally started setting in.

Something twists in her gut when you attempt a smile. It looks forced, the way a creature not quite human would smile in an effort to convince the people around it they were the same, right before something terrible happens.

But she still let you leave, distracted by the amount of patient files stacking up on the shelf in front of her, with a stroke of her hand across your cheek and another promise to be done soon, she turned and grabbed the phone ringing loudly against the surface of the nurse's station, eyebrows pulling together as she watches your retreating form when her focus gets overtaken by the person on the other end of the line asking about the state of an incoming patient.

"Heading out?"

Cassie's voice startles her, head whipping towards the place the sound came from. She takes a step backward, hands splayed out in front of her, skin crawling at the thought of someone being able to creep up on her so easily after earlier.

"Sorry." She looks apologetic for scaring Dana, dipping her head towards the floor and bringing her hand up to scratch the back of her neck.

Dana deflates slightly, taking a deep breath and reminding herself that she's fine, the worst of it's over and you'll both be on the couch, showered and in your pajamas, eating Chinese takeout within the next hour.

"Yeah." She answers in response to the question and the apology thrown at her.

Cassie leans back against her locker, bag already slung onto her shoulder, hair flying loose from the band holding her ponytail back."I'm so glad today's over."

"You and me both, kid."

"Hey, where's your guard dog?" Cassie chuckles at herself whilst nodding towards the place your jacket still rests on its hook, bag abandoned on the floor in your quest to show up at the last second possible without receiving a scolding from Dr. Robinavitch.

"Must have been taken to the pound." Dana tilts her head at the R2, brows pinching together. "Got dismissed half an hour ago. You haven't seen him?"

"Uh, no, sorry, not since he was hanging around the nurse's station earlier." She shrugs and shoves her hands into the pockets of her scrubs, thumbs peeking out the top, running along the stitching in the hem, a nervous habit Dana noticed Harrison also possessed, although which one passed it on to the other was yet to be seen.

"Ok, thanks,' Dana deflates slightly at the thought of having to scour the whole hospital for your whereabouts.

"I can help you look." The offer makes something warm in her chest, a soothing balm to the bruised muscle that reminds her of the reason she went into nursing, of the companionship between people who care.

"No, no, I'll manage," Dana waves her off with a shake of her head, "Get outta here, go home to your kid."

Cassie shoots her a small smile before pushing off the row of lockers and heading towards the exit.

Leaving her coat and bag on the peg next to yours, Dana turns back towards the Pitt entrance, on a mission to find you as quickly as possible so she can recline in the passenger seat of your car whilst you lazily tap your hand on her thigh in time with the radio and drive home.

The door stop has moved, been kicked to the side by the looks of it. That's the first thing Dana notices when she reaches the roof door and it sends heat prickling up her spine.

She's reached the final stop on her way to drag you from the ER. Her phone died two hours into the PittFest rush and she started to regret not bringing a charger somewhere between south one and south three. Sooner she can get out of here the better.

The cold metal against her warm palm makes her flinch as she pushes the roof door forward, breeze filtering through the small gap already making her regret her decision. If you were crazy enough to be outside in this weather that was on you.

She clenches her teeth, shoves the door open fully and her heart stops.

You're so close to the edge.

Fuck.

Fuck, a gurney is wider than the gap between the tip of your boots and the wall, really more of a trip hazard than anything, that encases the top of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

Suddenly everything feels like it's underwater, sounds of the city muffled beneath the pounding of her heart. You look so small against the backdrop of the night sky, shoulders stiff, body listing towards the edge of the building as the space between you yawns open like the grand canyon.

She has never felt further away from you than she does right now.

For some reason the first thing the flickers to the front of her mind is the suicide prevention seminar you attended last summer.

Senior staff, residents and a couple of lucky med students were invited to a medical conference hosted at some convention center in the middle of Philly, attendance was mandatory but everyone knew it was for optics more than anything.

You said it would be helpful. Good knowledge to have on hand when working in an ER and it would help provide patients with resources so people didn't have to wake up in a hospital bed before getting the help they need.

Seeing you on the roof, late at night, hours after your shift had ended, with your disheveled scrubs covered in blood and stood facing away from her makes her reconsider if you really were just going to help patients or if there was something she missed.

Something in the tilt of your head when you laughed or the way you shuffled in your chair after the speaker mentioned the suicide attempts of healthcare professionals or the way you hold her hand a little bit tighter than you did before the seminar that could have told her you would end up here.

She takes a step forward, not caring to catch the door before it slams shut behind her.

"What are you doing?" Her voice cracks halfway through the question, pain laced through her words, spiking her voice higher and her accent getting thicker in the way that it does whenever she feels too much of anything.

Her heart is in her throat. The breath knocked from her lungs.

Maybe she had thought about this happening with Robby, or Abbot, or hell maybe even some med student that she would have to chase after because that's what she does, she doesn't let people slip through the cracks.

You once joked that Saint Camillus would have to hang up his hat because Dana was doing his job for him, she'd responded with a slap to your shoulder but the honesty in your tone, the shine of adoration in your eyes when you'd said it hadn't been forgotten.

