Summary: Ever since your ex-wife left you because you became "too much" you've kept everyone at a distance so why is this R2 you're keeping things casual with getting under your skin?
word count: 4.2K
Warnings: chronic pain flare, disability, mobility/health struggles, nausea, medication mention, emotional vulnerability, fear of abandonment, past relationship trauma, argument/miscommunication, jealousy, self-worth issues, implied sex/casual hookup dynamic, hurt/comfort.
Authors note: This kind of started out as an idea for my The Pitt OC, but I really wanted to write about these two so here it is in x reader format!
You'd already been awake a few hours when Trinity woke up in your bed. You were over in the kitchen area of your studio apartment. Typing away on your laptop. Updating some of your documents for work tomorrow.
"Oh you're awake." Trinity spoke. Normally she'd have slipped out before you were up.
"I was in a lot of pain. It woke me up so I decided to get some work done." You told her, not really looking up.
"Oh...well then I guess I'm gonna get dressed and go. I have to meet with someone." She says getting up from the bed.
"That was fast." You deadpanned.
"Not like that. Baran asked to meet up to discuss some things about the ED." Your eye physically twitched. You had stopped typing for a moment.
"Okay."
"Is it?" Trinity asks, walking over in nothing but one of your old band shirts.
"I said it is." Her arms wrapped around you from behind.
"Its okay of its not...or if it makes you jealous." She spoke softly, sending a shiver through you.
"Im not going to repeat myself Trinity." There was a bite to your voice. Your walls are going up and she knew it.
Trinity’s smile faltered just slightly at the tone.
Not enough that most people would notice it.
But she’d spent enough mornings tangled in your sheets by now to recognize the difference between your sharp edges and your hurt ones.
Her chin rested against your shoulder anyway, stubborn about it.
“You get this wrinkle right here when you’re pissed,” she murmured, brushing her thumb between your brows. “Usually means I should start apologizing.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Mm.” She didn’t sound convinced.
You stared at the spreadsheet on your screen without actually reading it anymore. The cursor blinked accusingly in the middle of a half-finished sentence.
Behind you, Trinity shifted carefully, mindful of your body in that instinctive way she’d gotten lately. One hand stayed light against your waist instead of squeezing. The other rubbed slowly over your shoulder.
“You know,” she said softly, “most people would just say ‘yeah okay have fun.’”
“Most people aren’t me.”
“That’s true.” A tiny grin ghosted across her voice. “You’re meaner.”
That got the barest twitch at the corner of your mouth.
Trinity caught it immediately.
“There she is.”
You sighed through your nose, shoulders tight. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Manage me.”
Her arms loosened instantly.
Not offended. Not dramatic. Just enough space to show you she heard the boundary.
“You think that’s what I’m doing?”
You swallowed.
Your ex-wife used to talk to you like this too near the end. Gentle voice. Careful hands. Like every emotion you had needed to be diffused before it became inconvenient.
You hated how fast your mind went there.
“I think,” you said slowly, “that this is casual. And casual means I don’t get jealous when the girl I’m sleeping with runs off to see someone else in the morning.”
Trinity went quiet behind you. She stepped away from the chair and started gathering her clothes from around the apartment.
You tried to go back to typing, but you couldn’t focus. Your pain had settled deep into your joints overnight, leaving you exhausted and raw. Usually you were better at keeping the walls up when you felt like this.
Usually people didn’t stay long enough to notice the cracks.
Trinity disappeared into the bathroom for a minute, then came back dressed in yesterday’s clothes. She walked over to the kitchenette quietly, opening cabinets like she already knew where things were.
You frowned. “What are you doing?”
“Making coffee.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
The coffee pot clicked on.
You watched her move around your tiny apartment with annoying familiarity. Pulling down mugs. Finding the coffee grounds. Opening the fridge without asking.
Domestic.
Dangerously domestic.
“You’re staring,” she said without looking back.
“I’m trying to figure out why you’re still here.”
That finally made her turn.
There was something unexpectedly open in her expression now. Softer than her usual smirk.
“Because,” she said simply, “you were hurting before I even said Baran’s name.”
Your throat tightened. Trinity walked back over slowly until she stood beside your chair again.
“You don’t have to date me,” she said. “You don’t have to promise me anything. But I’m not gonna pretend I don’t care about you just because someone else taught you that caring always comes with conditions.”
You looked away first.
“You know Baran’s divorced.”
“I know.”
“You could go for her. I’ve seen how she looks at you and how you light up at her praise.”
“And she’s like fifteen years older than me.”
“And I’m almost ten years older,” you reminded her, finally looking up from your laptop with a raised eyebrow.
Trinity blinked.
Then huffed out a laugh.
“Okay, first of all, you are way hotter than Baran.”
“That wasn’t the point.”
“It was a point.”
You rolled your eyes despite yourself, but Trinity caught the way your mouth threatened to turn upward.
“There,” she said immediately, pointing at you. “That face. I’m winning.”
“You’re annoying.”
“And yet you keep letting me stay over.”
Your lips pressed together again, trying not to react to that one.
Trinity softened a little after a second.
“For real though,” she said more quietly, “you know I don’t care about the age difference, right?”
Something vulnerable flickered across your expression before you could stop it. Because it wasn’t really about the number. It was about history. About being left behind for someone easier. Healthier. Less complicated. Less tired.
“You don’t need someone with so much baggage, Trinity.”
Trinity seemed to read enough of that off your face that her teasing faded completely.
“You know what I actually think this is?”
"Tell me oh wise one. What do you think this actually is?"
Trinity’s grin came back immediately at the oh wise one.
“There she is,” she murmured. “Mean and sarcastic. My favorite version of you.”
You snorted softly and leaned back in your chair just enough to look at her properly.
“Well? Enlighten me.”
Trinity shifted her weight against the counter, arms folding loosely over her chest. For once, she didn’t immediately go for a joke.
“I think,” she said slowly, “you decided a long time ago that needing people is humiliating.”
The words hit harder than you expected.
Your expression flattened automatically.
Trinity noticed.
“And I think,” she continued carefully, “that every time someone gets close enough to matter, you start looking for proof they’re gonna leave anyway.”
“That’s psychobabble.”
“You literally just got jealous over me getting coffee with my boss and you’re a psychiatrist!”
“She’s not your boss.”
“She signs my evaluations,” Trinity deadpanned.
That dragged a reluctant breath of laughter out of you.
Trinity smiled a little at the sound before stepping closer again, slower this time, giving you plenty of room to shut her out.
“You know what else I think?”
You raised an eyebrow. “You think a lot for someone who just woke up.”
“I’m serious.”
That softened something in your chest despite yourself.
Trinity rested a hand lightly on the back of your chair.
“I think you’re used to people seeing your disability before they see you.” Her voice had gone quieter now. “And when they finally realize pain doesn’t magically go away? When things get hard? They leave.”
You went very still.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
Not completely.
Your ex-wife had loved you when you were still “manageable.” Back when the bad days were occasional instead of constant. Before mobility aids became normal. Before exhaustion started carving pieces out of you.
Trinity’s eyes searched your face carefully.
“So now you keep everything casual because if nobody’s allowed to matter,” she said softly, “then nobody gets the chance to abandon you.”
The apartment suddenly felt too quiet.
You stared at her for a long moment before looking away first.
“You can leave now, Trinity.”
The softness vanished from your voice completely.
Cold.
Sharp enough to cut.
Trinity blinked at the sudden shift. “Hey I didn’t-”
“I mean it.”
She straightened slowly from where she’d crouched beside your chair, confusion flickering across her face before frustration started creeping in around the edges.
“You’re seriously kicking me out because I said something true?”
Your jaw clenched.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you know me.”
Trinity scoffed softly, incredulous. “I am getting to know you, that’s literally the problem.”
“I said leave.” Your voice cracked like a whip this time. “Now.”
That finally shut the room up.
Trinity stared at you for a few long seconds.
You could actually watch the moment her expression closed off.
Not completely.
But enough.
She grabbed her jacket off the back of the couch harder than necessary.
“Whatever,” she muttered, anger bleeding into her voice now because hurt and anger always looked a little similar on her. “You’re pissed because I’m right.”
You didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because if you opened your mouth right now, something ugly and vulnerable would probably crawl out of it.
Trinity shoved her arms into the sleeves of her jacket.
“I’m still gonna be around though Y/N,” she said tightly. “I’m not disappearing, so just…” She laughed once without humor. “Text me when you wanna hook up again, I guess.”
The words landed like a punch. Because suddenly she sounded exactly like what you’d been trying to make this. Casual, easy, nothing important.And for some reason hearing her say it made you feel sick. Trinity hesitated at the door for half a second like she was waiting for you to stop her.
You didn’t.
So she left.
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the cheap frames on your wall.
Silence flooded the apartment afterward.
Heavy.
Immediate.
Your breathing felt uneven suddenly.
“Fuck,” you whispered, your hands came up to cover your face as your elbows rested on the desk.
Pain still burned through your body, hot and relentless beneath your skin, but it barely registered now over the ache opening up in your chest.
Because Trinity had been right.That was the worst part, it wasn’t the jealousy or the argument. It’s the fact she’d seen straight through you in a way nobody had in a very long time.
And instead of letting her or letting someone care about you without conditions…you’d shoved her out the second it got real. Your fingers curled against your forehead.
“Good job,” you muttered bitterly to yourself. “Really fucking nailed that one.”
The apartment still smelled like her shampoo.
Her coffee sat untouched on the counter.
And somewhere beneath all the anger and panic and instinctive self-protection was a horrible creeping realization that you might’ve just blown up the only genuinely good thing you’d let yourself have in years.
𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹
It took you a week to text her. A full week of typing messages out and deleting them. A full week of staring at your phone after shifts, wondering if Trinity was angry enough to ignore you now. Wondering if maybe she should.
In the end, the message you finally sent was painfully simple.
you busy tonight?
Trinity responded four minutes later.
depends. you gonna kick me out again?
You stared at that one for a long time before replying.
No. I promise.
Another pause.
Then:
okay. i’ll come by after shift
And somehow that almost made you throw your phone across the room from nerves alone.
By the time evening rolled around though, your body had other plans. One minute you’d been trying to clean your apartment, the next your joints felt like someone had poured molten glass into them. Nausea rolled through you hard enough you barely made it to the bathroom the first time.
You got yourself set up in bed, barely made it really.
You took your meds, hoping they’d help soon enough to still be able to do things with Trinity. You crawled into bed in one of your oversized sleep shirts, and told yourself you’d rest for twenty minutes before texting Trinity not to come. Instead, you passed out completely.
The knock at the door never woke you, but the sound of it opening did. Your eyes cracked open blearily to the sound of footsteps moving through your apartment. For one disoriented second panic flashed through you before your brain caught up.
Trinity.
“...shit,” you croaked. Your throat felt dry. You pushed yourself up slightly, immediately regretting it as pain flared through your spine, the room spinning a bit.
From the other room, Trinity froze. Then she appeared in the doorway a second later.
The tension that had been sitting between you both all week was obvious immediately. You could see it in the way she stopped short instead of walking in fully.
She looked exhausted from her shift. Backpack still slung over one shoulder. Hair down from the way she’d keep it up at work. Hoodie half unzipped.
But the second she actually saw you, her expression changed.
“Oh.” Not annoyance, concern; real, immediate concern. “You’re not feeling well.”
“I’m fine,” you mumbled automatically.
Trinity’s eyebrows shot up.
“You look like death warmed over.”
“Wow. Charming.”
“You invited me over and then I had to sneak in.”
“How?”
“You gave me the code like three months ago.”
Right.
You closed your eyes briefly. “Forgot.”
Trinity stood there another second, watching you carefully. You hated that she could probably already tell.
The heating pad cord sticking out and keeping your lower back in a pleasant state. The untouched water on the nightstand. The trash can beside the bed just in case the nausea came back.
A flare up, a bad one. Suddenly embarrassment burned hotter than the pain did.
Because this,this was exactly why you kept people at arm’s length. You looked away from her. “You don’t have to stay.” The words came out quieter this time. Your voice almost cracking. Like you were expecting her to leave just like your ex. You were just hurt and tired. You’d been through this song and dance before.
Trinity didn’t answer immediately.
You heard the soft thud of her bag hitting the floor instead. Then her footsteps crossed the apartment toward the bed. When the mattress dipped beside you, you still couldn’t look. You knew she was studying your face with that same frustratingly perceptive expression. Then a hand under your chin, soft, helping guide you to meet her gaze.
“You took meds already?”
You nodded once.
“Nausea?”
Another nod.
“Pain scale.”
You gave her a flat look. “Absolutely not.”
“C’mon, humor me.”
“Trinity.”
She reached over and brushed your hair carefully back from your forehead anyway. The touch was gentle enough it made your chest ache.
“Baby,” she said softly, “what number?”
Your breath caught a little at the word. Not because she seemed to notice she’d said it, but because she didn’t. Like it had just slipped out naturally.
“…Eight,” you admitted finally.
Trinity exhaled quietly through her nose.
“Okay.” She glanced around the room once before looking back at you. “Did you eat anything?”
You hesitated too long.
“Oh my god.”
“I was gonna…”
“You invited me over while actively dying.”
“I wasn’t dying when I invited you.”
“Debatable.”
Despite yourself, a weak laugh escaped you.
Trinity’s face softened instantly at the sound, like she’d been waiting for proof you were still in there underneath the pain and pride and shame.
“I’m gonna make you toast,” she said, already standing again.
“You don’t have to take care of me.” She paused halfway to the kitchenette. Then looked back at you.
“I know.” Her voice was very quiet now. “I’m doing it anyway.”
You watched Trinity move around your tiny kitchenette in a strange sort of silence. Opening cabinets, finding the bread, filling a glass with fresh water like she already knew your routines.
It felt…weird…not bad. Just unfamiliar in a way that made your skin feel too tight.
Your ex-wife used to sigh when your flares got bad. Not always intentionally cruel about it. Sometimes just tired. Frustrated. Burnt out from the repetition of it all.
Another appointment. Another medication. Another ruined plan. Eventually she’d stopped asking what you needed altogether.
But Trinity had already asked three times in under ten minutes.
You swallowed hard and looked away when she glanced back toward the bed.
“You don’t have to hover.”
“I’m literally making toast.”
“You’re hovering emotionally.” You point out, tilting your head slightly.
That snorted a laugh out of her.
“God, you are impossible when you feel like shit.”
“I’m impossible all of the time.” You pulled the blanket higher over your stomach. “You worked all day.”
“So?”
“So now you’re here stuck playing doctor with me.”
The words came out sharper than you intended. Trinity slowed and took in your expression.
“My ex used to hate this part,” you admitted quietly before you could stop yourself. “The flares. The meds. Me cancelling things.” Your jaw tightened. “Said she already spent enough time taking care of people at work. She didn’t wanna come home and do it too.”
The apartment went still. Trinity set the butter knife down carefully. Then turned toward you fully. For once, there wasn’t a trace of teasing in her face.
“That’s what you think this is?” she asked softly.
You immediately regretted saying anything at all.
“Forget it.”
“No.”
You looked away stubbornly, but Trinity crossed the room anyway, carrying the plate over before sitting carefully on the edge of the bed again.
“You think I’m here because I have to be.”
“I think you’ve already spent twelve hours getting puked on and yelled at by patients,” you muttered. “I don’t exactly make a great after-work activity.” You mumbled out, looking down and playing with the edge of the blanket.
Something flickered across Trinity’s expression then.
Hurt.
Not offended hurt. The kind that came from hearing someone talk about themselves like they were fundamentally difficult to love.
She handed you the plate.
Your hands shook a little while taking it.
“Look at me for a second.”
You didn’t want to.
Which was exactly why she waited instead of pushing.
Eventually your eyes lifted to hers.
“I am here,” Trinity said carefully, “because I wanted to come here.”
Your throat tightened.
“I answered your text in four minutes,” she continued. “I spent the whole week wondering if you were gonna talk to me again.” A tiny huff of laughter escaped her. “I almost didn’t come tonight because I thought maybe you changed your mind.”
Guilt twisted low in your stomach.
Trinity leaned back slightly, giving you room to breathe.
“You know what I see right now?” she asked quietly.
You stared down at the toast in your lap. “A disaster?”
“I see someone who’s hurting.” Her voice softened. “And who’s so used to handling it alone that being cared for feels embarrassing.”
Your eyes burned suddenly. You looked away before she could notice. Except of course she noticed.
“You don’t have to perform being okay around me,” she said. “You don’t have to earn softness.”
A shaky breath left you.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“No,” she said gently. “It’s easy for you to believe you’re only worth loving when you’re easy.”
Silence settled between you after that.
Trinity reached over eventually and tugged the blanket a little higher around your legs when she noticed you shiver.
The movement was so absentmindedly caring it almost hurt worse than the flare itself.
And for the first time in a very long time, you let someone take care of you without immediately pushing them away.
You managed a few bites before your hands started betraying you.
Tiny tremors.
The kind that got worse when your pain spiked or when you had forgotten to eat all day. You tried to hide it at first by adjusting your grip on the plate, but Trinity noticed immediately because apparently nothing escaped her attention when it came to you.
“Here,” she murmured softly. Her hand settled against your back, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. It was so soft, so gentle. It was as if she wanted to do something, anything to make it better.
You swallowed hard around the strange tightness in your throat and kept eating while she sat beside you, warm and steady against the mattress. Every so often she’d help in small ways without making a thing out of it. Moving the water closer when your reach faltered. Taking the plate before it became too heavy for your wrists. Adjusting the heating pad on your back.
Tiny acts of care so casual they almost undid you. The meds were finally taking the sharpest edge off the pain by the time you spoke again.
“We can’t do our usual, so…” Your eyes stayed fixed on the blanket in your lap. “You don’t have to stay late.”
The room went silent for half a second. Then Trinity turned toward you fully.
“You trying to get rid of me just because we can’t have sex?” she asked incredulously. “You think that’s why I stay around?”
Your face heated immediately. “I didn’t mean…I just…”
She paused suddenly, considering.
“Well,” she admitted, “that thing you do with your tongue is incredible.”
You let out a horrified noise while she burst into laughter.
“Oh my god, your face right now.”
“Trinity.”
“I’m being honest!”
“You’re the worst.”
“Mm. And yet you invited me back.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched. Trinity’s expression softened almost immediately at the sight of it. Then she leaned over and bumped her shoulder gently against yours.
“But seriously,” she said quieter now, “I love spending time with you. I like being here.” Her fingers brushed lightly against your arm. “We can just lay here and veg out. I don’t care.”
Something warm and dangerous unfurled low in your chest at the words. Because she sounded sincere. Not trapped or obligated. Like she genuinely wanted this. Wanted you.
“H…” You cleared your throat softly. “How about a movie?”
Trinity brightened instantly.
“Okay. But it has to be your all-time favorite.”
You groaned. “Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes.”
“You’ll judge me.” You whined out.
“I already sleep with you. The judgment stage has passed.”
You rolled your eyes, but there was no real heat behind it anymore. Trinity shifted closer while you reached shakily for the remote, until her thigh pressed warm against yours beneath the blankets.
Comfortable. Easy. The kind of intimacy that had nothing to do with sex at all and somehow that scared you more than anything else. The movie had barely been on ten minutes before you realized Trinity had slowly migrated closer. At first it was small things. Her knee brushing yours beneath the blankets. Her shoulder bumping against your arm whenever she laughed quietly at something onscreen. Then somewhere along the way she’d ended up fully pressed against your side like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You became acutely aware of it all at once. The warmth of her. The steady rise and fall of her breathing. The way one of her hands rested lazily against your stomach beneath the blanket, absentmindedly tracing tiny patterns through the fabric of your shirt.
Your chest tightened strangely. Not panic…not exactly. Just…awareness.
You shifted slightly against the pillows and immediately regretted it when pain tugged through your hips.
Trinity noticed instantly.
“Sorry,” she murmured, already trying to pull away. “Am I squishing you?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
You hesitated a second too long.
Trinity started moving anyway, but before she could fully pull back, your arm was around her, tugging her back against you. It hurt a little, but it didn’t matter to you. The movement surprised both of you.
You swallowed hard.
“I just…” Your voice came out quieter than intended. “You’re okay. I promise”
Trinity went very still beside you.
Then softer than before, “Yeah?”
You nodded once, eyes fixed stubbornly on the TV instead of her face.
Because admitting you liked this felt weirdly intimate. More intimate than sex had ever been between you two. Trinity settled back carefully after a second, slower this time, making sure not to put weight on the parts of you that hurt. Her head ended up tucked near your shoulder.
You could feel the faint brush of her hair against your jaw.
Neither of you spoke for a little while after that.
The movie played quietly in the background while the rain tapped softly against your apartment windows.
And somewhere in the middle of all that warmth and exhaustion and lingering ache, you realized something deeply unsettling: you couldn’t remember the last time another person’s presence made you feel better instead of trapped.
Trinity’s thumb brushed once across your stomach absentmindedly.
“You literally attached yourself to me like a barnacle.”
“Mm.” You could hear the grin in her voice without looking. “And yet you pulled me back in.” Your fingers tightened slightly around the blanket. Because she was right.
Again.
Instead of answering, you let your head tilt carefully until it rested against hers. The smile Trinity gave at that was small.
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Summary: Ever since your ex-wife left you because you became "too much" you've kept everyone at a distance so why is this R2 you're keeping things casual with getting under your skin?
Pain meds timed carefully.
Mobility aids charged.
Extra braces packed in your bag just in case.
And honestly?
For a long time after the divorce, you’d stopped trying entirely.
It hurts too much emotionally to prepare for enjoyment only for your body to betray you halfway through or even worse right before the night begins.
But Trinity never treated accommodations like burdens.
So now here you are.
At some aggressively neon karaoke bar downtown because apparently Trinity and Mel together became impossible to say no to. You sat near the front in your chair, drink balanced carefully on the table beside you while Trinity butchered an early 2000s pop song onstage with absolute confidence. She looked beautiful. Black jeans, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messy already from dancing.
Every few seconds she’d glance toward you automatically while singing like she physically couldn’t help checking where you were and every single time your chest still squeezed painfully soft in response.
“You’re staring again,” Mel called from the stage between lyrics.
Trinity whipped around immediately to look at you.
You raised your middle finger calmly.
The entire table burst into laughter.
“See?” Trinity pointed dramatically at you into the microphone. “She’s mean because she loves me.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. God. You really were happy. The realization still startled you sometimes.
You reached for your drink and then froze.
Because suddenly a voice beside you said quietly:
“Oh.”
Your stomach dropped instantly.
You knew that voice.
You turned slowly.
And there she was.
Your ex-wife stood beside the table looking genuinely stunned.
For a second all the noise of the karaoke bar seemed to dull around the edges.
You hadn’t seen her in months no...years.
She looked mostly the same.
Professional clothes.
Perfect hair.
Controlled posture.
But her eyes immediately dropped toward your chair before lifting back to your face again.
Then, softly bewildered:
“Oh… are you going out these days?”
The words hit like a slap.
Not cruel exactly, but instinctively diminishing in that old familiar way. Like your life had quietly shrunk after her. Like joy and movement and being wanted belonged to your past self instead of the person you became. For one horrible heartbeat, old shame flared hot through your chest automatically.
Then,
“Baby!”
Trinity’s voice cut clean through it. You looked up immediately. She was already hopping off the stage, microphone abandoned completely while Mel yelled after her dramatically. Trinity crossed the room fast, smile fading the second she noticed your expression.
“What’s wrong?” she asked instantly before her eyes flicked toward the woman beside you.
Then understanding hit. You felt it happen beside you almost physically. Trinity went very still.
Your ex-wife’s expression shifted too while taking Trinity in properly for the first time.
The protectiveness already written all over her posture. The way she instinctively moved closer to your chair. The familiarity.
“Oh,” your ex said quietly.
Something complicated twisted through your chest. Because suddenly you could see it from the outside too. Trinity’s hand settled automatically against your shoulder. Grounding, protective.
“Hey,” she murmured softly to you first. “You okay?”
Just concerned about you. Your ex noticed that too. You swallowed hard.
“Yeah,” you answered quietly.
It wasn’t entirely true, but it also wasn’t entirely false. Because the old panic wasn’t swallowing you whole this time. Not with Trinity standing beside you.
Your ex looked between the two of you slowly. Then at Trinity’s hand resting against your shoulder.
“You’re together,” she realized.
Before you could answer, Trinity spoke calmly.
“Yeah.” Her thumb brushed lightly once against your shoulder. “That’s my girlfriend.”
The word hit your chest warm this time instead of painful.
Your girlfriend.
No hesitation.
No distancing.
Just certainty.
Something flickered across your ex-wife’s face then.
Not anger. Something quieter. Harder to look at.
Regret.
And suddenly you remembered sitting alone in your apartment after the divorce convinced no one would ever willingly love this version of you again. Meanwhile Trinity had spent the last hour singing badly into microphones and dragging your chair onto the dance floor between songs because she wanted you included in everything.
Your ex looked at you again more carefully this time. Really looked. At the way you softened toward Trinity automatically. At how relaxed your body sat around her. At the happiness you apparently weren’t hiding well enough.
“You seem…” She stopped herself.
“Happier?” Trinity supplied sweetly.
You shot her a look immediately. Trinity looked completely unrepentant of course she did. Your ex actually gave a small surprised laugh at that.
Then quieter, toward you,
“You do.”
The ache in your chest surprised you suddenly. Not grief this time. Closure maybe. Because for years part of you wanted her to see what she did to you. Wanted her to understand how deeply she broke your trust in love, but standing here now with Trinity warm beside you, You realized something else too.
Your ex-wife didn’t destroy your ability to be loved. She just wasn’t capable of loving you the way you deserved. Your ex’s eyes lingered on the two of you for one second too long.
On Trinity’s hand resting possessively against your shoulder. On the easy intimacy between you both. On the fact that you looked happy.
You could practically watch the realization settling uncomfortably across her face.
Then quietly, almost defensive:
“I just didn’t expect…” She glanced toward your chair again before looking back at you. “You used to hate going out once your pain got worse.”
The comment landed badly immediately.
Not openly cruel, but enough.
Enough to make shame flicker instinctively through your chest anyway. Like your life had once been reduced to limitations in her mind.
Beside you, Trinity stiffened instantly. You felt it happen beneath her hand. Your ex either didn’t notice or chose not to stop.
“I mean you used to cancel almost everything near the end.”
There it was. The old resentment hidden beneath concern. Your stomach twisted sharply, but before you could answer Trinity stepped forward; fast.
“What exactly is your point?” she snapped.
Your ex blinked in surprise.
“Excuse me?”
“My point,” Trinity said sharply, “is that maybe she stopped wanting to go places because she spent years feeling like a burden every time her body hurt.”
“Trin-”
“No.” Trinity shook her head, anger flashing hot across her face now. “Actually no, because that’s insane.” She laughed once disbelievingly. “You realize she still apologizes for pain flares? For needing help? For existing while sick?”
“Trinity,” you warned quietly.
But she was fully angry now.
“She pushes herself until she’s shaking because she’s terrified people will think she’s difficult.” Trinity took another step closer. “Do you have any idea what that does to somebody?”
Your ex’s face tightened immediately.
“I loved her.”
Trinity’s expression flashed furious.
“Then you should’ve acted like it.”
Okay! That was enough.
Because Trinity absolutely looked ready to fistfight your ex-wife in the middle of a karaoke bar.
You moved before your body could properly object. One arm wrapped firmly around Trinity’s waist from behind, pulling her backward against you and down onto your lap with surprising strength. Pain flared viciously through your shoulder immediately. You ignored it. Trinity let out a startled noise as you hauled her fully into your chair.
“Baby…”
You tightened your arm around her middle before she could launch herself back up again.
“Kalmado, mahal ko,” you murmured low against her shoulder. “Hindi siya katumbas ng halaga.”
Calm down, my love. She isn’t worth it.
Trinity froze instantly in your lap. Not because of the restraint. Because of the words. Your ex-wife went completely silent too. You had only recently picked up the language so you could talk to Trinity and use cute pet names for her.
And mahal ko.
My love.
Trinity turned her head slightly toward you, anger visibly faltering beneath sudden softness. Your chest tightened painfully at the look on her face. You rested your forehead briefly against the back of her shoulder, breathing carefully through the spike of pain now shooting through your arm from pulling her back so hard. Worth it. Probably not. Future-you was definitely going to suffer. Present-you though? Present-you knew Trinity would’ve verbally eviscerated your ex if you hadn’t stopped her.
Trinity finally relaxed slightly against you after a second, one hand covering where your arm still wrapped around her waist.
Your ex-wife stared at the two of you quietly.
Then at the way Trinity immediately softened once you touched her. The way she melted back against you instead of pulling away. Like being held by you was instinct now.
Something unreadable crossed your ex’s face. Loss maybe or realization.
You looked at her steadily this time without shrinking under it.
And for the first time since the divorce, you didn’t feel small in front of her anymore.
“I did love you,” your ex said quietly after a long silence.
You nodded once.
“I know.”
Because you did know. That had never really been the problem. The problem was that love without gentleness eventually became something painful to survive. Trinity’s fingers tightened lightly over your arm.
Your girlfriend.
Warm in your lap.
Still angry on your behalf.
Still choosing you publicly and loudly without hesitation.
You looked back at your ex-wife calmly.
“But she loves me better.”
The words settled between the three of you heavily.
Your ex-wife looked away first.
Not angry.
Not defensive.
Just…tired somehow.
And standing there in the middle of the neon-lit karaoke bar with Trinity warm in your lap and old grief sitting quietly beneath your ribs, you realized something that would’ve been impossible for you to admit a few years ago.
Your ex-wife had loved you once. Really loved you. That was the complicated part. It would’ve almost been easier if she’d been cruel from the beginning, but she wasn’t.
She loved the high school version of you. The version that ran around football fields with a knee brace hidden under jeans. The version who stayed up all night studying during med school and still had energy afterward. The version who could dance in kitchens and walk city blocks and exist without calculating pain first.
She married that version of you.
And then slowly…
That person disappeared.
Not all at once.
Not dramatically.
Bit by bit.
The cane.
The fatigue.
The missed plans.
The chair.
The exhaustion that started carving pieces out of your personality alongside your body.
You grieved that version of yourself constantly.
Quietly.
Daily.
Sometimes it hit you in tiny moments:
seeing stairs and remembering when you used to sprint up them two at a time.
Watching Trinity dance and remembering when you used to do it without pain. Realizing your body had become something you negotiated with instead of lived comfortably inside.
That old version of you had died slowly.
The difference was…
You didn’t get to walk away from the grief. You had to survive inside it. Every day. Your ex-wife got to leave. That realization didn’t make you hate her anymore. Not really. It just made you sad. Because somewhere along the line she stopped seeing the person still alive underneath the loss.
Meanwhile Trinity met you after.
After the mobility aids. After the fear. After the walls. After the damage. She never knew the easier version of you.
Only this one and she loved you anyway.
No…not anyway. Specifically, fully.
The realization hit so hard your eyes stung unexpectedly.
Beside you, Trinity must’ve felt something shift because she tilted her head slightly toward you.
“Hey,” she murmured softly. “Where’d you go?”
You blinked back into the room slowly.
At the karaoke music.
The neon lights.
The warmth of Trinity against your chest.
Then quietly, honestly:
“I think I finally stopped being angry at her.”
Your ex-wife’s expression flickered in surprise.
You looked at her steadily.
“I know you loved me,” you said softly. “At least I think you did. A version of me”
Her eyes immediately glossed slightly.
“But I think…” Your throat tightened briefly. “I think you fell in love with someone who stopped existing.”
Silence. Painful. Truthful silence.
Your ex-wife looked down at the floor for a second before nodding once. Tiny. Barely there.
Like maybe she’d been carrying that truth too and suddenly the grief between you both looked different. Not villain and victim anymore. Just two people who lost the same person in completely different ways.
The difference was that you had to become someone new afterward.
And somehow, impossibly, Trinity loved that version more than anyone ever had before. Trinity shifted carefully in your lap then, one hand sliding gently against your cheek to pull your attention fully back to her.
“I’m really glad you lived though,” she whispered.
Your breath caught painfully. Because she didn’t mean physically. She meant this version of you. The guarded, hurting, sarcastic, disabled version you once believed nobody could truly love long term.
And looking at Trinity now at the certainty in her eyes. The fierceness of her love. The warmth of her hand against your face,
You realized something quietly devastating maybe the person you became deserved love too.
“Babe!”
A cheerful voice cut through the tension before anyone could say anything else.
You looked up just in time to see a woman weaving through the crowd toward your ex-wife with a bright easy smile already on her face.
She slipped naturally against your ex’s side, wrapping herself around her arm before noticing the rest of you standing there.
Then she paused. Not awkward exactly. Just surprised.
Meanwhile somewhere behind the two of you, Mel had absolutely clocked the emotional landmine unfolding and immediately decided she wanted no part of it.
“Wow look at that,” Mel announced loudly from near the stage. “I suddenly need another drink.”
Coward.
Your ex pinched the bridge of her nose briefly.
“Hannah,” she said carefully, “this is-”
But Hannah’s attention had already shifted fully toward you.
Or more specifically, toward your chair.
Not in the pitying way you’d gotten used to over the years. Not uncomfortable. Not overly careful. Just curious.
“Oh wow,” Hannah said immediately, crouching slightly beside your chair without hesitation. “What kind is this?”
You blinked at her.
“I-”
“Is it custom fitted?” she asked brightly. “It looks lightweight.”
You stared for another second.
Because honestly?
You were so used to awkwardness around your mobility aids that genuine casual curiosity caught you completely off guard. Beside you, Trinity looked equally startled.
“It’s a Quickie Nitrum,” you answered slowly.
Hannah’s face lit up immediately.
“Oh my god I knew it.” She pointed excitedly. “The frame shape gave it away.”
Okay now you were fully confused.
Your ex looked deeply resigned already.
“Hannah works with mobility aids,” she explained quietly.
That immediately reframed the entire interaction. Hannah nodded enthusiastically.
“I help people learn how to properly use them when they need them and what suits them best,” she explained. “Oh! and budget planning for when insurance is being a complete nightmare.”
That dragged a startled laugh out of you before you could stop it.
“Oh so you’ve seen horrors.”
“You have no idea.” Hannah looked personally offended by the concept of insurance companies. “The things I’ve had to argue over.”
Trinity snorted softly beside you.
“You’re talking to someone who once spent four hours on hold trying to get a shower chair approved.”
Hannah gasped dramatically.
“A shower chair? Those bastards.”
Your ex-wife actually laughed quietly under her breath watching the interaction and suddenly the entire situation felt surreal. Because somehow instead of emotional devastation you were talking wheelchair specs with your ex-wife’s new girlfriend in the middle of a karaoke bar.
Hannah tilted her head slightly toward your chair again.
“You like the push handles?” she asked thoughtfully. “Some people hate them aesthetically but honestly they make life easier.”
You nodded automatically.
“My girlfriend likes them.” The word came naturally now. Warm instead of painful. Trinity’s entire face softened instantly beside you. Hannah looked delighted.
“Oh cute.”
Your ex-wife visibly noticed the change in you at that. How easy the word sounded now. How naturally you included Trinity in conversations about your chair and your body. Like shame no longer lived there quite so heavily.
“You’ve got a really good setup though,” Hannah continued. “The positioning looks comfortable. Did you have a good seating specialist?”
You blinked again slightly. Because almost nobody ever asked questions like this. Usually people either ignored the chair entirely or treated it like tragedy on wheels. Not equipment. Not adaptation. Just part of your life.
“Yeah,” you answered softly. “Actually…yeah. I did.”
Hannah smiled immediately.
“I can tell.” Silence settled briefly after that. Not awkward or anything…just strangely peaceful. Then Hannah looked between you and Trinity and grinned slightly.
“You two are disgustingly cute by the way.”
Trinity looked deeply pleased by this information.
“Thank you.”
“You threatened to fistfight my ex-wife ten minutes ago,” you reminded her flatly.
“And I’d do it again.”
Hannah burst out laughing. Your ex-wife sighed tiredly.
“Oh my god.”
But there was no bitterness in it anymore. Just acceptance and sitting there with Trinity warm against you while another disability professional casually discussed wheelchairs like normal life instead of tragedy, you realized something quietly profound.
Your world had gotten bigger again. Not smaller. Hannah was alarmingly easy to talk to. Like within five minutes she’d somehow dragged you into a full conversation about insurance appeals, custom cushions, and the bizarre emotional stages people went through after getting prescribed mobility aids.
“And then,” Hannah said dramatically, gesturing with her drink, “you have the people who insist they absolutely do not need anti-tip bars right before almost launching themselves backwards.”
A startled laugh escaped you.
“Oh my god.”
“It’s always the overly confident men too.”
“Always.”
Beside you, Trinity Santos looked deeply amused watching how quickly you relaxed into the conversation. Your ex-wife, meanwhile, looked like she’d accidentally walked into an alternate universe. Because instead of awkward tension or unresolved bitterness, You were happily discussing wheelchair frame geometry with her girlfriend in the middle of a karaoke bar.
Hannah leaned forward excitedly.
“Wait wait okay, smart drive or no smart drive?”
You gasped softly.
“Absolutely yes, smart drive.”
“THANK YOU.”
Your ex pinched the bridge of her nose again.
“You two are speaking another language.”
“You wouldn’t survive the disabled community,” you informed her solemnly.
Hannah nodded seriously. “The group chats alone would take her out.”