But she never expected the person opposite her to be you.

That you, of all people, with your gentle touches along her waist whenever you passed her on the way to a patient's room, with the way you would look at her with stars in your eyes when her glasses slipped down her nose, with the kisses pressed into her neck trying to get as much of her as you could on your increasingly rare breaks, would slip through the cracks.

Your shoulders slump away from your ears at the sound of her voice, exposing them to the wind and letting the cold bite at your flesh.

A single dry sob racks through your body before you straighten yourself again, the same way a scared schoolchild steels themselves before receiving their punishment after being caught stealing markers off another student's desk.

She knows you won't do anything now that she's here. She knows that.

But it doesn't stop the fear gripping her heart or the blood rushing through her body, pounding in her ears, the way her brain screams at her to run up to you and drag you backwards and never let you out of her sight again.

She watches you shift so you're turned half towards her, half still facing the law firm opposite the hospital, scanning your body language to see how you were standing, if you were going to run.

Glimpses of the past fly back at her, shaking teenagers and overworked businessmen with shadows etched into their face, mothers with the light stripped from their eyes and people who were just too tired to keep fighting.

It rushes over her like a tidal wave, the feeling of having to look at you the same way she would a patient, clawing up the back of her throat and tingling along her skin.

The floodlights above the roof door illuminate your side profile, being able to see the emotion flickering across your face does nothing to soothe her nerves, and she briefly hopes for a power outage. That maybe this conversation would be easier in the dark, separated from the rest of Pittsburgh.

You look so tired.

"I just…" You seem to be measuring your next words carefully, hesitating with your answer, protecting her from a side of you she's never seen before, "needed some time alone."

Raw emotion cracks your face open, the hurt written across it becoming something more and more common in the faces of healthcare workers, giving everything they have and more to a thankless job that doesn't give nearly enough back.

She's seen it in so many hospital workers she's lost count, but seeing it on your face has left her fumbling for something to say. Anything that would make you stop looking at her like that.

"You come here often?" It spills out of her before she can control it, some way of trying to get a handle on the things around her, like maybe if this was the first time you'd been here it would be easier.

Sounds of life climb up from the streets of Pittsburgh and fill the silence between the two of you. Cars making their way across town, tires humming as the rubber rolls against asphalt. Shoes thumping against the sidewalk, coagulating and creating an underlying 'thump, thump, thump' that beats underneath the city like a heart. Churning from the fans on the other side of the roof, pumping air fruitlessly into a hospital that will always need more.

"Yeah."

Your response strikes her as she watches your eyelids flicker, like you were unearthing something you'd buried, something that you wanted to stay buried.

You don't look at her when you deliver your next line, clearly having sensed the underlying question in her words before she did.

"Sometimes."

Then it's like a switch flips.

Dana watches as the windows behind your eyes flutter shut, no longer allowing her to see the turmoil underneath. You roll out your shoulders and shake life back into your arms that must have lost feeling a while ago if the numbness creeping into her own limbs after being out here for 10 minutes was anything to go by, before spinning to face her fully.

She watches as you walk back from the edge of the roof like nothing happened, stopping inches away from her. There's no heat radiating off your body this time.

You drop your gaze to meet hers, jaw tightening and brows furrowing with sincerity. Warmth clouds over your face, heat from her breath reacting with the cold night air.

"But I'll always come back to you." It's said with such conviction that it takes her back slightly. The look on your face searing itself into her brain.

Your fingers intertwine with hers, cold skin against warm and you pull her along with you when you walk back towards the roof door, only pausing to yank it open for her to go through first before going down the stairs.

She listens as you rattle off a list of different places you can pick up dinner, trying to catch something in your gaze that confirms what just happened on the roof was real, not just some fucked up hallucination conjured up from unrecognized brain damage and more caffeine than someone should consume in a week. Evidence that she's going to have to do this again and again, talking you back into a job she's not even sure she's going to show up to tomorrow.

But you just keep gripping her hand, animatedly talking about the new Italian place near your apartment, looking down at her with eyes full of adoration.

And she thinks maybe she doesn't have to worry about you, remembers you trailing after her on your first day like a dog ready to bite if someone got too close and here you are now, still trailing after her, still ready to bite anyone who got too close.

Your loyalty to her outweighing whatever you may face when you're standing on the roof, alone and cold. Maybe she just has to trust that you'll make your way back to her.

Be her guard dog for one more day.

The side of the parking lot reserved for day shift staff is mostly empty when you and Dana push through the front entrance of Pittsburgh Hospital's ER. Dana's car is parked a few spaces over from yours. Mohan's car lingers in one of the outer spaces, patiently waiting for her to return.

There's a little stuffed deer perched on her dashboard that you gave her for her birthday, quickly pressing it into her hands with a comment about how it looked like her, button eyes glinting yellow underneath the glowing street lamps.

"What a pair we make, huh?" Dana's voice draws your attention back to her. She has the faintest trace of a smile on her face, but it doesn't reach her eyes and her voice still trembles slightly when she speaks.

You pull your gaze from hers and flick your eyes down to stare at the bruise blossoming on the left side of her face, a blurry purple climbing up the side of her nose before dipping beneath her eye and forming a crude crescent, lighter pink splotches splattered around the edges.

It briefly makes you think of the moon, powerful, all-knowing and maintaining a balance so precarious the slightest waver could disrupt the whole system. A fitting shape, Dana is the moon hanging in the Pitt's constellation. But this was born from violence while the moon slept peacefully so maybe a bruise is just a bruise and you should focus on different things.

Your hands don't look much better. Another thing born from violence. Crusted blood was still flecked on the skin around your split knuckles, having dulled from vivid red to rusty brown after hours outside your body.

They had burned like all hell for the second half of your shift, eventually dulling to a manageable throb you could safely ignore. You never got a chance to tend to them before PittFest victims flooded into the ER.

When Dana returned from her smoke break with blood pouring out of her nose, head tilted back to keep as little of it as she can from dripping onto her scrubs, you were at her side in an instant. Darting over from your position leaning on Princess' desk, practically sliding across the floor in your haste to get to her.

Heart convulsing in your chest, dropping to your knees before her while Robby checked her over, hands soothing up and down her biceps, the fabric of her long sleeve following your motions, eyes scanning over her body in case there was something he missed.

A crowd of hospital staff crookedly circle the three of you, more people joining as word spreads, questions being thrown into the air around you.

She tracks her eyes in time with Robby's finger while answering as many as she can, until someone asks who hit her. Then she hesitates, sucking in a breath and trying to brush it off with a mumble about an unhappy patient.

Javadi looks like a spooked deer as nurses around her recall past run-ins with unhappy patients, ill equipped for the level of brutality faced in a place that's meant to heal people, evidently not something her college professors deemed worthy of mentioning, before someone directs her to go and fetch the security guard.

Kim's hand is warm when you brush over it to hold the tissue against Dana's nose, feeling the cartilage move under your fingers makes you wince and hold it a little tighter. In exchange, you pressed your ID card into her palm, she clearly understands what's being asked when she departs with the promise of getting Dana a new set of scrubs.

Ahmad returns with Javadi hot on his heels, he pushes through the crowd of bodies thrumming around the charge nurse, asking her who hit her after he comes to a stop beside her.

Dana says something about a pissed off patient as Perlah swipes an Antiseptic wipe under her chin, smearing the blood before removing it completely.

Ahmad asks again, voice firmer this time.

You were almost on top of her from how close you got, knees bracketing your ribs, upper arms resting against her thighs while your hands remain on her biceps, now rubbing soothing circles into the fabric so you can feel the shake that permeates her body as she spits out the name of who did this.

Rage coursed through your body. You see your recognition reflected in Mateo's eyes as he follows it up with confirmation about the 'asshole in chairs.'

The nurses dedicate their lives to helping people, injured people, scared people, people who can't help themselves and some jackass decides that he's too good to wait like everyone else and goes on a violent tirade.

Robby presses his hands on Dana's cheeks, feeling along her bone structure for anything broken when she hisses in pain. Your hands immediately tense, gripping her arms slightly tighter and you bury the urge to push your attending away from her, reminding yourself he's there to help.

At least one facial fracture.

That's what Dr. Robinavitch determines, with orders for a CT scan with head and maxillofacial. Mohan takes off towards the stairwell, on her way to give the third floor department a heads up about the incoming charge nurse.

You flick your eyes away from Dana for a moment, scouring the crowd in front of you before locating the person you're looking for. Ahmad looks back at you.

You tilt your head towards the ambulance bay, silent question in your expression. He shakes his head in return. A heavy sigh makes its way out your mouth and you refocus your gaze onto the woman in front of you.

You'll deal with that later.

It's only when everyone breaks away, going back to their patients, collecting dropped clipboards that were abandoned in the commotion, checking the board for new arrivals that you allow yourself a moment to think.

And something dawns on you, a short laugh escaping your mouth before you can stop it. A gentle smile settles on your lips.

"What? You think this is funny?" Dana's tone is hard, clearly not in the mood for your antics, but her head inclines with something that looks a little too much like hurt for your liking.

"No." you keep your voice low and firm, slightly taken aback she'd ask that. It briefly makes you wonder if someone had laughed before, "Sweetheart of course not."

You gesture to the fresh pair of scrubs folded on the bench beside her, dropped off by Kim before she had to assist with an incoming patient, soothing your fingers over the neckline, tracing the label sewn into the collar.

"They're in my size."

Her eyes flick between your face and the fabric next to her before she huffs out a half laugh half groan and slumps further into the bench she's sitting on.

"I gave Kim my ID card while Robby was checking you over, forgot our sizes were programmed in."

She stares at you with a blank expression.

"So not only do I have to work with a busted face, I also have to wear scrubs that don't fit. Great."

"I'll change them if you want, probably have enough time."

Your offer hangs in the air for a moment longer than necessary and you start to shift yourself to your feet before Dana puts a hand on your shoulder.

"It's fine. But if this is anything like the time I wore your t-shirt, I'm walking out the doors and I'm not walking back in."