That earned another laugh from you. A real one this time. Loose. Easy and across from you, your ex-wife noticed it immediately. The difference. You used to laugh less near the end of your marriage. Smiled less too. Pain and exhaustion had slowly hollowed pieces out of you back then.
But tonight, tonight you looked alive.
Hannah shifted toward your ex suddenly with the world’s most dramatic pout.
“Can I sit with them for a little bit?”
Your ex blinked slowly.
“Hannah.”
“What?” Hannah looked entirely unashamed. “I like them.”
The plural nearly made you laugh again. Your ex looked like she wanted to say no purely on principle. Then Hannah widened the pout.
Your ex muttered something under her breath that absolutely sounded affectionate despite herself.
And suddenly…you understood something else. Maybe your ex-wife wasn’t incapable of love. Maybe she just hadn’t known how to survive grief and caregiving and change all tangled together. Watching her now with Hannah, someone who clearly understood disability differently, someone who met her later in life after everything, you realized maybe she’d changed too.
The bitterness in your chest softened further.
Not forgiveness exactly.
Just…release.
“Yay!” Hannah slid into the booth beside you immediately before your ex could change her mind.
Trinity laughed softly under her breath beside you.
Then her hand slipped gently against your jaw, turning your face toward her slightly.
“You okay if I go rescue Mel?” she asked quietly.
You looked toward the stage where Mel was very obviously pretending not to stare over at the table every thirty seconds.
Coward.
You snorted softly.
“She abandoned me.”
“She’s scared of emotional confrontations.”
“She works in an emergency department.”
“And yet.”
Fair. Trinity smiled softly before leaning down and pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. Warm. Easy. Natural.
“I’ll be back,” she murmured.
Your chest still squeezed every single time she touched you like that.
“Okay.”
Then Trinity disappeared back toward the stage area while Hannah immediately turned toward you again with visible excitement.
“Okay tell me everything,” she whispered dramatically.
You blinked.
“About?”
“How’d you customize your chair setup?”
You burst out laughing immediately.
Across the table, your ex-wife watched the sound hit you with something almost wistful in her expression. Because maybe she remembered too. The version of you that used to laugh easily before pain taught you how to brace for disappointment.
The difference now was that this version of you laughed anyway.
𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹
Somehow, impossibly, the night became…fun again.
Hannah turned out to be one of those people who talked with her whole body, dramatic facial expressions, hands flying everywhere, stories spiraling into other stories halfway through.
At one point she and Trinity somehow ended up debating the worst hospital vending machine snacks while Mel loudly argued that Uncrustables counted as a luxury food item after midnight shifts.
Your ex-wife mostly stayed quiet beside Hannah, occasionally chiming in with dry comments that made Hannah laugh harder, but her focus was on her phone and you sat there watching it all happen with something warm and disbelieving blooming quietly in your chest.
Because years ago, you would’ve never imagined a night like this after the divorce.
Not with your ex-wife. Not in your chair. Not surrounded by people who looked at your disability like adaptation instead of tragedy. Hannah had even asked about your smart drive settings at one point with genuine professional curiosity while Trinity listened intently like she was memorizing everything. It was…nice…easy.
Your body, unfortunately, had limits on nice easy nights.
The first warning sign came as a dull ache settling deeper into your hips beneath the chair cushion.
Then your wrists started burning.
Then your lower back.
You shifted slightly in your chair trying to relieve pressure without drawing attention to it.
Didn’t work. Because Trinity noticed immediately. Of course she did. Mid-conversation with Mel, her eyes flicked toward you automatically. One glance. That was all it took.
You watched the exact moment she clocked it: the subtle tension in your shoulders, the way your hand flexed against the armrest, the tiny tightening around your eyes.
Her expression softened instantly. She didn’t interrupt the conversation. Didn’t ask if you were okay in front of everyone. Instead she simply crossed back toward the booth quietly. Your chest tightened a little watching her. Without a word, Trinity crouched beside your chair and reached for your bag hanging off the back.
Hannah stopped talking immediately, watching with curious quiet instead of awkwardness. Trinity unzipped the bag and started sorting carefully through the pill organizer inside with practiced familiarity. No hesitation. Like she’d done this a hundred times already. Your ex-wife noticed that too. You saw it in the way her expression shifted almost imperceptibly. Not jealousy. Just realization. Trinity knew your medications by sight now.
Knew which ones helped breakthrough pain versus nerve pain versus nausea. Knew your routines. Knew your body and she handled it all with such casual tenderness it nearly hurt to witness sometimes.
“Here, baby,” Trinity murmured softly once she found the right pills.
She handed them to you alongside your soda without making it into a scene.
Just care. Easy and instinctive.
Your fingers brushed hers while taking them.
“Thank you baby.”
“Mm.” Trinity’s thumb brushed lightly once against your knee. “You pushed too long tonight.”
Hannah immediately pointed at you dramatically.
“See? This is what I keep telling my clients.” She looked at Trinity approvingly. “Excellent symptom spotting.”
You snorted softly while swallowing the meds.
“Congratulations,” you muttered to Trinity. “You’re being peer reviewed.”
“I always wanted professional validation.” Mel barked out a laugh from across the table.
Your ex-wife stayed quiet though. Watching. You knew that look. You’d known it almost half your life. How she never did these things for you. She was disappointed in herself.
Because Trinity noticed your pain before you even verbalized it. Because she helped without resentment or hesitation. Because she did it so naturally.
Years ago, moments like this used to make you feel ashamed.
Now?
Now they just made your chest ache softly with love.
Trinity leaned against the side of your chair afterward, fingers absentmindedly tracing across your knuckles while the conversation picked back up around you. Grounding you quietly beneath the noise and lights and music.
And for the first time in a very long time you didn’t feel like your body had ruined the night.
You just felt cared for.
𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹
By the end of the night, your body was done with you.
Your wrists burned from pushing your chair around the bar for hours. Your hips throbbed dully beneath the cushion. Exhaustion sat heavy behind your eyes in that familiar post-social-event crash.
But somehow—
You still felt lighter than when the night started.
Hannah stood near the exit enthusiastically typing her number into your phone while talking a mile a minute.
“And seriously if you have patients struggling with mobility aid adjustment send them my way,” she insisted. “Especially younger people because insurance companies become actual demons when they see someone under thirty.”
You snorted softly.
“Don’t I know it.”
“And text me your chair specs later because I know you customized something.”
“She absolutely did,” Trinity supplied immediately from beside you.
Traitor.
Hannah grinned brightly before suddenly spotting Mel near the door.
“Oh wait hold on—goodbye hug!”
Then she bounded off immediately toward Mel King and Trinity Santos with all the energy of a golden retriever.
Mel visibly braced herself. You smiled faintly watching them for a second before turning your chair slightly and realizing your ex-wife still sat quietly in the booth. Everyone else had drifted toward the exit already, but she lingered. You hesitated only briefly before wheeling back toward the table slowly.
Your wrists ached sharply when you stopped beside the booth, fingers rubbing absentmindedly at one wrist while you looked at her.
“You good?” you asked quietly.
Your ex looked up at you. Really looked.
The noise of the karaoke bar had dulled significantly now that closing time crept closer. Staff cleaned tables around you while old music hummed softly overhead.
For a second she didn’t answer.
Then finally,
“No.”
The honesty surprised you.
She exhaled shakily through her nose before looking down at her hands.
“I owe you an apology.”
Your chest tightened immediately.
You opened your mouth instinctively,
She shook her head.
“No. Please.” Her voice cracked slightly. “Let me say this.”
Silence settled softly between you. She sat back down, eye level with you.
Then quietly:
“I treated you badly.”
The words landed harder than you expected. Because part of you had spent years waiting to hear them. Your ex swallowed hard.
“And the worst part is…” She laughed once weakly without humor. “I didn’t fully understand how badly until after.”
You stayed still, just listening.
“Hannah works with disabled patients every day,” she said quietly. “And watching her…” Her throat tightened slightly. “Watching the way she talks about mobility aids and chronic pain and independence…”
Your eyes flicked briefly toward Hannah laughing loudly near the exit with Trinity and Mel.
“She made me realize how much shame I attached to your body without even meaning to.”
That hit like a punch.
Because yeah. That was exactly what it felt like back then. Your ex-wife rubbed hard at her eyes briefly.
“You were grieving,” she whispered. “And instead of grieving with you or just being there for you in any capacity, I kept wanting you to become who you used to be again.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
“I think part of me thought if I ignored how much things changed…” She shook her head weakly. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to admit how scared I was.”
You stared at her quietly.
“I started treating every flare like disappointment,” she admitted shakily. “Every canceled plan. Every mobility aid.” Tears glossed her eyes now. “And you still kept apologizing to me.”
Your chest ached. Because you remembered that too. Apologizing constantly for your body existing. Your ex finally looked back up at you then.
“I need you to know it wasn’t because you became unlovable.” The words hit hard enough you physically stilled. Her voice broke completely this time. “It was because I was weak.”
Silence.
“I loved you,” she whispered. “I just loved you badly near the end.”
Tears burned unexpectedly behind your eyes.
Because somehow that hurt more than anger ever did.
You looked down at your hands resting against your wheels for a long moment before speaking.
“I know.”
Your ex blinked slightly. You swallowed hard.
“For a long time I thought if you couldn’t love this version of me…” Your voice tightened. “Nobody could.”
Her face crumpled instantly.
“I know.”
Then softer:
“And I’m so sorry for that.”
The apology settled deep.
You exhaled slowly through your nose.
And somewhere deep in your chest, something unclenched for the first time in years.
“Before I met Trinity I didn’t let people in close after you. I truly thought no one would want to deal with me like this. Casual hook ups, one night stands. I’d hide all my meds away, mobility aids out of sight. I’d practice walking down the hall without a limp. Anything so I’d just be normal enough for a night.” You explained. “And then there was Trinity who I tried so hard to keep at an arms length and she just…wouldn’t allow that.”
Near the exit, Trinity glanced back toward you instinctively.
Always checking where you were. When your eyes met hers, her entire expression softened immediately. Home. Your ex noticed that too. A small sad smile crossed her face.
“She really loves you.”
Your chest tightened warmly this time instead of painfully.
“Yeah,” you whispered softly.
She nodded once.
Then quietly,
“I’m glad someone taught you that you were never too much to stay for.”
Summary: Ever since your ex-wife left you because you became "too much" you've kept everyone at a distance so why is this R2 you're keeping things casual with getting under your skin?
Authors note: This is more towards the begining of their relationship and takes place before part 1 which can be found here
Your phone buzzed at 1:17 a.m.
You almost ignored it.
Almost.
You were half asleep on your couch already, heating pad across your stomach, bad reality TV playing quietly in the background while patient notes sat unfinished on your laptop.
The ED had been hell all week. Your joints hurt. Your head hurt.Everything hurt.
So when Trinity’s name lit up your screen, you frowned automatically.
Your stomach tightened stupidly fast.
You and Trinity had settled into something over the last couple months. Something easy. Physical. Fun. No expectations. Exactly the kind of thing you could survive. Most of the time she texted first. Most of the time she came over after brutal shifts looking exhausted and restless and wanting to forget the hospital for a few hours. And most of the time you let her. Because Trinity was easy to want. Dangerously easy. You stared at the messages too long before replying.
You rolled your eyes despite yourself.
Twenty minutes later there was a knock at your door.
When you opened it, Trinity looked wrecked. Hair falling out of her braid. Dark circles beneath her eyes. Hoodie sleeves shoved up messily. The lingering sharpness of adrenaline still clinging to her posture.
But the second she saw you, something in her expression loosened.
“There’s my favorite bad decision,” she sighed dramatically.
“You say that to all your hookups?”
“Only the emotionally unavailable ones.”
You snorted softly and stepped aside to let her in. Trinity immediately kicked her shoes off by the door like she lived there. You tried not to notice.
“Shift that bad?” you asked casually.
Trinity groaned loudly and dropped face first onto your couch.
“We had a six-car pileup, a psych hold trying to bite Mateo, and Robby drank my coffee.”
“Thoughts and prayers.”
“Thank you. I’m very brave.”
You watched her for a second longer than necessary. She looked exhausted. Warm even and comfortable in your apartment already.
“So,” you said lightly, leaning against the kitchen counter, “you surviving or spiraling?”
Trinity turned her head enough to look at you upside down from the couch cushions.
“Little bit of both.”
Something softer threatened to surface in your chest. You buried it immediately.
“Good thing I’m not charging for therapy.”
“Mm.” Trinity’s eyes dragged slowly over you. “What are you charging for then?”
There it was. Easier territory. You huffed a laugh through your nose and crossed the apartment toward her. Trinity looked up at you from the couch with that same lazy expression she always got around you. Tired but playful. Like she already knew you’d say yes before she even texted. You hated how much you liked that confidence.
“You know,” she murmured as your hand slid into her hair lightly, “you could pretend to miss me a little.”
“You were gone for twelve hours.”
“And yet absence made your heart grow fonder.”
“My heart actually got quieter.”
“Cold.”
“You texted me for sex after a traumatic shift.”
“Correction.” Trinity sat up enough to crowd into your space. “I texted you because you’re hot and mean to me. Important distinction.”
Your mouth twitched despite yourself. Trinity noticed instantly.
“There she is.”
God. That stupid phrase shouldn’t affect you as much as it did. You kissed her before she could say anything else. Mostly to shut her up. That was what you told yourself anyway.
Trinity kissed back immediately, warm hands settling against your waist while tension slowly melted from her shoulders. The hospital still clung to her around the edges. Exhaustion. Stress. That constant sharp awareness everyone carried after bad shifts.
You understood it intimately and maybe that was part of the problem. You pulled away first before the moment could soften too much.
“Bedroom. Now.” you muttered.
Trinity grinned lazily. “Bossy.”
“You came here for a reason.”
“True.”
You led the way down the short hall to your bedroom, Trinity’s hand warm and loose in yours. The apartment was dim, just the glow from the living room TV bleeding in and the low salt lamp on your nightstand. Your joints protested the walk—hips tight, lower back already flaring from the long shift—but you ignored it. You’d learned how to compartmentalize pain long ago.
Trinity closed the door behind you with her foot, then tugged you back against her. Her mouth found the side of your neck immediately, open and lazy, teeth grazing just enough to make your breath hitch.
“Still bossy even when you’re hurting?” she murmured against your skin, like she could read the subtle stiffness in your posture.
“Especially then,” you answered, voice low. You turned in her arms and pushed her hoodie up and off in one motion. She helped, laughing under her breath when it caught on her messy braid. Her scrub top followed, revealing warm skin and the faint red lines where her sports bra had dug in after hours of chaos.
You kissed her harder this time, walking her backward until her knees hit the edge of your bed. Trinity let herself fall, pulling you down on top of her with a grin that quickly melted into something hungrier when your thigh pressed between hers.
“Careful,” she said suddenly, hands steadying your hips. “I know that look. You’re pushing through it tonight.”
You paused, forehead resting against hers. The honesty in her voice made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t want to examine.
“It’s manageable,” you told her. “I want this. I want you here.”
Trinity searched your face for a second, then nodded. Her hands slid under your shirt, thumbs stroking the tense muscles along your spine like she was trying to soothe them before they could knot further. “Then tell me what feels good. No heroics. I’m not here to add to the pain.”
You kissed her in answer, slower this time. She tasted like hospital coffee and the mint gum she always chewed on the way over. You peeled her scrub pants down her legs while she worked your sweats off, careful when your hip twinged. The heating pad from the couch had helped, but your body was still a map of aches.
Once you were both in just underwear, Trinity rolled you onto your back with gentle insistence. She hovered over you, hair falling around her face like a dark curtain.
“Better?” she asked.
“Yeah.” You exhaled as the pressure eased off your lower back. “Stay like this for a bit.”
She did. Mouth mapping your collarbone, then lower, slow, deliberate kisses across your chest, tongue circling a nipple until your back arched despite the protest in your joints. Her hand slipped between your legs, cupping you over your underwear first, then sliding beneath the fabric when you lifted your hips in silent permission.
“Fuck, you’re already wet,” she breathed, voice rough with want. Two fingers traced you, teasing, before pressing in smooth and deep. You gasped, one hand fisting the sheets, the other gripping her shoulder.
Trinity moved with you;patient, attentive, adjusting when your breath caught for the wrong reasons. She curled her fingers just right, thumb finding your clit in steady circles while her mouth stayed busy on your neck, your breasts, anywhere she could reach without shifting too much weight onto you.
You rocked against her hand, chasing the pleasure that cut through the constant static of pain. When your thigh started to tremble from the angle, Trinity noticed instantly. She eased your leg higher, hooking it over her hip so you didn’t have to hold the tension.
“Like that?” she whispered.
“Yes…fuck…don’t stop.”
She didn’t. She fucked you with her fingers like she had all night, like the hospital and the pileups and the biting psych holds didn’t exist anymore. Just the wet sound of her hand between your legs, your shaky moans, and the way she kept murmuring against your skin filthy little praises mixed with soft encouragement.
When you came it hit hard, hips jerking, a broken sound ripping from your throat. Trinity worked you through it, slowing but not stopping until you were trembling and oversensitive, pushing weakly at her wrist.
She kissed you deeply as you came down, fingers slipping out only when your breathing evened. Then she rested her forehead on your shoulder, letting you feel her smile against your skin.
“Your turn,” you said after a minute, voice husky. You reached for her waistband.
Trinity caught your hand, lacing your fingers together instead. “Not yet. I’m good right here for a second.” She shifted carefully to lie beside you, one leg thrown over yours, careful not to put pressure on the worst spots. Her hand settled low on your stomach, warm and grounding, right where the heating pad had been earlier.
“You don’t have to hold back with me,” she said quietly, the playful edge gone for a moment. “Not the pain part. Not the good part either.”
You turned your head to look at her. Exhaustion and want and something dangerously softer sat between you on the sheets.
“I know,” you whispered.
You kissed her again, slower, tasting the promise of round two when your body allowed it. For now, the quiet hum of afterglow and Trinity’s steady breathing beside you was enough.
Trinity’s eyes darkened with heat at your words, but she still hesitated for half a second, scanning your face like she was checking you weren’t just saying it to be fair.
“You sure?” she asked, voice low and a little rough. “You’re still shaking.”
You answered by sliding your hand down her stomach and into her underwear, finding her soaked. Trinity’s breath caught sharply, hips twitching forward into your touch.
“Yeah,” you murmured, “I’m sure. I want to feel you.”
That was all it took.
She kicked her underwear the rest of the way off and let you guide her up, settling her thighs on either side of your head as she braced one hand on the headboard. You looked up at her;flushed, breathing hard, hair messy around her shoulders—and felt a fresh pulse of want low in your belly despite how spent you still were.
You didn’t tease her. You were both too tired and too keyed up for games tonight. You licked a slow, firm stripe up through her folds, savoring the way she shuddered and swore under her breath. Then you did it again, deeper, tongue pressing inside her before sliding back up to circle her clit.
“Fuck…yes,” Trinity groaned, rolling her hips carefully. She kept most of her weight on her knees and the hand gripping the headboard, clearly mindful of you even while she was falling apart.
You gripped her ass with both hands and pulled her closer, sucking gently on her clit before flattening your tongue and letting her ride your face at her own pace. The sounds she made were addictive—low, broken moans and breathless curses every time you changed rhythm. Her thighs started trembling on either side of your head.
One of her hands dropped to your hair, not pulling, just holding on as her hips stuttered.
“Shit, right there…don’t stop, baby—”
You didn’t. You worked her harder, two fingers sliding into her easily while your mouth stayed focused on her clit. Trinity’s moans pitched higher, her rhythm getting messier as she chased it. You curled your fingers, stroking that spot inside her that always made her lose it, and she came with a choked cry, thighs clamping around your head as she pulsed around your fingers.
You kept going through it, gentler now, until she was whimpering and oversensitive. Only then did you ease your fingers out and press a soft kiss to her inner thigh.
Trinity carefully swung her leg back over and collapsed beside you, chest heaving. She immediately pulled you into her, mindful of your joints, tucking you against her side so your head rested on her shoulder.
She flopped onto the mattress with a satisfied groan, chest still heaving. A lazy, crooked grin spread across her face as she looked over at you.
“Fuck… I needed that,” she laughed breathlessly, dragging a hand through her messy hair. “You’re dangerous with that mouth.”
You smirked, wiping your chin with the back of your wrist before settling beside her. “You say that like it’s new information.”
Trinity snorted and stretched, then rolled halfway onto her side, one leg slung casually over yours. Her hand rested low on your stomach, warm and absentminded, thumb brushing lightly just above where the worst of your pain usually sat.
For a few minutes you just breathed together, bodies cooling, the distant glow of the TV still flickering from the living room. No heavy words. No expectations.
Eventually Trinity turned her head toward you, that familiar playful glint back in her eyes.
“Still alive over there?” she teased, voice husky. “Or did I finally break your ‘emotionally unavailable’ streak?”
You huffed a quiet laugh and shoved lightly at her shoulder. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re just a really good distraction.”
“Mm. That’s what I like to hear.” She leaned in and kissed you lazily, tasting herself on your lips, before pulling back with a satisfied smirk. “Round two in ten minutes if your body cooperates?”
“Bold of you to assume you’ll last ten minutes before you’re begging again.”
Trinity grinned wide, nipping at your bottom lip. “We’ll see who’s begging, babe.”
She didn’t move away. Just stayed tangled up with you in the sheets—warm skin, quiet breathing, and the comfortable silence of two people who knew exactly what this was: a good, filthy way to forget the hospital for a while.
A few beats of comfortable silence passed before Trinity shifted, pressing closer. Her hand slid between your legs, fingertips brushing teasingly over your clit.
“C’mon…” she murmured against your mouth, voice dropping into that needy register you secretly loved. “Just one more. I’ll be good. I’ll even let you be in charge the whole time.”
You raised an eyebrow, amused. Trinity wasn’t usually one to beg this quickly.
She noticed your expression and doubled down, hips rolling subtly against your thigh. “Please? I’m still soaked from your mouth and I can’t stop thinking about you fucking me again. I need it.”
The desperate little edge in her voice hit you right in the gut. You smirked, slow and satisfied, then grabbed her by the hips and flipped her onto her back in one smooth motion careful with your own body, but firm enough to make her gasp.
Trinity’s eyes widened, a breathless laugh escaping her as she looked up at you.
“That’s more like it,” you said, voice low, hovering over her with that smirk still playing on your lips. Your hand slid down her body possessively, fingers pressing between her thighs again, feeling how worked up she still was.
She arched into your touch with a soft whine, lips parted, clearly ready for you to take exactly what she was begging for.
𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹
When you woke up the next morning, the other side of the bed was cold.
Your apartment was quiet.
No footsteps.
No teasing.
No Trinity rummaging through your kitchen.
Just silence.
For a second you stared blearily at the empty space beside you.
Then your eyes caught the sticky note on your nightstand.
got called back in
try not to emotionally repress too hard today <3
-trin
You stared at it for a long moment.
Your chest tightened strangely.
Because this…
This was better.
This was safer.
No soft mornings. No domesticity. No blurred lines.
Exactly what you wanted.
So why did the apartment suddenly feel so fucking empty?
4 Times you used Polish + the 1 time Trinity used Tagalog
Trinity Santos x dynamic disability!reader
Summary: In the quiet moments between brutal shifts and bad pain days, you find yourself accidentally falling for the stormy R1 and eventually R2 who keeps showing up at your door. First with Polish pet names, then with pieces of your guarded heart. What starts as casual slowly becomes something deeper, tender, and undeniably real, even when love feels terrifying.
word count: 5K
Warnings: MDNI, 18+, strap-on sex, oral, fingering, dirty talk, and multiple orgasms, heavy chronic pain/disability depiction (bad pain days, migraines, mobility issues, frustration with needing help), medical/hospital trauma and grief processing, emotional hurt/comfort with abandonment fears and past toxic relationship baggage, professional boundary stuff (attending/resident dating), and soft but intense affectionate pet names.
Authors note: I saw one of these about Dennis for something and I really wanted to do this for these two because I've wanted to incorporate this into their relationship
One. moje słoneczko
The first time it slips out, you don’t mean for it to. Which is usually how anything honest happens with you by accident.
Trinity is still an R1 then still technically nothing. Still coming to your office like a stray cat with a medical license and abandonment issues. Still pretending that sleeping in your bed twice a week is casual. Still pretending she doesn’t know where you keep the extra towels.
It happens after a bad shift, not catastrophic, not the worst she’s ever had. Just one of those shifts where everything peels at her until she is raw underneath. She misses a line. Gets snapped at by Garcia. Spends twenty minutes with a patient who reminds her too much of herself. Then loses a chart note because the system crashes. By the time she finds you, she is vibrating. Fully. Angrily. Like if someone touches her wrong she might either bite or cry…possibly both.
You are in your office trying to eat crackers and chart with one hand. She does not knock of course. She just steps in, shuts the door, and says,
“I am going to throw myself into the Allegheny.”
You do not look up.
“That sounds like paperwork.” You tilt your head at the chart note in front of you before marking something down about a small note you’d made earlier.
“I hate this place.”
“You say that lovingly.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.” You let out a deep breath through your nose.
She drops into the chair across from you and immediately folds forward, elbows on knees, hands in her hair.
“I’m bad at this.”
you pause. there it is, under the noise, under the drama, under the little Santos storm system. You set the cracker down.
“You are not bad at this.” You speak firmly.
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
“You didn’t see me today.”
“I saw enough.”
She laughs once.
“Yeah, and?”
you lean back. She should know better than to ask a yes, and question to you, but apparently she hasn’t learned yet.
“And you are tired, embarrassed, overstimulated, probably hungry, definitely dehydrated, and doing that thing where you decide one bad shift means you’ve personally failed the field of medicine.”
She doesn’t answer. Her shoulders are high. Tight. Uou sigh.
“Come here.”
She looks up, wary.
“Why?”
“Because if you keep sitting like that, you’re going to give yourself a tension headache, and then I'll have to listen to you complain about that too.”
She narrows her eyes, but she stands because she always does when you say come here. She stops beside your chair. You reach for her wrist, gentle but firm, and pull her closer. Not into your lap. You tug her down just enough that you can press your forehead against her stomach for one second. just one. then you realize what you’ve done and lift your head immediately. Too late. Trinity is staring at you; eyes wide, breath caught. You clear your throat.
“You need food.”
“That's what that was?”
“Yes.”
“You diagnosed me through your forehead?”
“Advanced practice.”
Her mouth twitches, barely. You take the win anyways.
You squeeze her wrist once and say, without thinking,
“Eat something, moje słoneczko.”
Trinity freezes, you freeze, the office itself may freeze. Her eyes lift to yours.
“What did you just call me?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
“It was Polish.”
“I figured.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because you said it in the voice.”
you stare at her and she stares back.
“What voice?” You ask, confused.
“the soft one.”
You immediately release her wrist and turn back to your laptop.
“Go eat something.”
“What does it mean?”
“Nothing important.” You try to say it without bite to it. You knew the grave you’d just accidentally dug yourself.
“Liar.”
“Resident.”
“Attending.”
You glare. she smiles. Which is annoying, persistent. You exhale through your nose. You know she won’t stop until you tell her.
“moje słoneczko. My little sunshine.” You can hear the softness in your voice she mentioned. You normally didn’t sound the same when speaking Polish or German. You knew your tone was surprisingly softer for languages people saw as being brash. The words land strangely. Too tender for the room. Too tender for the fluorescent light. Too tender for something that is supposed to mean nothing.
Trinity goes very quiet. You hate that. You hate it so much you almost say something cruel to fix it. Almost. Instead you open your drawer, pull out a granola bar, one of her favorites, and throw it at her chest. She catches it badly.
“Eat.”
“Okay.” Her fingers curl around the wrapper.
She doesn’t tease you again, not then, but she carries it with her. You can tell because the rest of the day, every time you say “Santos,” her head turns like maybe she’s hoping for something else. You do not give it to her, not for weeks, but the damage is done. One little sunbeam through the door. You pretend not to notice the light.
Two. kochanie
The second time is worse because you mean it. You’re at home; your apartment. It’s late and Trinity is in your kitchen wearing your sweatpants and the shirt she claims is hers now because she has “squatter’s rights,” which is not how property law works, but she refuses to hear your argument.
This is still casual…technically. Except she has a toothbrush in your bathroom and canned coffee in your fridge and a favorite blanket on your couch and you have started buying the spicy ramen she likes even though it bothers your stomach just looking at it. Casual has become an increasingly stupid word.
You are making tea because your pain is bad but not catastrophic. Your hip aches, your spine is irritated, your wrists are loose in that annoying way that means the kettle feels heavier than it is. The slight tremor in your hands because it’s been a long day. Trinity notices from across the room; she always notices.
“Let me.” She offers softly.
“No.”
“Baby.”
“No.” You try not to snap. You’ve been working hard to not do that to her when she offers help, but you just know you can do this.
“You’re doing the wrist thing.”
“I have several wrist things.”
“The bad one.”
You put the kettle down harder than necessary. She stops. You feel it before you look at her. The way the room shifts. The way she pulls back without moving. Careful now. You close your eyes. Great. Wonderful. You have become a landmine in your own kitchen.
“Trinity.”
“I’m not trying to take over.” She says softly. So softly like you’ve hurt her, you probably have.
“I know.” You sigh, gripping the edge of the counter. This is exactly what you didn’t want.
“I just wanted to help.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you say it like that?”
You open your eyes. She’s standing by the counter, arms folded, hurt trying very hard to masquerade as irritation. You rub a hand over your face.
“I’m tired.”
“I know.”
“and in pain.”
“I know that too.”
“and bad at being helped.”
she softens just a little.
“yeah.”
you huff.
“You did not need to agree that fast.”
“You like honesty.”
“I like selective honesty.”
She smiles, it's small, but it’s there.
You pick up the mug and your fingers ache. You should let her help, you want to. That’s the worst part. You want to hand her the stupid kettle and let her pour the stupid tea and let the world not end because someone did something kind. You look at her. She is waiting. She’s not pushing, not sighing, not making you feel like your body is an inconvenience standing between her and a better night. Just waiting. You swallow.
A flash of your ex where Trinity stands. Her arms crossed, but the face is different. Trinity is hurt because she wants to help you and you’re actively lying to her about how okay your body is. Your ex wife’s face had a scroll, an eyeroll, a huff, a ‘really? You can’t pour your own tea?’ There’s a clear difference. You can see it and finally,
“Fine.”
Her eyes lift.
“Fine?”
“You can pour the tea, kochanie.”
She moves before the meaning catches up, then stops. Mug in one hand. Kettle in the other. She slowly turns toward you.
“There it is again.”
You choose to wrap your arms around her waist once you’ve manuvered her back towards the counter to actually pour the tea. “There what is?”
“Polish.”
“Many people speak Polish.”
“You don’t call many people Polish pet names while letting them pour your tea.”
Your face warms. You bury your face into her neck, she smells like faint antiseptic under her shampoo and conditioner.
“That means darling,” you whisper against her, because apparently you are choosing violence against yourself.
Trinity’s entire expression changes. gone is the teasing and the little grin. She looks down at the tea like it might save her.
“Oh.”
You almost take it back. You almost make a joke. You almost say don’t get used to it. Instead you watch her pour hot water into your mug with both hands steady. Careful. Like she has been entrusted with something more important than tea. She gently taps your hand, holding it up for you, and you take it. Your fingers brush hers. Neither of you moves away immediately. Too long. Too real. Then trinity says, very softly,
“I like when you use Polish petnames for me...”
Your chest tightens. There it is. The door again. Open a crack, you could slam it shut, you should. Instead you move back from her, take a sip of tea and mutter,
“Don't be weird.”
Trinity smiles. not smug. Happy. Which is worse.
“Too late.”
Three. skarbie
The third time happens at work. Which is unfortunate because you have rules about work. Many rules.
Do not kiss residents in hallways.
Do not let Trinity sit in your lap in your office when the door is unlocked.
Do not call her baby where people can hear.
Do not soften visibly every time she comes to you looking like the ED chewed her up and sent her back with discharge instructions.
You fail at most of these eventually. not all at once. but enough.
This time, she comes to you after Robby tells her she needs to talk to one of the grief counselors. Not as punishment or because she did something wrong, because the case was bad. Because she was in the room. Because she stood there while a family broke open around death and then tried to go back to charting like her hands weren’t shaking.
She comes to you because that is what she does now. She brings you everything. Her anger, fear, bad jokes, stupid questions, the parts she pretends don’t hurt. She barges into your office halfway through a sentence.
“Okay, robby is doing his concerned dad thing and now he says I need to talk to grief counseling or therapy or whatever and I don’t want to sit in front of some stranger and perform being appropriately devastated, so can I just talk to you and have you sign whatever he needs because you’re psych and you know me an-”
“Trinity.”
She stops. The room goes wrong immediately. You see it happen. The way her face shutters before you have even finished deciding how to say the next part. You hate this part. You hate boundaries when they look like rejection, but you love her and that means not turning yourself into a loophole just because it is easier.
“I can’t be your therapist for this.”
The words hit exactly the wrong place. You see Garcia's ghost cross her face. That old slam of rejection. Not wanted that way. Not safe to need.
“Right,” she says.
“Santos.”
“No, yeah. Makes sense.”
She takes a step back.
“I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“No.” You move around the desk before she can flee. “Not like that.”
she doesn’t look at you. Her hands are clenched at her sides. You soften your voice.
“I will always listen to you.”
her mouth twists.
“You just said…”
“I said I can't be your therapist for this. Legally. On paper.” You stop in front of her, giving her space but not letting the distance become a weapon. “We are dating now. You and me. Which means I cannot be the person who signs off to robby that you went.”
Her eyes flick up. Wet, angry, embarrassed.
“You can talk to me any time you need,” you say. “Any time.”
she swallows.
“You mean that?”
“Yes. Of course I mean that.”
“Even if it’s ugly?”
“Especially then.”
“Then why does it feel like no?”
“Because no is still no,” you say honestly. “Even when it’s gentle.”
that makes her blink. you reach for her hand. Slowly. she lets you take it. her fingers are cold.
“This boundary is not me pushing you away,” you say. “It’s me making sure I can keep holding you without turning us into a conflict of interest.”
a tiny, broken laugh slips out of her.
“That is the least romantic sentence anyone has ever said.”
“I’m a psychiatrist, romance is difficult around compliance language.”
“Clearly.”
You lift her hand and press a kiss to her knuckles. Quick, private, a violation of at least one of your rules. You do it anyway.
“Go talk to Mara,” you say softly. “She's good.”
Trinity looks down at your hand around hers.
“and after?”
“my place.”
Her face trembles.
“Just you?”
Your thumb brushes over her knuckles.
“Just me, skarbie.”
She goes still. There it is again. This time she does not ask immediately. She just looks at you. Like maybe she is afraid the meaning will be too much.
“Treasure.”
Her face crumples for half a second before she gets it under control.
“That's rude.”
“Affectionate.”
“Feels rude.”
“Because you don’t know how to be treasured.”
She looks away fast. Too late. You saw it land. You do not chase her with it. Not at work. Not where the ED can swallow the moment whole. You squeeze her hand once.
“Mara first. Talk to her and come to me with the paper she signs.”
She nods. “Okay.”
At the door, she pauses.
“Can you say it again later?”
our chest aches.
“Yes. I’ll use all of the ones you love most.”
She nods again then leaves and later, when she shows up at your apartment with red eyes and a signed paper folded badly in her pocket, you pull her into your arms and say it into her hair.
“Skarbie.”
She finally lets herself cry.
Four. moja gwiazdko
The fourth time happens on a good day. Which means it feels dangerous. Good days always do because good days make you want things. They make your body feel less like a negotiation. They make your apartment feel less like a recovery room and more like a home. They make Trinity Santos wearing your shirt in your kitchen feel less like an accident and more like a future with terrible impulse control. You wake up before her. No migraine. Hips quiet. Spine manageable. Wrists mostly staying where wrists belong. A miracle, a suspicious miracle.
Trinity is asleep beside you, face half buried in your pillow, one arm thrown across the empty space you had apparently slipped out of. Your shirt is twisted around her waist. One sock on, one sock missing. You’ll find it later under the dresser, where all her socks apparently migrate to breed. You sit at the edge of the bed and look around. Her hoodie on the chair. Her coffee in the fridge. Her badge on your nightstand. A hair tie around your wrist that you do not remember putting there.
Her life has leaked into yours. Slowly. Stubbornly. Like water finding cracks in stone. You should be terrified…you are terrified, but your body feels good and she is in your bed and the apartment is quiet and warm. So for once, fear has to wait its turn.
You crawl back over her, the mattress shifts and Trinity stirs.
“Mmm?”
“Wake up.”
One eye opens, then the other, she sees your face. Really sees it. Her sleepy confusion vanishes.
“Oh.”
You tilt your head.
“Oh?”
“You’re doing the face.”
“What face?”
“the one where I'm either in trouble or about to have a very good morning.”
you smile.
“both can be true.”
She wakes up fully after that.
The mattress dips as you settle over her, knees bracketing her hips. Trinity’s eyes are clearer now, dark and sharp even through the last haze of sleep. She stretches under you like a cat that knows it’s about to be fed, the hem of your stolen shirt riding higher up her thighs. One of her socks is still stubbornly on; the other foot is bare and warm where it brushes your calf.
“You’re really doing this before coffee?” she murmurs, voice gravel-rough. But her hands are already sliding up the backs of your thighs, palms possessive, thumbs pressing into the soft crease where leg meets ass.
“Coffee can wait,” you say, and lean down to kiss her.