A chuckle passes your lips and you grin at her, eyes shining and warmth flooding your chest.

Mohan hovers a few paces behind you before approaching fully, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm into the side of her thigh. "They're ready for you upstairs."

You mumble out a thank you before pushing yourself to your feet, pulling your hands away from where they were rubbing circles into her arms to cup Dana's cheeks. Making sure to be cautious of the place she was hit you pull her face towards you, bending over to press a kiss to the top of her head.

The smell of vanilla lingers on strands of her hair from her shower this morning and a wave of anger rushes over you with renewed vigor. You extract yourself from between your girlfriend's thighs and step back to give her space to stand.

Dana gives everything she has to this job, returning home exhausted, constantly overworked, only taking 5 minute breaks when she's sure the ED won't fall into disrepair while she's gone and this guy thinks he's entitled to take the only piece of herself that she hasn't sacrificed.

"I'll see you later."

You nod once in response and wait until her and Mohan have disappeared from your line of sight completely, before spinning on your heel and bolting over to Ahmad's station. He eyes you warily.

"Two hours." His tone is strained, and he holds up two fingers to emphasize his point. Weight settling heavy on his shoulders, clearly conflicted between what you're asking of him and the hospital protocol for incidents like this, but the Pitt look out for their own. "Then I report it to the authorities."

You nod and head towards the ambulance bay.

He says nothing when you return an hour later with split knuckles and blood staining the corner of your scrub top.

Her fingers are still laced through yours, palms pressed flat together, gripping you so tightly you're half certain your hand will fall off due to lack of blood flow, nails digging painfully into the top of your bruised knuckles but you don't say anything. The pain helping tether you in this moment.

Besides you deserve this. After she had to come up and see you standing on the roof. You can allow her this simple grievance.

When you get close enough to the car to make out the bumper stickers littered around the license plate, the hand not held hostage by your girlfriend goes to your belt loop, keys jingling as you unhook your carabiner.

The stickers were the result of a a drunken pact made between the younger staff members to get a new one from the hospital gift shop every time physical contact was initiated between crushes.

You had 7 before they realized you and Dana were already dating and disqualified you for cheating, to be fair you were surprised you lasted that long. It was relatively common knowledge the two of you were together and you were often seen crowding around her like an excited sheep dog.

Javadi's currently in the lead with 32, she stopped sticking them on her car after McKay had stroked her back four times in one shift. Samira and Mel both had 20, oblivious to the fact they were crushing on each other. Dennis has 16, although it's less impressive when it's split between two people and he keeps adding them together with the justification that Abbot and Robby are already dating. Trinity had 3 but she dropped out after her and Garcia hooked up for the first time.

Dana spins to stand before you, back pointed towards the trunk, palm turned upright, eyes expectant.

"You think I'm gonna let you drive?" She looks at you as if you're stupid, hand pressed to her hip, eyebrows pulled together in the middle of her forehead, nostrils flaring as she exhales sharply.

Your own expression mirrors hers, dissatisfaction showing in your furrowed brow and down turned lips, and you feel like you're stating the obvious when you tell her she was punched in the face.

"I'm fine. Give me the keys."

"If you really don't want me driving then your cars over there."

That's clearly the last thing she wants to do, not trusting you to drive home safely without her in the car, it stings but you understand her apprehension.

She gives in after 15 seconds of standing in silence, sighing and wordlessly handing you her bag before she rounds the car and nods towards the passenger side door.

You click the button on your car keys and they respond with an upbeat chirp, unlocking it for her. Pressing a second button results in the trunk latch clicking open and you toss your bags in and round to the drivers seat.

The radio springs to life when you slide the keys into the ignition, a crackly rendition of Celine Dion's 'My Heart Will Go On' pouring through the speakers and filling the car with a sick kind of irony. But neither of you reach to turn it off, exhaustion from the day solidifying and weighing down your limbs, hovering over the car like a dark cloud.

Looking both ways before pulling out into the street, you merge seamlessly into the crowd of cars heading home.

An orange glow filters through the windows, street lights bathing everything in a warmth inappropriate for the somber tone inside the car. Heat blasts through the car's AC, and you reach your arm across the center console, hand settling firmly on Dana's thigh, reflexively starting to tap the beat softly into the fabric.

Her hand comes up to cover yours, resting on top of it as she sinks further into the leather chair. It's probably the most comfortable she's been all day.

"I'll pick your car up in the morning."

She just hums in response, sleep beginning to cloud her mind.

An hour later you both had full stomachs and had washed the grime from your shift down the drain.

Your room is left almost in complete darkness as you flip the switch on the wall, yellow hues spilling out from neighboring apartment windows your only source of light as you pad across the carpet towards the bed, narrowly avoiding the piles of paperbacks stacked at the foot of your bed frame.

Soft sheets meet your skin as you slide in behind Dana, stripped down to your boxers and socks the downy fabric of the comforter welcomes you home like a lover from war, wrapping around you like a cocoon.

Strands of wet hair tickle your face as you move closer to your girlfriend, taking your place behind her like a dutiful soldier. Pressing the length of your body against hers whilst one arm tucks itself underneath her head and the other curls around her waist.