It starts slowly because everything feels possible today. Your mouth moves against hers, unhurried, tasting the faint salt of sleep and the familiar mint of the toothpaste she stole last night. Trinity makes that low sound in her throat, the one that always unravels you, and suddenly the kiss isn’t slow anymore. She sits up halfway, one arm locked around your waist to hold you in her lap, the other fisting the front of your tank top like she might tear it off if you breathe wrong.
“Fuck, look at you,” she breathes against your lips. “All soft and dangerous on a good day. I hate how much I love it.”
You smile into the next kiss, nipping her bottom lip. “Then do something about it, Santos.”
She does.
Trinity flips you with the kind of easy strength that still makes your stomach flip. Resident hours and trauma calls have carved her into something lean and relentless. Your back hits the sheets, and she’s already shoving your tank up, mouth hot on your stomach, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just under your ribs. She lingers there, kissing and sucking marks like she’s claiming territory, one hand sliding between your legs to cup you through your underwear.
“You’re wet already,” she mutters, almost reverent. “Jesus. Good days really do turn you into a little slut for me, huh?”
The word lands perfectly, filthy and fond at the same time, and you arch into her touch with a shaky laugh that turns into a moan when she presses two fingers against your clit, rubbing slow circles through the fabric.
“Trinity...”
“Yeah, I know.” She hooks her fingers in your underwear and drags them down your legs, tossing them somewhere toward the growing pile of her own clothes. Then she’s between your thighs, shoulders spreading you open, mouth replacing her hand.
She eats you out like she’s starving and you’re the first real meal she’s had in days. No teasing, no slow build just her tongue licking broad and wet up your center, circling your clit, then dipping inside you with a groan that vibrates straight through your bones. One of her hands grips your hip hard enough to bruise; the other slides up your body to pinch and roll a nipple through your tank top.
You fist the sheets, hips rolling against her face. Every sound she makes—wet, hungry, appreciative—pushes you higher. When she sucks your clit between her lips and hums, your back bows off the bed.
“Fuck...Trin...baby...gonna...”
She doesn’t stop. Just doubles down, two fingers sliding into you without warning, curling hard against that spot that makes your vision spark white. You come with her name broken on your lips, thighs clamping around her head as the orgasm crashes through you, sharp and bright and overwhelming in the best way.
She works you through it, gentling her mouth but keeping her fingers moving until the aftershocks fade. Only then does she crawl up your body, kissing a wet trail over your stomach, between your breasts, until she reaches your mouth. You taste yourself on her tongue and moan into the kiss.
“Your turn,” you whisper, already reaching for the waistband of her borrowed shirt.
Trinity catches your wrist, presses it into the pillow above your head. Her eyes are blown dark, lips shiny.
“Not yet.” She grinds down against your thigh, letting you feel how soaked she is. “I want to fuck you properly first. While you’re still all soft and open from coming on my tongue.”
You shiver at the promise in her voice.
She reaches over to the nightstand, your nightstand, where her badge still sits like it belongs there, and pulls out the strap she left here two weeks ago. The sight of it in her hands makes heat pool low in your belly again. Trinity’s movements are efficient, practiced; she steps into the harness, tightening it around her hips while she watches you watch her. The thick, dark silicone cock juts out, obscene against the soft skin of her stomach.
“C’mere, baby.”
She pulls you up into her lap again, this time with your back to her chest. You settle over her thighs, her arms wrapping around you from behind. One hand cups your breast, rolling the nipple; the other guides the head of the strap to your entrance, rubbing it through your slick folds.
“Tell me,” she murmurs against your ear, teeth grazing the shell.
“Want it,” you breathe. “Need you inside me. Please...fuck please Daddy.”
She smirks as she pushes in slow, inch by inch, until you’re fully seated, stuffed full, and trembling. The stretch is perfect, bordering on too much in the most delicious way. Trinity’s breath is ragged against your neck.
“Fuck, you feel so good. Always take me so well.”
She starts to move, shallow rolls of her hips at first, letting you adjust, then deeper, harder thrusts that make the harness slap softly against your ass. Her hand slides down to rub your clit in tight circles while the other arm bands across your chest, holding you tight against her.
You brace one hand on her thigh, the other reaching back to grip her hair as she fucks you. Every thrust drags against that perfect spot inside; every circle of her fingers winds the coil tighter.
“Daddy...fuck...Daddy...harder...please!”
She growls and gives it to you, hips snapping up, teeth sinking into your shoulder. The angle lets you grind back against her, taking every inch, the wet sounds of your bodies filling the quiet apartment.
“Come on,” she pants. “Let me feel you. Come on my cock like the good girl you are.”
The words tip you over. You shatter with a cry, clenching around the strap so hard she groans like she can feel it. Trinity fucks you through it, drawing it out until you’re shaking and oversensitive, then gentles her thrusts to lazy rocks that keep you full while you come down.
She eases out carefully, kissing the back of your neck, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. The strap gets tossed aside; then she’s turning you in her arms, laying you down so she can settle between your legs again, this time just her body against yours, skin on skin.
Your hand finds her center, soaked and swollen. She’s trembling with need.
“My turn,”
Much later, when the bed is a wreck and your body has started politely informing you that miracles have time limits, trinity lies half on top of you, careful of the bad hip, tracing lazy shapes along your side.
Your hand moves through her hair. Slow, absent, domestic in a way that would have made earlier-you fake a phone call. Trinity lifts her head.
“Pain?”
“Some.”
“Heating pad?”
“In a minute.”
“Later?”
“In a minute.”
“Meds?”
You open one eye.
“Doctor Santos.”
She smiles.
“Yes?”
“You are ruining the afterglow with clinical competency.”
“Sorry. Habit.”
“Horrifying.”
She kisses your sternum through your shirt. Soft. you stare at the ceiling. then say,
“You need your own drawer.”
Trinity freezes.
“What?”
“The bottom drawer is currently in chaos. Your chaos. I am formalizing it.”
She pushes herself up, eyes wide.
“You're giving me a drawer?”
“I’m solving a storage issue.”
“You're giving me a drawer.”
“Your socks are unionizing under my dresser.”
“You're giving me a drawer.”
You sigh.
“Yes, Trinity. I'm giving you a drawer.”
Her face changes. The joy is so open it almost hurts to look at. Like you have handed her something much bigger than wood and empty space. You look away, too late. She sees. She always sees.
“Baby.”
“Don’t.”
“You like me living here.”
“I like not tripping over your shoes.”
“That's not a no.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
She gets quiet then. Not teasing or joking. Just looking at you with that awful softness. You touch her cheek before you can stop yourself.
“Moja gwiazdko,” you murmur.
Her breath catches.
“That one’s new.” She smiles softly up at you.
“My little star.”
she blinks. Once. Twice. Then her eyes shine.
You immediately regret everything and also nothing.
“You can’t just say that,” she whispers.
“Apparently I can.”
“I’m going to be so normal about it.”
“You are already failing.”
She laughs, then crawls up to kiss you. Gentle. Sweet. Dangerously close to worshipful. You let her. Because it is a good day. Because she has a drawer now. Because maybe some forms of staying do not have to look like a trap. Maybe some look like socks under a dresser and coffee in the fridge and a woman glowing because you called her your star.
Plus one. mahal ko
The first time Trinity uses Tagalog for you, it is not planned. You can tell because planned Trinity is terrible. Planned Trinity talks too much and overexplains and looks like she might vibrate through drywall. This is quieter later in your relationship. After the disclosure. After the drawer. After enough nights together that the bed feels wrong when she is not in it. After you have learned that love can still scare you and be real at the same time.
You are having a bad pain day. Not the cute kind. not the manageable kind where you make jokes and stubborn your way through. This is the ugly kind. The kind where your body feels like an enemy with excellent aim. You’re in bed with the heating pad against your lower back, migraine cap over your eyes, nausea meds taken in a double dose. Trinity sits beside you, one hand on your hip, not rubbing yet. just pressure.
You have already snapped at her twice. Once because she asked if you needed water. Once because she adjusted the blanket wrong. Both times she went quiet. Both times you apologized. Badly. Tiredly, but you did.
Now the room is dim. The tv is off. Your apartment is silent except for the air purifier and your uneven breathing. Trinity's thumb moves once against your hip.
“Do you want me to stay quiet?”
you swallow.
“Yes. Please.”
“Okay.”
She stays quiet. Not distant or cold. Just quiet. You hate that she knows the difference now. Somewhere between pain and sleep, you turn your face toward her.
“You can leave if you want.”
Trinity's hand stills. There it is, that old fear, old script. the ex-wife ghost at the foot of the bed, sighing with someone else’s lungs. Trinity leans closer. You can feel her before you see her.
“No.”
Your mouth twists.
“You don’t have to sit here and watch me be pathetic.”
Her voice is gentle, but firm.
“You’re not pathetic.”
“I’m not fun.”
“I’m not here because you’re fun.”
“Terrible reason to stay.”
“I'm here because I love you.”
You close your eyes under the migraine cap. The words still hit. Every time. Trinity brushes your hair back from the edge of the cap. Then, softly,
“Mahal ko.”
You still. The room seems to hush around it. You lift one hand and nudge the migraine cap up enough to see her.
“What?”
She freezes. Not afraid, just suddenly shy. Which is rare enough to be alarming.
“Nothing.”
“Trinity.”
She looks down then back at you.
“It means my love.”
Your throat tightens. Stupidly. Immediately. You stare at her. She fidgets with the edge of the blanket.
“I don’t know. You have polish. I wanted…” she trails off, embarrassed. “I wanted something too.”
The ache in your body does not disappear. Of course it doesn’t.
Love is not morphine. If it was you’d never be in pain again with Trinity around, but something in your chest softens around the pain. you reach for her hand. Your fingers are weak. She takes them carefully.
“Say it again…please”
Her face changes. Soft, open, yours. She leans down and presses a kiss to your knuckles the way you once did to hers.
“Mahal ko.”
Your eyes burn. Rude. She smiles, tiny and nervous.
“Is that okay?”
You swallow.
“Yes.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
Your voice is rough.
“Very okay.”
She settles beside you again, careful around every bad spot.
Her hand returns to your hip. Steady pressure. Warm, present, not sighing, not distant, not staying like a punishment. Staying like love. After a long moment, you whisper,
“Kochanie.”
She smiles against your shoulder.
“Mahal ko.”
“Show-off.”
“You started it.”
You huff. It almost becomes a laugh. Not quite, but enough. She kisses your shoulder and stays quiet again. Because you asked, because she listened, because somewhere along the way, the two of you built a language out of all the things that were too tender to say plainly.
Polish.
Tagalog.
Hands on hips. Pillows placed carefully. Drawers given. Water bottles refilled. Coming home. Staying and in the dark, with pain still humming through your body and trinity beside you calling you her love, you finally let yourself believe that some words do not come with exits hidden inside them. Some words are just doors. Open…warm…waiting.
Summary: Ever since your ex-wife left you because you became "too much" you've kept everyone at a distance so why is this R2 you're keeping things casual with getting under your skin?
word count: 12.7K
Warnings: chronic pain flare, mobility aid use, medical setting, ED/hospital stress, psych hold, stimulant-induced psychosis, paranoia/hallucinations, agitated patient, brief ableist comment, emotional insecurity, past relationship trauma, ex-wife emotional neglect, fear of being a burden, missed medication, pain flare care, crying/emotional breakdown, hurt/comfort, relationship labels angst, love confession
Authors note: This is a long one, but this...this was probably the most important part of their relationship.
By two in the afternoon, your patience was hanging by a thread. Which honestly wasn’t that unusual for the ED.
Your shoulders ached from hunching over charts all morning, your wrists burned every time you typed, and somewhere around noon your right hip had started throbbing hard enough you’d finally caved and switched from your cane to your chair.
The psych hold rooms were full. A nurse got screamed at by a patient high on meth. Mateo nearly got punched and Robby kept trying to page psych for things that were very obviously not psych consults.
So yes. Your patience was gone.
“You cannot diagnose someone with borderline personality disorder because she cried during an argument with her husband,” you deadpanned, staring at Ogilvie in front of you.
The poor guy blinked.
“Well when you say it like that-”
“Because that’s what happened.”
Behind you, someone snorted. You didn’t even have to turn around to know who it was. Cassie leaned against the counter beside your workstation with entirely too much amusement on her face.
“You’re being mean again.”
“I’m being correct.”
“Mm.” Cassie sipped her coffee. “You know HR usually prefers the first one.”
“HR can fight me.”
That dragged a laugh out of her. You turned back toward your laptop, already rubbing absently at the ache building in your wrist when suddenly, a familiar voice floated down the hallway.
“Excuse me, is psych consult always this terrifying or is today special?”
Your head snapped up immediately and there she was. Trinity stood near the nurses station in jeans and one of your hoodies, sunglasses perched on top of her head, keeping her hair from falling in her face. She had a takeout bag in one hand and a drink tray balanced in the other.
Your stomach did an embarrassing little flip instantly. Cassie noticed immediately.
“Oh my god,” she whispered dramatically. “You got heart eyes.”
“I absolutely do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
Trinity spotted you then and grinned immediately. There it was. That stupid warm expression she only got around you. Your entire body softened before you could stop it.
“Hi baby,” Trinity said casually as she walked over.
Cassie made a choking noise beside you. You ignored her with great dignity.
“What are you doing here?” you asked, trying for calm and failing slightly because Trinity leaned down to kiss your cheek like she belonged there. Which unfortunately, she kind of did.
“It’s my day off,” Trinity said like this explained everything. “And Mateo texted me that you threatened to throw a stapler at someone.”
“He exaggerated.”
“You asked if the stapler would improve their critical thinking skills.” Dana ended up pointing out from the nurses station.
“In my defense, it might.”
Trinity laughed softly and set the food down beside your laptop. The smell hit you immediately. Your favorite sandwich from the deli down the street. The soup you liked on bad pain days, and one of those electrolyte drinks Trinity was constantly trying to force into your system. You stared at it. Then at her.
“You brought me lunch?”
“You left without having breakfast.”
“I had a monster...”
“That’s not food.”
Cassie looked deeply emotional witnessing this.
“You two are disgusting,” she informed both of you.
“Jealousy is ugly on you,” Trinity shot back immediately.
Cassie pointed at the takeout bag accusingly. “She never brings me soup.”
“You don’t deserve soup.”
“Wow.”
Meanwhile you were still staring at Trinity a little too quietly.
Because this, this still got to you sometimes. The consistency of it. The way she noticed things; remembered things. Not because she had to. Because she wanted to.
Trinity caught your expression immediately.
“What?” she asked softer now.
You shook your head once.
“Nothing.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly like she knew you were lying, but she let you have the escape route.Instead she bumped her hip lightly against your chair.
“You eaten at all today?”
“…Maybe.”
“Y/N.”
You looked away immediately.
Cassie burst out laughing beside you.
“Oh she’s in TROUBLE trouble.”
“I am not.”
Trinity crossed her arms. “Baby.”
That word still hit like a truck every single time. Especially at work. Especially when she said it so naturally. You cleared your throat roughly.
“I’ve been busy.”
“Mhm.” Trinity slid the sandwich closer to you anyway. “Eat before you get meaner.”
“You like when I’m mean.”
“That’s different.”
Cassie physically gagged this time.
“Okay I’m leaving before one of you starts making out at the nurses station.”
“We’re at work,” you said flatly.
Trinity glanced at you innocently. “Coward.”
You choked on absolutely nothing while Cassie HOWLED laughing and walked away immediately yelling:
“MATEO YOU OWE ME TWENTY BUCKS THEY’RE FLIRTING AGAIN.”
Your face burned, but Trinity looked delighted.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
“I’m never flustered.”
“Baby, you literally stopped functioning because I brought you soup.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it again.
Because unfortunately that was a little true. Trinity’s expression softened after a second. Then quieter, gentler:
“You looked tired this morning.”
Your chest tightened unexpectedly. There it was again. That impossible softness. Not pity or obligation. Care, it was as simple as breathing. You swallowed hard and looked down at the food in front of you before muttering quietly,
“Thank you for lunch.”
Trinity smiled immediately. Warm enough to undo you a little.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “Always.”
You pat your lap. "Come here, I'll wheel us to the breakroom."
Trinity’s eyebrows lifted immediately.
“In the chair?” she asked, already grinning.
You looked at her flatly. “Don’t make it weird.”
“You literally just invited me onto your lap at work.”
“You brought me soup. This is your reward.”
“That’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
You rolled your eyes, but your hand stayed resting against your thigh expectantly.
“C’mere before I change my mind.”
Trinity looked entirely too pleased with herself as she stepped closer. Around you, the ED continued buzzing with noise. Phones ringing. Monitor alarms. Someone yelled for transport down the hallway and somehow Trinity still managed to make it feel like the two of you existed in your own little bubble inside the chaos.
“You know,” she murmured while carefully settling sideways onto your lap, “this is definitely gonna make people talk.”
“They already talk.”
“True.”
You tried very hard not to focus on the warmth of her pressed against you or the fact that she fit there disturbingly well or the way her arm immediately looped loosely around your shoulders like it belonged there. Dangerous. All of it.
Your hands settled automatically at her waist before you pushed the chair into motion toward the breakroom. From somewhere behind you, Mateo immediately shouted
“OH MY GOD TRINITY IS IN HER LAP!.”
You closed your eyes briefly.
“I’m revoking his rights.”
Trinity was shaking with laughter against your shoulder now.
“You can’t say that after giving me princess treatment in the hallway.”
“This is not princess treatment.”
“You’re literally chauffeuring me.”
“You have functioning legs.”
“And yet here I am.”
Unfortunately…she was. You caught sight of several nurses openly grinning as you rolled past.
You heard Princess whisper to Perlah “finally” under her breath.
Your soul briefly left your body.
“This is humiliating.” you said, slightly regretting this decision.
Trinity tilted her head to look at you, still smiling softly.
“No,” she said quietly enough only you could hear. “It’s sweet.”
That hit harder than it should have. Because there was a time not that long ago where something like this would’ve terrified you. Being seen caring openly. Being seen as soft, but Trinity made it feel strangely easy.
Even now, sitting sideways in your lap stealing fries out of the takeout bag before you’d even made it to the breakroom.
“Hey.”
“Those are mine.”
“You can’t prove that.”
“You literally brought this here for me.”
“And yet I’m still unconvinced.”
You snorted softly despite yourself, steering the chair carefully through the breakroom doorway. The second the door swung shut behind you, the noise of the ED dulled significantly. Trinity relaxed further against you immediately.
“This was so worth coming in on my day off,” she murmured.
You looked at her for a second too long. At the softness in her expression. At how naturally she occupied your space now. At how your body had stopped bracing against care every second she offered it.
Then you sighed quietly through your nose and leaned down just enough to press a quick kiss to her temple. Trinity froze slightly in surprise. Because you still didn’t initiate affection first very often. Not like this. When you pulled back, she was staring at you with that same warm look that always made your chest ache.