Vanilla and the scent of your shower gel fill your nose as you push your face into the back of her shoulder.

"I think I'm done." She mumbles it into the empty air in front of her, leaves it hanging in the quiet of your bedroom.

It's in this darkness that you allow yourself to break open again.

"I think I might be too."

You press a soft kiss into her shoulder and slide your fingers beneath the fabric of her tank top, rubbing soft circles into her skin and wait for Dana's breathing to even out before allowing sleep to take you as well.

This could be dealt with tomorrow.

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- Girlfriend Ellie -

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- Fiancé Ellie -

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Standing in your kitchen, humming languidly to yourself, you mix the brownie batter in the floral patterned bowl. Flour coats every surface of the small room, including your nose.

You can hear the shuffling behind you before you find your fiancé's arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you back into her warm body.

"Hey, sweetcheeks."

You smile wider at her low murmur. "Hi, Els. Everything okay?"

Ellie nods against your shoulder, tilting her head to press her lips on the spot just beneath your ear. Her lips are slightly chapped but comforting nonetheless.

"The brownies will take thirty minutes..."

"Good. Thirty minutes that we can use wisely."

You turn, grinning at your soon-to-be wife. "What are you suggesting, Elizabeth Williams?"

"That isn't my name," she rolls her eyes before grabbing your hips and tugging you closer, chests pressed together and noses nearly brushing. "But I'm suggesting..."

And then she breaks out into a sort of sexy sound effect, if you will. A 'bow-chica-wow-wow' kind of noise. Something utterly dorky, but almost endearing...?

"God, you're such an idiot," you huff before colliding your lips with hers.

Let's just say... she got what she was suggesting after you put the brownies in the oven.

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- Wife Ellie -

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Permanent Taglist!

She takes you shopping for a suit. She tells you hers is navy and nothing else wanting you to not be influenced by her. When you come out in the suit you really like you find yourself out of it very quickly and nearly getting caught by the attendant. Thankfully Baran's mind was a bit more clear and able to produce some excuse as to why it was taking so long. When you get home she puts on her dress and she finds herself out of it rather quickly as well but with no interruption thank god.

When you were getting ready the night of the Gala Baran and about to leave Baran surprised you with cufflinks in the shape of a cursive B. She smirked at you with an air of possession simmering under her gaze. "So there's no confusion about how you belong to." She said before dragging your dumbfounded body out to the Uber. In the car she fixes your hair and tells you how absurdly handsome you looked. You tried desperately not to completely crumble under her attention.

At the Gala you two entered together, Baran arm wrapped around yours in a way that left no room to question what you were to each other. Eyes immediately landed on you which then did a double take when you reached the bottom and she leaned in kissing your cheek smiling like no other. "I'm so happy Azizam that I get to let our coworkers know how lucky I am." She whispered.

You drank, ate, and danced for part of the night. But most of it was talking to everyone who knew you and Baran. Her residents (the Pittlings as she lovingly called them) were the most enamored trying to get the whole story. But Baran had told them that was more a story for a bar than a Gala. Your coworkers took a different approach and asked Baran if she had to remind you as much as they did to drink water and eat your lunch as they did. She didn't have to but promised them she'd work on that with you at home. Your coworkers were passing money around after that and you didn't bother asking what that was about. You'd know come tomorrow.

The both of you wrapped up the evening taking shots when the Pittlings so by the time you got home you were both teetering between tipsy and drunk. But one thing was very true. You were both extremely horny.

None of your clothes made it to the bedroom. You made an immediate pitstop at the front door. Then the kitchen counter. Then the couch. Then the hallway wall. When you finally made it to the bedroom you pulled an unknown amount of rounds before collapsing into each other at 3am knowing that tomorrow would be the longest day of work for multiple reasons. But neither of you found the will to care.

Leave was supposed to feel restful. Instead, it felt like wearing someone else’s clothes.

The instructor had just started explaining wrist breaks when the door opened with the soft but unmistakable confidence of someone used to entering rooms worth entering.

A woman stepped inside — late, unbothered. Camel coat draped over one arm, sunglasses still on, a coffee from a place with no posted prices.

Her presence didn’t fill the room so much as recalibrate it. Her gaze passed over glossy-haired associates and executives, then caught on you.

You raised your fingers in a lazy two-finger salute before you could stop yourself. Old habits. She lifted one eyebrow above the rim of her sunglasses and almost smiled.

The instructor cleared his throat. “Welcome, we’re just getting started. You can join any group.”

She removed her sunglasses with leisure, revealing sharp, assessing hazel eyes. “Lovely. And here I was worried I’d missed all the fun.”

The instructor gestured her toward a cluster of women. She ignored it, walking directly toward you.

“Is this spot taken?”

You shook your head. “Help yourself.”

She looked at you a beat too long, playful in her gaze. “You stand out,” she said.

You huffed a soft laugh. “Look who’s talking.”

Her smirk softened into something warmer. “Touché. Two standouts in one room—imagine the odds.”

A beat passed before you asked, “You got a name?”

She let out a soft huff of laughter. “Rita.”

The name carried weight, like she expected you to recognize it. You only noticed the way she said it — controlled, polished, practiced — like a signature on expensive stationery.

“And you?” she asked.

You gave her your name, and she repeated it back in a low, testing murmur, as if trying to decide where to place you in her mental puzzle.

Before either of you could say more, the instructor clapped his hands. “Pair up with a partner!”

Rita didn’t look away from you.

“Well,” she said, sliding off her jacket and rolling her sleeves to her elbows. “Shall we?”

You weren’t sure whether she meant the drill. Or the trouble she’d very clearly just invited you into.

Either way, her confidence was a gravitational force.

She stepped closer, enough that you could smell her perfume — expensive, the kind worn by women who never rushed for anything. “I work with cops,” she said, lowering her voice as if leaning on a bar instead of standing on a padded gym floor. “I can tell when someone walks in with training. And you scream ‘military.’ What branch?”

You kept your stance loose, hands relaxed. “Navy.”

She gave you a once-over, the kind that began professional and slipped into something amusing. “Navy what?”

“…Just Navy.” 

Her eyebrows lifted. “That’s an adorable lie,” she said, folding her arms.

“Or a deflection. And I get the feeling you’re very good at those.”

“Oh, I’m excellent at it.” You let a slow grin appear, just to watch her reaction.

Before she could ask anything else, the instructor called out, “Volunteers for the next demonstration?”

Your hand went up out of habit. Hers rose a half-second later.

She glanced sideways. “Guess we’re doing this.”

The drill was simple: break a wrist grab, step back, counter—at least for you.

Rita, as it turned out, was stronger than her frame suggested and infinitely more competitive. She engaged like she did everything in life: with expectation of victory. 

The first time you redirected her wrist without effort, she blinked, scandalized. “How—what—okay. Again.”

You repeated the motion with the same gentle precision.

Her eyes narrowed. “You are absolutely not just Navy.”

“Maybe I work a desk.”

“Oh yes,” she said dryly. “You radiate ‘administrative support.’”

You leaned in, voice dropping. “Are you investigating me, Rita?”

Her breath hitched — barely, but enough to betray her. “I’m observant,” she countered. “It’s not every day someone like you shows up to a Saturday class in Midtown.”

“Someone like me?”

A devastating smile curved her mouth.

“Strong. Very controlled. Annoyingly skilled. You could’ve tossed me across the room, but you were being polite.

You chuckled. “Want me to stop being polite?”

She blinked rapidly, regaining composure with visible effort. “I—no. Well… later? Perhaps. Purely for educational purposes.”

God, she was fun.

When the seminar ended, the others drifted out with water bottles and weekend plans. Rita didn’t move. She lingered against the mirrored wall, tapping her phone without ever unlocking it, as if waiting for a reason to stay.

You walked toward her. “Headed anywhere?”

She looked up, caught. “Home.”

Then, before you could respond: “I’m two blocks away. And before you ask — no, I don’t need a ride.”

“Didn’t say you did,” you replied, amused. “I just figured maybe I’d walk with you.”

She huffed an involuntary laugh. “Direct, aren’t you?”

“Efficient. In my line of work, it helps.”

“And what line of work is that?”

You shrugged. “Right now? Vacation.”

Her expression softened, like light catching glass. “You don’t seem like someone who relaxes easily.”

“I don’t.”

She smiled — a real one, the kind that settled low in your chest. “Well. If you’re bored, there’s a place around the corner with terrible pastries but excellent people-watching.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You offering to spend more time with me?”

“You’re interesting.” She said it simply, like an unnegotiable fact. “I don’t meet many people who can flip me without dislocating my shoulder.”

You pretended to consider. “Alright. Coffee.”

As you walked beside her onto the street, she nudged you lightly with her elbow.

“So,” she said, that signature sly curve returning to her mouth, “when you inevitably tell me what you really do… make it dramatic.”

You bit back a grin. “Trust me, I’ve got material.”

She laughed and the sound of it slipped into your bones, loosening something that had been clenched tight for far too long.

For the first time since returning home, you felt… human again.

—

The café was the kind of place that tried to look effortless and failed — curated rustic, with reclaimed wood tables and pastries arranged like museum pieces.

Rita pushed the door open with her shoulder and held it for you, though she did it with the kind of casual precision that made it seem like she held doors only when she wished to — not out of obligation, but out of strategy.

“Order whatever you want,” she said, waving vaguely at the chalkboard menu. “Just don’t choose the almond croissant. It tastes like ennui.”

You snorted. “Noted.”

She ordered an Americano; you ordered something with oatmilk and foam that made her raise an eyebrow like she was adding the detail to a dossier.

The two of you took a small corner table, half-hidden behind a pillar, where the noise softened to a pleasant murmur. You settled opposite her, and she draped her coat over the back of her chair — the kind of coat that suggested private drivers and winter weekends in the Hamptons.

She studied you again. You were starting to understand that she didn’t do anything halfway — not her career, not her wardrobe, not her scrutiny.