“What?” you muttered immediately.
“Nothing,” she said softly.
You and Trinity managed exactly five uninterrupted minutes. Five. Which, honestly, might’ve been a hospital record. Trinity was still half curled into your lap in the breakroom chair, stealing your fries despite having her own food sitting untouched beside her.
“You know,” she mused thoughtfully while chewing, “I think you only keep me around because I’m charming.”
“I keep you around because you keep bringing me soup.”
“That’s basically a marriage proposal in healthcare.” You snorted softly and reached for your drink.
For once, your pain had dulled to something manageable beneath the warmth of food and Trinity’s weight against you. The breakroom lights were dimmer than the ED outside. Rain tapped softly against the windows. Comfortable, Dangerously comfortable. Then the breakroom door swung open. Baran stepped inside, already holding a tablet in one hand. Her eyes landed on the two of you immediately. Then dropped to the fact Trinity was fully sitting in your lap. One eyebrow lifted.
“You know,” Baran said calmly, “most people use chairs traditionally.”
Trinity grinned without shame. “Where’s the fun in that?”
You sighed. “Please ignore her.”
“Unfortunately I can’t.” Baran glanced at the tablet again. “Because I need you. Which means she needs to get off you.”
The shift in your posture was immediate. Work mode. Trinity felt it happen beneath her instantly.
“What’ve we got?” you asked.
Baran’s expression flattened slightly in that specific way it always did when she was professionally irritated.
“Twenty-four-year-old male brought in by EMS. Neighbors called after he started screaming that people were inside his walls.” She handed you the tablet. “Possible stimulant use but he’s paranoid, agitated, and tried to climb out of the ambulance.”
You scanned the notes quickly. Heart rate elevated. Sleep deprivation. Visual hallucinations. Combative with EMS.
“Any psych history?”
“Unknown currently.” Baran crossed her arms loosely. “He’s escalating already.” You sighed quietly through your nose.
“Alright.”
The second you shifted like you were going to stand, Trinity was already moving automatically off your lap. Careful. Instinctive. You noticed and so did Baran. Neither of you commented on it.
“You okay to take this?” Baran asked then, quieter now. There it was.Not questioning your competence. Just checking. You appreciated that about her. Your hip was still throbbing. Wrists aching. Exhaustion heavy behind your eyes. But psych patients in crisis didn’t stop existing because your body hurt.
“Yeah,” you answered simply.
Trinity frowned slightly beside you though. She knew that particular tone. The one where you’d already decided to push through no matter what your pain level actually was.
“You sure?” she asked softly.
Your eyes flicked toward her automatically. And for just half a second, your expression softened.
“Yeah baby,” you murmured quietly. “I’m sure.”
That word still visibly affected Trinity every time. Baran absolutely noticed that too judging by the tiny smirk threatening at the corner of her mouth. Then she cleared her throat professionally.
“The patient’s in Hold Three. Security’s nearby in case he escalates further.” You nodded once and reached for the wheels of your chair.
Immediately Trinity grabbed your drink before it could spill. Then your sandwich. Then your phone. Like she’d been doing this forever. The tiny domesticity of it hit you right in the chest.
“You didn’t finish eating,” Trinity pointed out quietly while walking beside your chair toward the door.
“I’ll survive.”
“That’s not what I said.” You glanced up at her.
At the concern she was trying not to make obvious. She still hovered just slightly whenever your pain was bad. Once upon a time that would’ve made you defensive immediately. Now it just made something warm settle low beneath your ribs.
“I’ll eat after the consult,” you promised softly. Trinity narrowed her eyes slightly like she didn’t entirely believe you. Which was fair. Then she leaned down quickly before you reached the hallway and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. Your entire brain short-circuited for a second. Because she’d done it without thinking. Like caring about you had become instinct now. Baran looked deeply entertained.
“You two are nauseating.”
“You love us,” Trinity shot back immediately.
Baran sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately.”
But as you rolled back into the noise and chaos of the ED, Trinity falling into step beside your chair without hesitation, you caught yourself thinking something dangerous again. Home. Her beside you. That feeling. By the time you reached Psych Hold Three, the hallway already felt tense. Security stood outside the room. One nurse looked two seconds away from quitting and somewhere inside, someone was yelling loud enough to echo down the corridor.
“I KNOW YOU PUT THEM IN THE VENTS!”
Something slammed violently against the wall. Beside your chair, Baran handed you the tablet while walking. You skimmed the notes rapidly again, a double check you always did. Paranoia. Sleep deprivation. Visual hallucinations. Escalating agitation. Your jaw tightened slightly.
“Vitals?”
“Tachycardic. BP’s elevated.” Baran glanced toward the room.
You nodded once.
“Still nothing for psych history?”
“Nothing confirmed yet.” As you approached the doorway, Cassie appeared carrying meds and immediately slowed beside you.
“You good?” she asked quietly.
There it was again. That careful check-in people at work had learned to do without making it weird. Your hip was throbbing from sitting too long already. Your wrists burned from pushing your chair across the department. Fatigue sat heavy behind your eyes, but the patient came first.
“Yeah,” you answered simply.
Cassie narrowed her eyes slightly like she didn’t fully believe you.
Also fair.
Inside the room, the patient paced frantically near the bed, hospital gown half hanging off one shoulder. Sweat dampened his hairline. His eyes darted wildly toward the ceiling vents before snapping toward the doorway the second security opened it.
“There!” he shouted immediately. “More of them!”
Security stiffened. You lifted a hand calmly without looking away from the patient.
“Easy.”
Your voice shifted automatically into work mode. Grounded. Controlled. Steady. The patient’s gaze locked onto you instantly. You stayed near the doorway at first, chair angled sideways instead of directly facing him. Less confrontational.
“My name’s Y/N,” you said evenly. “I’m psych. What’s your name?”
“They already know my fucking name!” His breathing sped up again. You nodded once.
“That sounds exhausting.”
The patient blinked in surprise because you weren’t arguing with him.
“They won’t stop talking,” he muttered rapidly. “Through the walls. Through the vents. They keep saying my name.”
“Have you slept recently?”
“No because THEY WON’T LET ME.” He shouted the last part loud enough that Cassie visibly tensed near the wall.
You noticed the tremor in his hands. Skin picking along his fingers. Rapid speech. Likely stimulant-induced psychosis layered over severe sleep deprivation.
“You know what I think?” you asked calmly. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“What?”
“I think your brain’s overwhelmed right now.”
He laughed once sharply. “You think I’m crazy.”
“No.” Your voice stayed even. “I think you’re scared.”
That landed. The patient’s pacing slowed slightly. Not safe yet, but reachable. The patient scrubbed both hands over his face suddenly.
“They won’t leave me alone.”
“You’ve probably been running on adrenaline for days,” you said gently. “No sleep. No real rest. That can make your brain do some terrifying things.” His eyes flicked toward your chair suddenly. Then lingered.
“You a doctor?”
“Psychiatrist. So yes I am. I just don't deal with physical sickness.”
“You’re in a wheelchair.” Blunt. Not cruel.
You nodded once. “Sometimes.” The patient stared another second.
Then unexpectedly, “And they still let you work here?”
Cassie immediately looked like she wanted to fight someone on your behalf despite the patient clearly not meaning harm. You stayed calm.
“Yep.” A strange quiet settled over the room after that.
Because suddenly the patient looked at you differently.
“You look tired too,” he muttered.
A snort escaped Cassie before she could stop it. You shot her a flat look over your shoulder. Cassie immediately held both hands up. “Sorry.”
The patient actually cracked the faintest confused smile at that. Good, human moments mattered during de-escalation. You leaned forward slightly despite the protest from your spine.
“Can you do me a favor?”
His shoulders tensed warily again. “What?”
“Sit down for thirty seconds while we talk.” Silence. Then finally, slowly, he sat on the edge of the bed. The room visibly relaxed. Security loosened slightly near the door. Cassie exhaled softly. You kept your voice steady.
“Thank you.”
The patient rubbed hard at his eyes again suddenly, exhaustion finally beginning to crack through the paranoia.
“I just want it to stop.”
And there it was underneath everything else. Fear. Your expression softened despite yourself.
“We’re gonna help with that,” you promised quietly. From beside the wall, Cassie glanced toward you briefly. That look people got sometimes after watching you work. Respect. Pride. A little awe. You still never quite knew what to do with it. The patient stared at you hard after that. Like he was trying to decide whether you were lying to him. Paranoia still buzzed visibly beneath his skin. His knee bounced rapidly where he sat on the edge of the bed, fingers picking harshly at the skin around his thumb. You kept your posture relaxed despite the ache beginning to burn hotter through your back.
“I’ve got some medicine that’ll help with feeling scared,” you said gently.
His eyes flicked immediately toward Cassie where she stood quietly near the wall holding the meds. Suspicion flashed across his face.
“You trying to knock me out?”
“No.” Your tone stayed even. “I’m trying to help your brain slow down enough that you can breathe again.” The patient swallowed hard. You softened your voice just slightly more.
“Are you willing to work with me here and try it?” you asked. “See, you’d think medicine would be an exact science, but…” You lifted one shoulder lightly. “Humans are weird.” That got the faintest confused huff out of him. Good.
“So this might help,” you continued carefully, “or maybe it doesn’t help enough and we try something else, okay?” His breathing had slowed some now. Still anxious. Still frightened, but listening.
“Won’t make it worse?” he asked wearily. Something in your chest tightened at that question. Because fear like this always came from somewhere. Bad experiences. Mistrust. People forcing things instead of explaining them.
“No,” you answered immediately, firmly enough that he looked back up at you again. “Definitely not that. I promise.” You held his gaze steadily. “I’m here to help.” Silence settled over the room for a second. Then finally; a tiny nod. Cassie visibly relaxed beside the wall.
“There we go,” you murmured softly. “Thank you.” The patient rubbed at his face again, exhaustion dragging at him harder now that the adrenaline spike was beginning to ebb. Cassie approached slowly after you gave her a small nod. No sudden movements. No crowding. You watched carefully while she explained the medication again in simpler terms, letting him see everything before he took it. Control mattered. Especially when someone felt like they’d lost all of it already. The patient hesitated only briefly before taking the cup with shaky hands.
“There you go,” Cassie said gently. You caught the way her voice softened during psych holds sometimes despite how guarded she usually acted in the ED. People underestimated how deeply she cared. The patient swallowed the meds and leaned back against the bed afterward looking utterly exhausted. The fight was draining out of him now. Good. You stayed where you were for another minute instead of immediately pushing further. No interrogation. No overwhelming questions. Just presence. Eventually the patient looked back toward you again.
“You really think this’ll stop?” You tilted your head slightly.
“I think you haven’t slept properly in days,” you answered honestly. “And I think your brain deserves a chance to rest before we decide anything else.” He looked at you for a long moment. Then quietly:
“You talk different than the other doctors.” Before you could answer, Cassie snorted softly.
“That’s because she’s terrifyingly good at this.”
You shot her a flat look immediately. Cassie only shrugged innocently. The patient looked between the two of you, confusion slowly giving way to something calmer now that the panic wasn’t swallowing him whole anymore.
Then unexpectedly: “You guys friends?” The question caught both of you slightly off guard. Cassie recovered first.
“Unfortunately.”
You sighed. “I’m surrounded by comedians.” That finally pulled a weak tired laugh from the patient, and just like that, The room softened completely. The patient sat there breathing hard through his nose, the medication not fully kicking in yet but enough that the frantic edge had started dulling around the corners. His shoulders weren’t up around his ears anymore. His eyes tracked the room less frantically. Still scared. But reachable now. You shifted slightly in your chair, ignoring the sharp protest from your hip.
“Okay,” you said gently. “I have two options for you.” The patient blinked at that.
“You have to pick one though, okay?” After a second, he nodded once.
“Okay good.” Your voice stayed warm and even. “Option one: I stay here for a bit and we talk.” His expression tightened slightly. You shook your head immediately.
“Doesn’t have to be about this,” you reassured him. “Could be literally anything. Favorite movie. Music. Worst fast food experiences. Whatever.” That got the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Beside the wall, Cassie looked deeply entertained watching you casually therapize someone with Taco Bell conversations.
“Option two,” you continued, “we leave you alone and let you try to sleep for a little while.” The patient looked down at his hands for a long moment. You didn’t rush him. That was the thing most people got wrong during psych crises. They rushed. Filled silence. Demanded regulation from someone whose brain physically couldn’t do it yet. Eventually he looked back up.
“You’d stay?”
“Yep.”
“You don’t got other patients?” Cassie snorted softly under her breath.
You ignored her.
“I do,” you admitted honestly. “But right now I’m with you.” The patient stared at you again with that same strange almost suspicious confusion people sometimes got when they weren’t expecting kindness.
“You don’t gotta babysit me.”
“There’s that word again,” you said softly. His eyebrows furrowed slightly.
“Babysit.”
You leaned back slightly in your chair.
“I’m not here because I have to keep you under control,” you explained gently. “I’m here because you’re having a rough time and people deserve help when they’re scared.” The room went very quiet after that. Even Cassie’s expression softened slightly near the wall. The patient scrubbed a hand hard over his face.
“I’m tired,” he admitted finally. There it was. Not paranoia.
Not yelling. Just exhaustion. Your expression softened instinctively.
“Then I think maybe your brain’s telling us what it needs.” He looked at the bed uncertainly.
“You really think I can sleep?”
“I think your body’s been running a marathon for days.” You gave him a small shrug. “Might not be perfect sleep. But I think rest would help.” The patient nodded slowly.
“Okay,” he mumbled.
“Okay which one?” A tiny pause.
“Nap.”
“Excellent choice,” you said immediately, like he’d won something. That earned another weak almost-laugh out of him. You nodded toward the bed gently.
“Why don’t you get comfortable for me then?” He hesitated only briefly before pulling his legs up onto the bed fully this time. Not curled defensively anymore. Just tired. Cassie quietly stepped forward to dim the lights slightly while security relaxed near the doorway. You noticed the patient watching all of it carefully. Watching how nobody grabbed him. Nobody barked orders. Nobody treated him like a threat now that he’d calmed. Control returned in tiny pieces. Important pieces. You rolled your chair back slightly toward the door once he settled against the pillow.
“I’m gonna check back in a little bit, okay?” The patient looked toward you again.
Then quieter now:
“...Thanks.”
You nodded once.
“You’re welcome.”
And as the door shut quietly behind you, Cassie looked over at you with that same expression people always got after watching you work.
“You know,” she muttered while the two of you headed back toward the nurses station, “it’s actually really annoying how good you are at that.” You snorted softly.
“Jealous?”
“Deeply.” Cassie glanced sideways at you. “Your girlfriend’s gonna hear about this by the way.” Your stomach did an embarrassing little flip immediately.
“She already thinks I hung the moon.”
Cassie grinned. “And you’re pretending you don’t love it?” You rolled your eyes at Cassie’s comment automatically.
“She already thinks I hung the moon.”
Cassie grinned immediately. “And you’re pretending you don’t love it?”
“Goodbye, Cass.”
“Oh my god you do love it.” You pushed your chair forward before she could say anything else. Cassie’s laughter followed you halfway down the hallway. Normally you would’ve let it roll off you. Normally you were better at compartmentalizing. But the word stuck. Girlfriend. Your hands tightened slightly against the wheels of your chair as you turned back toward the breakroom. Girlfriend.
The fluorescent hallway lights buzzed overhead while nurses moved around you in organized chaos. Somewhere nearby someone called for respiratory. Phones rang endlessly at the nurses station, but your brain snagged hard on that one stupid word. Because technically, technically Trinity wasn’t your girlfriend. Neither of you had actually said that. There’d been no conversation. No defining things. No moment. This had started casual. Just sex. Then staying over. Then movie nights. Then Trinity memorizing your favorite energy drinks and bringing you soup on bad pain days and somehow leaving hoodies all over your apartment like she belonged there. Somewhere along the line, the lines blurred completely and apparently everyone else noticed before you did. You slowed near the hallway corner. Then stopped entirely. A nurse squeezed past you with a muttered apology you barely registered. Girlfriend. The thought should’ve made you panic. Honestly, a few months ago it probably would have. You remembered the beginning too clearly still.
Trinity showing up cocky and exhausted after brutal shifts. Too pretty. Too loud. Too young. An R2 with a chip on her shoulder and something to prove. You’d pegged her immediately as dangerous. Not because she was reckless. Because she cared too easily.
You remembered how sharp you’d been with her in those early mornings after hookups.
How quickly you’d shoved distance back between you every time she softened. No coffee. No staying too long. No accidental intimacy. You’d thought if you controlled the pace carefully enough, you could keep this from becoming something capable of hurting you. Then Trinity ruined everything by staying. Not dramatically. Just consistently. Showing up after shifts. Remembering your flare patterns. Learning how to hand you things without making you feel helpless. Texting you dumb memes at 2 a.m. Curling around you in bed like your body wasn’t something difficult to navigate.
And worst of all…she never treated care like debt accumulating. Your ex-wife used to sigh eventually. Withdraw eventually. Keep score eventually.
Trinity just…loved loudly, openly, without strategy. The realization settled heavily in your chest as you sat there in the middle of the ED hallway. Because somewhere along the way, you’d stopped bracing for her to leave every second. Your apartment smelled like her shampoo half the week now. She knew the code to your door. You automatically looked for her after rough consults and apparently your coworkers casually referred to her as your girlfriend because to everyone else this was obvious. Your throat tightened unexpectedly. You looked down at your hands resting against the wheels of your chair. At the slight tremor in your fingers from pain and exhaustion. Then quietly muttered to yourself:
“Jesus Christ.” Because somehow without meaning to you’d let someone all the way in. And terrifyingly enough? You didn’t want her back out. By the time you made it back to the breakroom, your brain still hadn’t shut up. Girlfriend. The word echoed around your skull obnoxiously while you pushed through the door. Inside, Trinity sat sideways in one of the chairs scrolling on her phone with your untouched soup beside her. The second she looked up and saw you, her entire face lit up. Instantly. Like seeing you again after twenty minutes apart genuinely improved her day.
Your chest tightened so hard it almost hurt.
“There she is,” Trinity said warmly, locking her phone immediately. “How’d it go?” You rolled further into the room slowly.
“Stimulant-induced psychosis most likely,” you answered, parking beside the table. “Severe sleep deprivation. Paranoia. Hallucinations.” Trinity’s expression softened into immediate focus while you talked. Listening. Actually listening.
“He ended up agreeing to meds,” you continued, reaching automatically for your drink. “Finally got him to sit down long enough to breathe.”
“That’s good.” Trinity leaned her chin into her hand while watching you carefully. “You de-escalated him?” You snorted softly.
“No, I challenged him to a fistfight.”
“That’s my girl.” The words slipped out casually. Unthinking. Your stomach flipped stupidly fast. Trinity didn’t seem to notice she’d said it or maybe she did. Hard to tell with her sometimes.