“So,” she said, wrapping elegant fingers around her mug. “You’re on leave. From…?”

You could deflect. You usually did. But something about the way she asked made it feel like a dare — one you didn’t mind rising to.

“Navy,” you said. Then, because her gaze invited precision: “Navy SEAL.”

She went very still. Then slowly blinked, as if recalibrating her assessment of you.

“Well,” she murmured, leaning back. “That is considerably more dramatic than I expected.”

“You asked,” you said with a shrug. “And you wanted dramatic.”

“Please,” she scoffed, though her eyes were gleaming. “If you’d told me you were a dentist, I would’ve assumed there was a classified component. You radiate competency.” Her mouth curved.

You sipped your coffee. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely,” she admitted without shame.

A moment passed — not awkward, but charged. She rested her chin on her hand, studying you with something warm, curious, and interested.

“You know,” she said lightly, “you still haven’t asked what I do.”

“I figured you’d tell me when you wanted to.”

She hummed at that — amused. Then she said, with a small, elegant shrug, “I’m a defense attorney.”

You raised your brows. “You defend criminals for a living?”

“I defend the Constitution,” she corrected smoothly. “Sometimes the Constitution is standing behind a man who did terrible things, but that’s hardly my fault.”

You laughed, unable to help it. “You’re dangerous too.”

She lifted one shoulder. “In Manolo Blahnik, even.”

Rita leaned in slightly, voice low enough to be intimate. “So let me get this straight. You jump out of planes and storm buildings… and you voluntarily spent your Saturday in a self-defense class full of women who buy crystals for protection?”

“Trying to stay sharp,” you said. “And my sister signed me up.”

“She has excellent taste,” Rita murmured, her gaze making a slow path over your shoulders, your jaw, the way you sat. “Very excellent taste.”

Heat flickered under your skin — not embarrassment, but recognition. She wasn’t subtle. She wasn’t trying to be. She was enjoying this: the reveal, the banter, the proximity.

When the coffees were nearly finished, she glanced toward the window, then back at you with a different expression — a quieter one, though no less certain.

You watched her trace the rim of her mug with one fingertip, an uncharacteristically pensive gesture from someone who seemed otherwise incapable of second-guessing herself. It struck you how… human she looked in that moment.

You cleared your throat. “I should tell you something.”

Her attention snapped back to you, alert in that lawyerly way. “Should I be worried?”

“Not unless you’ve grown attached in the last two hour.”

Her mouth curved, sly. “Impossible to say.”

You leaned your forearms on the table. “I’m only in the city for two weeks. Leave. Then I fly back out.”

There was a brief tightening around her eyes, there and gone so fast you might’ve imagined it. But she recovered with a practiced smoothness.

“Well,” she said, “some people are worth knowing even on a countdown clock.”

You smiled, softer than you meant to.

“So,” you said, trying to sound casual and not at all like your heart had just done something inconvenient, “can I see you again while I’m here?”

Rita’s brows lifted, undeniably pleased. “Are you asking me out?”

“Yes. I’m asking if you’d like to get coffee again,” you countered. “Maybe somewhere with pastries that don’t taste like cardboard.”

She laughed — a low, warm sound that made her look less polished and more reachable. She studied you and you had the strange feeling of being evaluated for admission to a club you hadn’t applied to but very much wanted to join.

“I suppose,” she said, though the softness in her voice betrayed that she’d made up her mind before you even asked. “My schedule is… demanding, but I can make time.”

“I can be flexible.”

“I get the impression you’re many things,” she said, “but flexible wasn’t one I expected.”

“Try me.”

Rita let her gaze drift down your forearms, your shoulders, then back to your eyes. “Oh, I intend to.”

Your pulse jumped—a subtle little traitorous thing—and the corner of her mouth lifted like she’d heard it.

She reached for her coat, smoothing it over one arm. “Before we do coffee again, meet me tomorrow evening,” she said. “There’s a place I like. Excellent wine list. Do you own anything that won’t scandalize the hostess?”

You blinked. “I have… a jacket.”

“A jacket.” She repeated it as if tasting the word and finding it adorable. “Fine. We’ll make it work.”

You stood as she did, stepping closer than necessary, only realizing too late how little distance there was between the two of you. Her breath brushed your cheek. She didn’t step back.

“Two weeks,” she murmured. “We’d better not waste any of it.”

You gave her a slow nod. “Agreed.”

Rita slipped on her sunglasses, elegant armor returning. You didn’t miss the tiny curve of her lips before she turned toward the door.

She paused with her hand on the frame, glancing back at you once.

“Don’t go jumping out of planes before tomorrow,” she said.

“No promises.”

You watched her walk away, feeling the strange, startling buzz of excitement settle in your ribs.

—

Your sister nearly dropped her glass when you told her you had a date.

“A what?”

“A date,” you repeated, trying not to smile. “Tonight.”

“With who?” she demanded, already crossing her arms like she was about to interrogate you under a bare bulb. “You’ve been home for three days. How did you even meet someone? You can’t talk to anyone without scanning for exits.”

You shrugged. “Self-defense seminar.”

She blinked. “You went to that thing I signed you up for?”

“I was bored.”

“And?”

You hesitated, then said too casually, “Met someone.”

Your sister’s eyes widened with glee. “Oh my god. You like her.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You like her,” she repeated, marching to the hall closet like she’d been preparing for this moment since your enlistment. “And you are absolutely not wearing that ‘Navy sweatshirt trying to be a personality’ thing on a date. What’s the vibe?”

“Wine bar,” you said, surrendering to the inevitable. “Fancy. Fancy enough that she asked if I owned anything that wouldn’t scandalize the hostess.”

Your sister grinned like she’d been handed an Olympic-level challenge. “Say no more.”

An hour later, your bed was buried under what looked like half of her closet: tailored jackets, crisp shirts, slim-cut trousers, all in deep neutrals and sharp silhouettes. But she kept pushing garments aside, muttering to herself.

“No, softer shoulders… no, this color is wrong for your skin tone… no, you need something that says ‘I’m dangerous, but I’ll also hold your drink while you fix your lipstick.’”

“You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Absolutely.”

In the end, she chose a dark charcoal suit that fit your frame like it had been waiting its whole life for you. Strong lines, clean detail, understated but undeniably butch. A crisp white shirt. Polished boots.

You looked in the mirror and felt like yourself.

Your sister stood behind you, her hands on your shoulders. “You look good,” she said. “Like… actually relaxed. I’m proud of you.”

You swallowed, caught off guard by the warmth in your chest. “Thanks.”

“Now go,” she said, waving you off. “Go be charming and mysterious and broody but emotionally available just enough. And if she’s awful, I’ll come drag you out by your ear.”

“She’s not awful,” you said before you could stop yourself.

She turned, eyebrows raised. “Oh. You really like her.”

—

Rita had told you to meet her at a wine bar on the Upper East Side — the kind of place with marble steps, whispered lighting, and a front door that looked like it judged your worthiness before opening.

You arrived a few minutes early.

Which meant you got to watch her walk in.

And god — you were taken.

Rita wore an expensive suit with a tailored blazer and a skirt that fell mid-thigh, just long enough to be professional and just short enough to be lethal. A silk blouse in a deep jewel tone. And Manolo Blahnik heels that made her legs look like they belonged in a museum.

Your first coherent thought was that you had no business looking at her like that — and your second was that she wanted you to.

Her eyes swept over you — the suit, the posture, the way you stood when you were trying not to be nervous. Her lips parted slightly, like she’d been caught off-guard.

“Well,” she said after a beat. “That jacket will not scandalize the hostess.”

“High praise,” you murmured.

“From me? It is.”

The hostess led you to a quiet corner booth, the lighting low and flattering, the room filled with soft conversation and the faint clink of crystal glasses.

Rita crossed her legs, and you had to subtly rewire your brain.

“You clean up well,” she said, glancing at you over the top of her wine menu.

“So do you.”

She arched an eyebrow. “I always clean up well.”

“I noticed.”

She smirked, pleased.

The night unfolded easily. Rita teased you for being the kind of person who noticed exits and angles; you teased her for noticing everyone’s motives. It felt strangely easy, the two of you slipping into each other’s rhythms without effort.

She talked about the art scene with the familiarity of someone who actually frequented galleries; you admitted the last museum you’d been in was on a foreign base and mostly full of old maps.

Rita laughed — a clean, unpolished burst of amusement that startled something loose in you. She looked softer like this, her brilliance still flaring in her eyes but less guarded, less curated. You didn’t mean to feel it, that small thrum of wonder in your chest, but it bloomed anyway.

“You know,” she said, swirling her wine, “I never do this. The whole… letting someone get to know me thing.”

“Same,” you admitted. “But I’m making an exception.”

Her eyes softened. “So am I.”

Time slipped. The restaurant began to empty. At one point, her knee brushed yours beneath the table — subtle, then neither of you moved.

By the time you stepped outside, the night had settled into a cool, quiet glow. Streetlights shimmered on the pavement.

“This was…” she began, then paused, unusual for her. “Unexpected.”

“Good unexpected?”

She met your eyes, and whatever armor she wore in court wasn’t present here.

“Very.”

You hesitated, savoring the moment — then reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

A small, helpless sound left her lips—the first unguarded thing you’d heard from her.

“May I?” you asked.

“Yes,” she said, almost a whisper.

You leaned in, pressing your lips to hers.

Rita kissed like she handled arguments — controlled, articulate — but there was a spark beneath it, something warm that opened the moment your hand rested lightly on her waist. Her fingers curled into your lapel, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss.

When you finally pulled back, she was still holding your jacket, eyes slightly dazed, lips faintly parted.

“Well,” she murmured. “I suppose I’ll be thinking about that for an unreasonable amount of time.”

“Same,” you said, breathless in a way you never let yourself be.

She stepped back just enough to regain composure, though her voice was still velvet-soft. “Tomorrow? Coffee?”

“If you want.”

“Oh,” she said with that devastating half-smile, “I very much do.”

She walked away then, heels clicking, perfume drifting behind her — but halfway down the block, she glanced over her shoulder.