“He just needed someone to stop treating him like a threat for five minutes,” you muttered after a second quieter now. “Guy was terrified.” Trinity’s expression changed again then. That look. The one she always got after hearing you talk about psych patients. Soft. Proud. A little wrecked by you.
“You’re really good at this,” she said quietly. Your eyes dropped immediately to the table.
Deflection rose automatically to your tongue, then stalled. Because suddenly you were too aware of everything. Her sitting here on her day off waiting for you. The soup she brought. Cassie’s stupid comment. The fact that Trinity’s face still brightened every time you walked into a room. Dangerous. You cleared your throat roughly instead.
“Cassie laughed at me.”
“That’s because Cassie’s in love with workplace drama.”
“No, she laughed because the patient told me I looked tired.”
Trinity burst into immediate laughter.
“Oh my god.”
“You’re both awful.”
“You do look tired.”
“I’m leaving you here.”
“You’d miss me.” Unfortunately… Yeah. You would. The realization hit again sharp and unavoidable. Trinity tilted her head slightly while studying your face.
“You okay?” Too perceptive. Always too perceptive.
“Fine.”
“Hm.” She didn’t sound convinced. Before she could push further though, the breakroom door opened again and Cassie McKay wandered in carrying a chart.
“There you are,” Cassie said casually before looking between the two of you with entirely too much amusement. “Your girlfriend’s been hoarding your soup.” Your stomach dropped instantly. You went still and beside the table Trinity laughed softly and shook her head.
“She’s not my girlfriend.” The words landed like a slap you absolutely did not expect. Not because they were wrong. Technically they weren’t, but something in your chest still twisted painfully hard anyway. You looked down immediately before your face could give anything away. Across the room, Cassie visibly froze too like she realized she’d accidentally stepped into something awkward.
“Oh,” Cassie muttered. “I just assumed…”
“We’re keeping it casual,” Trinity said easily, completely unaware of the sudden roaring in your ears. Casual. That’s what this was supposed to be. You were the one who wanted that. The one who built those boundaries. The one who shoved her away every time things got too soft too real too dangerous. So why did hearing Trinity say it now make you feel vaguely sick? You forced your expression flat before either of them could notice anything.
“Well,” you muttered lightly, reaching for your soup finally, “glad we cleared up the workplace rumors.” Trinity grinned at you easily from across the table. Somehow that almost made it worse. You forced yourself to smile anyway. You were the one who insisted on this. The one who kept shoving labels away every time they got too close.
So you swallowed the weird ache in your throat and leaned forward just enough to press a quick kiss against Trinity’s cheek. Soft. Brief. Professional enough for work.
“You should probably get out of here before Robby sees you and ropes you into a surgery,” you joked lightly.
Trinity laughed immediately.
“Oh my god, don’t even manifest that.”
“I’m serious. He can smell free labor.”
“Rude.”
“Am I wrong?”
“No,” Trinity admitted while standing. “That man cornered me in an elevator once.”
You snorted softly despite yourself.
Trinity grabbed her bag off the floor then looked back toward you again automatically.
That same warm look.
Like leaving you behind for the rest of her day genuinely sucked a little.
“I’ll text you later?” she asked.
Not assuming.
Still asking.
Something about that made the tightness in your chest worse.
“Yeah,” you answered quietly.
Trinity smiled softly.
Then without hesitation she leaned down and kissed the top of your head quickly before heading toward the door.
Your entire brain short-circuited for half a second.
“Bye baby.”
“Bye, Trin.”
And then she was gone.
The breakroom door swung shut behind her.
Silence lasted approximately two seconds.
Then suddenly—
Hands slammed dramatically onto the armrests of your chair from behind.
“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?”
You physically jumped.
“Jesus Christ!”
Cassie McKay looked personally betrayed standing behind your chair.
“You’re IN LOVE.”
You stared at her flatly.
“I’m actually calling security.”
Cassie ignored you completely and spun your chair slightly toward her with scandalized energy.
“You let her kiss your forehead at work.”
“It was the top of my head.”
“THAT’S WORSE.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose immediately.
“Cassie—”
“No no no.” She pointed aggressively at you now. “Do you know how emotionally intimate that is?”
“She brought me soup.”
“She called you baby like six times.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
Cassie looked at you like she’d just witnessed a car accident.
“You looked devastated when she said you weren’t dating.”
Your stomach dropped instantly.
Because apparently your face had betrayed you more than you thought.
You looked away immediately.
Cassie’s expression shifted almost comically fast from chaos to realization.
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t.”
“You want her to be your girlfriend.”
You rubbed hard at your forehead.
“Cassie.”
“You absolute disaster.”
“She literally just said we’re casual.”
Cassie stared at you for a long moment.
Then very slowly:
“Did you ever ask for anything else?”
Silence.
Annoying.
Awful.
Insightful silence.
Because no.
You hadn’t.
You were the one who drew the lines originally.
The one who insisted on casual.
The one who panicked every time Trinity got too soft, too close, too caring.
Cassie watched the realization hit you in real time.
Then sighed dramatically.
“Oh this is painful.”
“Why are you still here?”
“Because unfortunately I care about you.” Cassie leaned against the table now, crossing her arms. “Also because watching emotionally unavailable people realize they accidentally developed feelings is my favorite hobby.”
You glared at her weakly.
Cassie only grinned wider.
“You know what the funniest part is?”
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“She definitely loves you too.”
Your chest tightened violently.
You scoffed immediately on instinct.
“She literally just said-”
“She said she’s not your girlfriend.” Cassie cut you off. “That’s not the same thing.”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it again.
Because suddenly your brain was replaying every moment from the last few months:
Trinity bringing you lunch on her day off.
Learning your medication schedule.
Sleeping curled around you carefully during flares.
Showing up.
Staying.
Caring without hesitation.
Casual people didn’t do that.
Did they?
Cassie watched your expression carefully before softening slightly.
“You know,” she said quieter now, “you’re allowed to want something real.”
The words hit harder than you expected. Because somewhere deep down, part of you still believed wanting things from people was dangerous. That eventually they’d resent you for it. You looked toward the closed breakroom door where Trinity disappeared a few minutes ago. Then quietly muttered:
“Well that’s deeply unfortunate timing.”
Cassie kept staring at you with that deeply irritating expression. Like she’d solved a puzzle. You hated that expression.
“You know,” she mused, leaning against the table beside your chair, “this explains a lot.”
“Oh my god.”
“You were never this weird about anyone else.”
“I’m not weird.”
Cassie barked out a laugh loud enough that someone outside the breakroom glanced in briefly.
“You looked like someone shot your dog when she said you weren’t dating.”
You rubbed both hands over your face tiredly.
Your joints ached.
Your shift wasn’t even close to over.
And somehow your emotional crisis had become Cassie’s entertainment for the day.
“This conversation is ending now.”
“No it absolutely is not.”
You sighed dramatically toward the ceiling before finally looking back at her.
“You. Me. After work.”
Cassie blinked once.
“I’d say a bar but…”
“It can be a bar.” Cassie shrugged immediately. “I’m sober, not abstinent. I can drink soda.”
You nodded once.
“Okay. Bar after work and I’ll explain it.”
Cassie immediately straightened like she’d just been handed classified government information.
“Oh my god there’s a backstory.”
“But,” you cut in sharply, “you tell no one.”
Cassie opened her mouth.
You pointed directly at her.
“No seriously. If you tell this to anyone in this hospital,” Your voice dropped lower, calmer, more dangerous somehow. “I mean anyone. I will do psychological torture on you in such a subtle and horrifying way you won’t realize it’s happening until it’s far too late.”
Silence. Cassie stared at you. Not joking. Actually staring. Because your tone had changed completely. Still dry. Still controlled. But serious enough that it clearly caught her off guard.
“Okay,” she said slowly, hands lifting slightly in surrender. “Okay. Jesus.”
You held her gaze another second longer before finally leaning back slightly in your chair.
“I’m serious.”
Cassie studied your face carefully now.
The humor faded from her expression little by little, replaced by something quieter.
More understanding.
“You’re really scared about this, huh?”
The question landed harder than you expected.
By the time your shift finally ended, you felt half dead.
Your wrists ached from charting.
Your hip was screaming from a twelve-hour day in the chair.
And emotionally?
Emotionally you felt like someone had cracked your ribs open and left all your nerves exposed.
𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹
Which was exactly how you ended up at a bar with Cassie at 9pm drinking soda instead of going home and pretending you weren’t having a crisis about your maybe-girlfriend.
The place was mostly quiet this late.
Dim lighting.
Low music.
A few exhausted healthcare workers scattered around nursing drinks like they’d all collectively survived battle.
You sat in a booth near the back with your cane leaned against the table now that you were out of the chair. Your joints protested every small movement after long shifts like this.
Cassie slid a basket of fries toward you.
“Eat.”
“I hate that all of you are bossy.”
“You attract bossy women somehow.”
You snorted softly and stole one of the fries anyway.
Cassie watched you over the rim of her soda cup for a second before speaking.
“So.”
You immediately pointed at her.
“If you say ‘your girlfriend’ I’m leaving.”
Cassie grinned.
“Interesting that you didn’t say she isn’t your girlfriend.”
You groaned quietly and leaned your head back against the booth.
“You’re exhausting.”
“And yet here you are voluntarily spending time with me after work.”
“Temporary lapse in judgment.”
“Mhm.”
Silence settled for a minute after that.
Not uncomfortable exactly.
Just…waiting.
Eventually Cassie nudged your foot lightly beneath the table.
“Okay seriously.” Her voice softened slightly. “What’s going on in that giant scary psychiatrist brain?”
You stared down at your drink for a long moment before answering.
“She said it so easily.”
Cassie frowned slightly. “What?”
“That we’re casual.” You laughed once softly without humor. “Like it didn’t even make her hesitate.”
Cassie watched your face carefully.
“You think she doesn’t want more.”
“I think she’s respecting what I asked for.”
That shut Cassie up briefly.
Because there it was.
The actual problem.
You rubbed your thumb slowly against the condensation on your glass.
“When this started…” You exhaled quietly. “I didn’t want serious. I couldn’t.”
Cassie nodded slightly but didn’t interrupt.
“She was just supposed to be…” You gestured vaguely. “Fun. Easy. No expectations.”
Despite yourself, you laughed softly into your drink.
Then sighed.
“She got under my skin,” you admitted quietly. “And I didn’t even notice it happening until suddenly she had a code to my apartment and knew my medication schedule.”
Cassie’s expression softened.
“She sees me,” you said after another pause. “Like really sees me. And instead of running she just…” Your throat tightened slightly. “Stays.”
The word sat heavy between you.
Cassie leaned back against the booth slowly.
“So what’s the problem?”
You looked at her like she’d asked something ridiculous.
“The problem,” you said flatly, “is that people don’t stay forever.”
There it was.
The thing underneath everything else.
Cassie’s face changed slightly then.
Not teasing anymore.
Just listening.
You stared out toward the dim neon lights behind the bar instead of at her.
“My ex-wife used to look at me like Trinity does.”
The words came quieter now.
Careful.
Cassie didn’t speak.
“At first she was amazing,” you continued softly. “Appointments. Meds. Bad nights. She handled all of it.”
Your jaw tightened slightly.
“Until eventually she didn’t.”
The bar noise faded strangely around the edges while you spoke.
“She got tired,” you admitted. “Not all at once. Slowly.” You laughed once under your breath. “I think that was worse honestly.”
Cassie stayed quiet.
Giving you room.
“By the end…” You swallowed hard. “Every flare felt like I was ruining her life.”
Something angry flickered across Cassie’s expression immediately.
“She actually made you feel like that?”
“She didn’t have to say it directly.” Your fingers tightened slightly around your glass. “You can tell when someone starts loving you like an obligation instead of a person.”
Silence.
Then quieter:
“And now Trinity does one nice thing and your brain immediately starts waiting for the expiration date.”
You looked up sharply.
Cassie only shrugged slightly.
“I know addiction,” she said softly. “And I know what it looks like when someone’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
You looked back down at the table.
“She deserves someone easier.”
Cassie immediately looked annoyed again.
“Okay first of all, if you say that one more time I’m throwing this soda at you.”
You snorted quietly.
“I’m serious.” Cassie leaned forward now. “You don’t get to decide what’s too hard for her.”
You opened your mouth.
She pointed at you immediately.
“Nope. Listen.” Her voice softened slightly. “That girl adores you.”
Your throat tightened again.
“And honestly?” Cassie added, leaning back again. “I think it scares the shit out of you that someone finally loves you in a way that feels safe.”
The words hit hard enough you couldn’t immediately answer.
Because sitting there in the dim light of the bar with your soda and aching joints and Trinity still lingering in your chest like warmth, you realized Cassie might be right.
Cassie watched you quietly for a long moment after that.
The noise of the bar hummed softly around you both. Low music. Glasses clinking somewhere near the counter. A tired group of nurses laughing too loudly three booths over.
You kept your eyes fixed on your soda.
“Look,” Cassie said finally, voice quieter now, “I’m not a psychiatrist like you, Y/N… but I know people.”
You huffed softly through your nose. “Debatable.”
Cassie ignored that.
“When you and your ex wife first got together…” She tilted her head slightly. “Your body wasn’t like it is now, was it?”
The question settled heavily in your chest.
You looked down at the table for a second before answering.
“No.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around one of the fries.
“Pain in my knees started when I was a teenager,” you admitted quietly. “Right before high school.”
Cassie listened without interrupting.
“She was there for that part.” You gave a tiny shrug. “But it wasn’t bad back then. Just a brace on my left knee. Physical therapy.” A humorless little laugh escaped you. “It helped for a while.”
Your throat tightened slightly.
“We didn’t know what it was yet.” Your gaze drifted somewhere distant past the bar lights. “Thought it was one thing, then suddenly it became more than my knees.”
Fatigue.
Joint instability.
Pain spreading slowly through your body year after year.
You still remembered every stage of it.
The cane.
The first mobility aid.
The first time a doctor mentioned the possibility of needing a chair eventually.
You remembered your ex-wife’s face every single time.
Cassie’s expression softened carefully.
“She married the version of you from high school,” she said quietly. “And when you slowly stopped being able to be that person…” Her jaw tightened slightly. “She left anyway.”
Your chest ached sharply at how simple she made it sound.
Because underneath all the medical terminology and complicated history—
Yeah.
That was what it felt like.
Like you’d failed at remaining someone lovable.
“I know that kills trust faster than almost anything,” Cassie continued. “But you wanna know the difference between her and Trinity?”
You gave a small shrug, poking absentmindedly at one fry with another.
Cassie leaned forward slightly across the table.
“Trinity knows exactly who you are, Y/N.”
Your eyes lifted automatically.
“All of it,” Cassie said firmly. “The good, the bad, the ugly.”
Your throat tightened immediately.
“She’s seen your pain flares. She’s seen you exhausted and mean and emotionally constipated.” Cassie snorted softly. “She’s seen you shut down and push people away and panic every time someone gets too close.”
You rolled your eyes weakly. “You make me sound delightful.”
“You’re missing the point.”
Cassie’s voice softened further.
“She’s seen all of that,” she repeated, “and she still loves you.”
The words hit hard enough you physically stilled.
Love.
Cassie said it so casually.
Like it was obvious.
Like maybe everyone could already see it except you.
“She looks at you like you hung the moon,” Cassie murmured. “And not because you’re easy.”
Your eyes burned unexpectedly.
Cassie kept going anyway.
“She doesn’t care that you’re older than her.” A shrug. “She doesn’t care that you use your chair or your cane or your rollator.”
Your grip tightened slightly around the fry in your hand.
“She doesn’t care if she has to help sort your meds one day,” Cassie continued softly. “Or help you shower because your pain’s too bad.”
Your breath caught slightly.
Because your ex-wife used to sigh during those moments near the end. Quietly. Like exhaustion she couldn’t hide anymore.
Cassie’s gaze stayed steady on yours.
“Trinity loves every part of you.”
Silence swallowed the booth afterward. You looked away first because suddenly your eyes stung too much. The neon lights blurred slightly around the edges.
“You don’t know that,” you said quietly.
Cassie snorted immediately.
“Please. That girl would fistfight God for you.”
Despite yourself, a startled laugh escaped you.
Cassie smiled faintly at the sound.
Then softer:
“And honestly? I think you love her too.”
Your chest tightened so painfully it almost stole your breath.
Because sitting there in the dim light with your aching joints and half-finished soda and Trinity still lingering in every soft place inside you…
You realized the terrifying thing wasn’t that Cassie might be wrong. It was that she was probably right. The tears slipped out before you could stop them. Quiet. Hot against your skin. You looked away immediately, scrubbing hard at your face with the heel of your hand before Cassie could say anything about it.
“Don’t,” you muttered roughly.
Cassie, to her credit, didn’t make a joke. She just sat there quietly across from you while the noise of the bar blurred softly around the edges. Your phone buzzed against the table. You almost ignored it.
Almost.
Then the screen lit up.
Trin <3 : you coming home? [Picture]
Your breath caught.
You opened it automatically.
And there she was.
Spread out across your couch in one of her tank tops with a blanket tangled around her legs. Hair messy. Pouting dramatically at the camera like she’d been waiting long enough to become personally offended about it.
Your couch. Your apartment. Home.
Something in your chest folded in on itself painfully soft. Cassie watched your entire expression change in real time.
“Oh my god,” she whispered dramatically. “You are gone.”
You barely heard her. Because suddenly all you could focus on was Trinity laying there in your space like she belonged in it. Like she belonged with you. Another text came through immediately after.
Trin <3 : i stole one of your hoodies btw
Trin <3 : and before you ask no im not giving it back
A watery laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Cassie looked deeply vindicated.
“There she is,” she said softly.
You shook your head weakly, staring down at the photo again.
Your chest hurt.
Not in the frightening way anymore.
In the overwhelming way.
The I don’t know what to do with being loved this gently way.
Cassie nudged your foot lightly beneath the table.
“You should go home.”
Home.
The word hit differently now. Not the apartment. Not the building. Her there waiting for you. You swallowed hard around the emotion climbing your throat.
“She asked if I was coming home,” you murmured quietly, almost to yourself.
Cassie’s expression softened instantly.
“Yeah,” she said gently. “Because that’s what it is to her.”
Your eyes burned again.
You looked back down at the picture.
At Trinity’s sleepy pout. The blanket wrapped around her. The way she looked completely comfortable in your space. No hesitation. No resentment. No exhaustion.Just waiting for you.
And suddenly all you could think was:
Your ex-wife used to stop texting eventually.
The realization hit like grief and healing all at once.
Because Trinity never made you feel like returning to you was a chore.
You grabbed your cane slowly beside the booth.
Cassie watched you carefully while you stood, joints protesting immediately after sitting too long.
“You okay?”
You exhaled shakily through your nose.
“No,” you admitted honestly.
Then after a beat, softer:
“But I think maybe I want to be.”
𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹
By the time you made it upstairs, your body was screaming.
Every step with the cane sent sharp pain through your hips and knees. Your shoulder ached from compensating. The exhaustion from shift plus the emotional drain from the conversation with Cassie McKay sat heavy behind your eyes.
And somewhere along the way, you forgot your meds. Which your body was now punishing you for aggressively. Your hand shook badly while trying to punch in the code to your apartment.
“Come on,” you muttered under your breath as you missed another number.
Pain fogged your thoughts thick and sluggish now. Your fingertips tingled unpleasantly. Your joints felt hot under your skin. The lock finally beeped. You barely managed to push the door open before warmth crossed the apartment toward you immediately.
“There you are.”
Trinity appeared almost instantly, blanket still wrapped around her shoulders from the couch. The second she reached you, one hand settled automatically at your waist while she pressed a soft kiss to your cheek.
“Welcome home, baby.” Her voice was sleepy and warm. “Late night?”
Your chest tightened painfully at the greeting.
Home.
You leaned heavier against the cane without meaning to.
“I went with Cassie to the bar,” you mumbled tiredly.
Trinity’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“Oh?”
“Mmm.” Your bag slid awkwardly down your shoulder while you tried kicking the door shut behind you. “She wanted to talk. Needed some guidance.”
Technically not a lie. Trinity hummed softly but you could already feel her attention shifting fully onto you now. Because she noticed things. Always. The shaking. The way your eyes struggled to focus. How heavily you leaned into the cane. The slight delay in your responses.
“Baby,” she said gently, hands coming up to help slide your bag off your shoulder before it fell completely. “Did you take your meds?”
You blinked slowly at her.
Your brain felt thick.
Slow.
“Yes?” you answered uncertainly.
Then immediately:
“No…wait…”
You squeezed your eyes shut hard, trying to remember through the fog.
Your meds were supposed to be…before the bar? After shift? Before…?
“Oh,” you whispered tiredly. “No no I didn’t.” Your face twisted slightly. “Forgot cause of bar.”
Trinity’s expression shifted instantly. Not annoyance or frustration. Concern. Real immediate concern. Because she could tell how bad it was already.
The tremor in your hands had worsened noticeably. Your breathing was shallow in that specific way it got when pain climbed too high. Even standing upright looked like effort now.
“Oh honey,” she murmured softly.
The sympathy in her voice nearly undid you right there in the doorway. Because your ex-wife used to sigh when things got like this. Tired. Frustrated.Trinity just moved closer.
“Okay.” Her hands settled carefully on your arms, grounding. “Can you stand for another minute if I help?”
You nodded weakly.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Mhm.”
Trinity immediately shifted herself under your arm slightly, taking some of your weight without making a production out of it. Like helping you was the most natural thing in the world.
“Couch first,” she said gently. “Then meds.”
You hated how much relief flooded your body at someone else taking over for a second. Your pride still flinched instinctively at needing help like this, but the pain was too loud now to fight her much. By the time she got you to the couch, your hands were shaking hard enough the cane nearly slipped from your grip. Trinity caught it before it hit the floor.
“There we go,” she murmured softly while helping lower you carefully onto the cushions.
The second you sat down, you let out a quiet involuntary sound of relief mixed with pain.
Trinity’s face tightened slightly at the sound.
“You’re hurting bad.”
You leaned your head back against the couch and closed your eyes.
“M’sorry.”
The apology slipped out automatically. Years of conditioning. Trinity immediately crouched in front of you.
“Hey.” Her voice softened further. “No apologizing.”
You swallowed hard.
Brain fog made it harder to keep your walls standing properly. Everything felt too raw emotionally after the conversation with Cassie already.
“I forgot,” you muttered weakly. “I usually don’t forget.”
“I know.”
No irritation.
No blame.
Just understanding.
God.
Trinity brushed her thumb gently beneath your eye before standing again.
“I’m getting your meds and water,” she said softly. “Stay put for me.”
You snorted faintly without opening your eyes.
“Where exactly would I go?”
That earned a quiet laugh from her somewhere near the kitchen.
As you listened to Trinity moving around your apartment like she belonged there, getting your meds without needing to ask where they were, filling your water bottle, coming back to you immediately
You realized something terrifying.
This didn’t feel temporary anymore.
When Trinity came back, she had your meds already sorted in one hand and your water bottle in the other.
No hesitation.No asking where things were. Like she’d learned your routines by heart somewhere along the way. You sat slumped against the couch cushions watching her through heavy-lidded eyes while pain fogged everything soft around the edges.
“There we go,” Trinity murmured gently as she knelt in front of you again. “Can you sit up a little for me?”
You tried.
Your body protested immediately.
A quiet hiss escaped you before you could stop it.
Trinity’s face tightened slightly.
“Easy, baby.”
God.
That word felt dangerous tonight.
You leaned forward enough for her to press the pills carefully into your palm. Your fingers shook so badly she hesitated for half a second before steadying your hand lightly beneath hers.
No judgment. No pity. Just help.
“You with me?” she asked softly.
“Mhm.”
“You sure?”
“Trin,” you mumbled tiredly. “If you ask me that again I’m legally allowed to bite you.”
A quiet laugh escaped her.
“You say that like it’s a threat and not something I actively want.”
You swallowed the meds with shaking hands while Trinity rubbed slow circles against your back the entire time.
Warm.
Grounding.
Easy.
The second you finished the water bottle, exhaustion crashed over you even harder. The adrenaline from the shift was gone now. Leaving only pain behind.
Trinity noticed immediately.
“Okay,” she said softly. “Bedroom.”
You closed your eyes briefly.
“Think my joints are filing complaints.”
“I’ll tell them HR is unavailable.”
A weak laugh escaped you.
Trinity smiled softly at the sound before standing and holding her hands out toward you.
“C’mon.”
Normally you would’ve fought harder against this much help. Normally the vulnerability of it all would’ve made you defensive, but tonight your body hurt too badly and your heart felt too cracked open already from everything Cassie said at the bar.
So you let Trinity help.
Slowly.
Carefully.
One arm wrapped around her shoulders while she helped you stand with your cane in the other hand. Your knees nearly buckled immediately from stiffness after sitting too long.
Trinity tightened her grip instinctively.
“I got you.”
Three simple words.
Your chest ached harder than your joints suddenly.
The walk to the bedroom was painfully slow. By the time you reached the bed, sweat dampened the back of your neck from pain alone.
“Okay,” Trinity murmured. “Sit.”
You obeyed, too exhausted to argue anymore.
The mattress dipped beside you immediately while Trinity crouched down in front of your legs.
“Can I help get these off?” she asked softly, fingers brushing lightly against your scrub pants.
The fact she still asked permission every single time nearly undid you.
You nodded once.
“Please.”
Something warm flickered across her expression at the word please.
Then carefully…so carefully. She helped you out of your scrubs. Like your body wasn’t inconvenient. Like your pain didn’t frustrate her. Like taking care of you was something tender instead of burdensome. You watched her through the haze of exhaustion while she folded your scrubs absentmindedly onto the chair instead of leaving them crumpled on the floor.
Domestic.
The thought hit you again sharp and terrifying.
Trinity grabbed one of your oversized sleep shirts from the dresser before coming back over.
“Arms up for me, baby.”
You obeyed sluggishly while she helped pull the soft fabric over your head.
Her hands skimmed gently over your sides while adjusting the shirt down properly afterward. No rushing. No irritation. Just patience. By the time you were finally settled in bed, your entire body felt heavy and overheated from the flare.
Trinity moved around the room quietly afterward in the kind of rhythm that told you she’d already memorized this routine too.
Heating pad plugged in. Extra pillows positioned beneath your knees and lower back. Fan switched on immediately because both of you ran too warm once the heating pad got going. Then an electrolyte drink appeared in your hands before you even asked.
“You’re magic,” you mumbled weakly.
Trinity snorted softly while climbing into bed beside you.
“No, you’re just terrible at taking care of yourself.”
“Rude.”
“Mhm.”
The mattress shifted while she settled carefully beside you, already instinctively avoiding the worst pain points without needing direction anymore.
You watched her quietly for a long moment.
At the softness in her face.
The familiarity in the way she moved around your room.
How naturally she occupied your life now.
Then quietly, before you could stop yourself:
“You make this feel less scary.”
Trinity froze slightly beside you.
Your chest tightened immediately afterward because shit…that had been honest.
Really honest.
You almost tried taking it back.
Then Trinity turned toward you fully in the dim bedroom light, expression impossibly soft now.
“Oh baby.”
Her hand slid gently into your hair.
And for the first time in years being cared for didn’t feel humiliating. It felt safe. You melted into her touch before you could stop yourself.
The heating pad hummed warmly beneath your back while the fan pushed cool air softly through the dark room. Your pain had dulled from unbearable to manageable now that the meds were finally kicking in, leaving you exhausted and emotionally raw instead.
Trinity’s fingers moved slowly through your hair.
Gentle and patient. The kind of softness you still weren’t entirely sure what to do with and maybe because you were tired. Maybe because the walls in your chest felt thinner tonight after everything Cassie said.
You finally spoke.
“It hurt earlier.”
Trinity hummed softly beside you.
“I’m sure it’s hurt all day,” she teased lightly, thumb brushing along your temple.
A weak breath of laughter escaped you.
“No,” you whispered. “I mean…”
Your throat tightened suddenly.
God.
Why was this harder than psych consults?
You swallowed hard and forced yourself to keep going.
“Earlier in the breakroom,” you said quietly. “When you said…”
The words stopped there.
Because suddenly tears burned hot behind your eyes again and you hated it. Hated how vulnerable this felt. Hated how badly you wanted this woman.
Trinity went very still beside you.
Then softer:
“Oh.”
You stared down at the blanket between you both.
“Baby,” she murmured carefully, “I said that because…that’s what this has been.” Her hand slid gently against your cheek, guiding your eyes back toward hers. “It’s what you wanted originally.”
“I know.”
Your voice cracked embarrassingly hard.
You laughed once weakly and scrubbed at your face.
“And I feel so stupid for how much it hurt anyway.”
Immediately Trinity’s expression softened into something almost achingly tender.
“Hey.” Her thumb brushed beneath your eye carefully. “It’s okay that you have feelings.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
Because somewhere deep down, part of you still treated your emotions like liabilities.
Things to suppress before they ruined everything.
You looked at her quietly in the dim room.
At the woman who learned your medication schedule.
Who brought you soup at work.
Who held you through pain flares without making you feel difficult.
“I’ve just…” Your throat tightened again. “I’ve been hurt a lot.”
Trinity’s face crumpled slightly at that.
“I know.”
“No I mean…” You took a shaky breath. “I know you’re different though.”
And god you meant it. That was the terrifying part. You trusted her now in ways you hadn’t trusted anyone in years. Enough that losing her suddenly felt catastrophic. Your fingers twisted weakly in the blanket before you forced yourself to keep going.
“So…” You inhaled shakily. “I’d like to ask officially…”
Your heart hammered painfully hard in your chest.
Trinity stared at you so intently now it almost made you lose your nerve.
Then quietly:
“Would you be my girlfriend?”
Silence.
For one horrible heartbeat your brain immediately prepared for rejection anyway. Old instincts. Old fears. Then Trinity made the softest strangled sound you’d ever heard in your life.
“Oh my god.”
Your stomach flipped violently.
“I know this is probably the least smooth way anyone’s ever-”
Before you could finish, Trinity grabbed your face with both hands and kissed you.
Hard. Not rushed. Not casual. Overwhelmed. You made a startled noise against her mouth immediately while she laughed softly through the kiss.
“Yes,” she breathed against your lips. “Jesus Christ yes.”
Relief hit you so hard it almost hurt. Your eyes burned instantly again. Trinity noticed immediately because of course she did.
“Oh baby,” she whispered softly, forehead pressing against yours now. “C’mere.”
You let her pull you closer carefully despite the heating pad and pillows and aching joints.
And for once…you didn’t feel afraid while doing it. Trinity kissed you again slower this time, hands gentle against your face.
“My girlfriend,” she murmured afterward like she was trying the words out.
Your chest tightened painfully soft.
“That sounds fake,” you muttered weakly.
Trinity laughed immediately.
“Nope. Too late.” Another kiss against your mouth. “You’re stuck with me now. I’ve already eaten the receipt.”
Something warm cracked open completely in your chest then.
Not panic this time.
Not fear.
Just love finally being allowed somewhere safe to land.
Trinity’s smile softened immediately at the shift in your voice.
One second she was glowing—still a little breathless from kissing you, forehead pressed against yours beneath the soft whir of the fan.
The next she could feel it.
The fear underneath your ribs.
The vulnerability.
You took a shaky breath, fingers twisting weakly in the blanket between you both.
“I want to tell you what happened to me,” you whispered.
Trinity’s hands stayed gentle against your face.
“Before you.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
“So everything’s on the table.” You swallowed hard. “So you know why I am the way I am.”
For a moment, Trinity didn’t speak.
Didn’t rush to reassure you.
Didn’t interrupt.
She just looked at you with that same impossible softness that always made your chest ache.
Then quietly:
“Okay.”
That was it.
No pressure.
No fear.
No hesitation.
Just okay.
Your eyes burned immediately again.
“You don’t have to tell me tonight,” Trinity added gently. “Especially not when you’re exhausted and hurting.”
“I know.” Your voice came out rougher than intended. “But I want to.”
Because suddenly the thought of loving her while still hiding parts of yourself felt unbearable.
Trinity brushed her thumb slowly beneath your eye.
“Alright,” she murmured. “Then I’m listening.”
God.
The way she said it.
Not waiting for her turn to respond.
Not preparing to fix you.
Listening.
You looked away first because the tenderness of it physically hurt to sit inside for too long.
The room stayed quiet except for the fan and the faint hum of the heating pad beneath you.
Then slowly you started talking.
“My ex-wife and I met in high school,” you said quietly.
Trinity’s fingers threaded carefully through yours while you spoke.
“At first…” You laughed softly without humor. “At first it was good. Really good.”
You could still remember it clearly if you let yourself.
Being sixteen.
Your knee brace hidden beneath jeans.
Her helping tape notes into your locker after PT appointments.
The way she used to look at you like your whole future was obvious and bright.
“She was there before things got bad,” you admitted. “Before we understood what was happening to my body.”
Trinity stayed quiet beside you.
Encouraging without pushing.
“The pain started in my knees first.” Your gaze drifted unfocused toward the ceiling. “Doctors kept thinking it was sports injuries or overuse or growing pains.” A tiny shrug. “Then it spread.”
Wrists.
Hips.
Spine.
Fatigue that never fully left.
You felt Trinity’s hand tighten slightly around yours.
“She stayed through med school,” you continued softly. “Through diagnoses. Specialists. Mobility aids.”
Your throat tightened harder now.
“And every time things got worse, she kept saying it was okay.”
Trinity’s expression shifted subtly at that.
You noticed.
“See that’s the thing,” you whispered. “She wasn’t cruel at first.”
That part mattered.
Maybe more than anything.
Because if your ex had been awful immediately, maybe you wouldn’t have spent years questioning yourself afterward.
“She loved me,” you said quietly. “I really think she did.”
Tears burned at your eyes again.
“But eventually…” Your voice cracked. “Eventually my body became the center of everything.”
Cancelled plans.
Missed trips.
Bad flare days.
Exhaustion.
You looked down at your intertwined hands.
“She stopped touching me as much first.”
Trinity’s breath caught softly beside you.
“Then she stopped asking how I felt.” A humorless little laugh escaped you. “Then one day she told me she missed when things were easier.”
The silence afterward felt enormous.
You stared at the blanket because suddenly you couldn’t look at Trinity while saying the next part.
“I spent years trying to become easier to love after that.”
The confession hit the room hard.
You could feel it.
“I stopped asking for help unless I absolutely needed it. I pushed through pain constantly. I apologized for everything.” Your throat tightened painfully. “And when she finally left…”
You shook your head once weakly.
“It felt like proof.”
Trinity’s fingers tightened around yours immediately.
“Baby…”
“No, let me finish.” Your voice trembled slightly. “Because I need you to understand this part.”
You finally looked at her then. Eyes stinging. Walls completely gone now.
“When you take care of me,” you whispered shakily, “part of me is always waiting for the moment you realize it’s too much.”
The pain on Trinity’s face was immediate. Like the thought alone hurt her. You laughed weakly through tears.
“Which is unfair because you’ve never made me feel like that. Not once.”
Trinity moved closer instantly, one hand sliding carefully against your cheek.
“You know what I see when I take care of you?” she asked softly.
You shook your head once.
“My person.”
Your breath caught sharply.
Not a burden. Not an obligation. A person.
Trinity brushed her forehead gently against yours again.
“I don’t love some imaginary easier version of you,” she whispered. “I love you.”
The tears finally slipped free completely after that.
And for the first time in years…you let someone hold you while you cried instead of hiding it. Your tears slowed little by little beneath Trinity’s hands. Not because the hurt disappeared. Because she stayed through it.
Just Trinity curled carefully beside you in the dim light of your bedroom, thumb stroking softly beneath your eye while the heating pad warmed your aching back.
Then quietly,
“I love you.”
Your breath caught instantly.
Trinity’s voice trembled slightly around the edges now too.
“I love every part of you.”
The room went painfully still.
“On the good days and the bad,” she whispered. “I love you through all your flares.”
Your chest tightened so hard it almost hurt worse than the pain still lingering in your joints.
Trinity swallowed hard before continuing.
“Since we started this…” A weak little laugh escaped her. “I was hyper aware of your pain in every situation.”
Your eyes flicked toward hers immediately.
“I never wanted to push you,” she admitted softly. “Truthfully there were nights I came over and I could see it all over your face.”
God.
You thought you hid it better than that.
Trinity’s hand slid gently into your hair again.
“I knew you were pushing through it,” she murmured. “So I did everything I could to ease it.” Her mouth twitched sadly. “To make you feel good instead.”
Your throat closed painfully.
Because suddenly memories rearranged themselves in your head differently.
Trinity slowing kisses whenever your breathing changed.
The nights she redirected things toward you instead of asking for anything herself.
The way she’d settle for tracing fingers against your skin for hours afterward without complaint.
You thought she didn’t notice.
Of course she noticed.
“You know…” Trinity’s voice softened even further. “If this hadn’t started as casual…”
She laughed quietly at herself.
“There were nights I wanted to come over and just lay with you.”
Your chest ached.
“Just watch movies,” she continued softly. “Or scroll on my phone while you slept if you were hurting too bad.”
Tears stung at your eyes all over again.
“I just wanted to be here with you.”
The confession shattered something inside you completely.
Because your ex-wife used to leave when things got hard.
Leave emotionally long before physically, but Trinity wanted to stay even when you had nothing to offer except your exhausted hurting self.
You made a small broken sound before covering your face with your hands briefly.
“Hey,” Trinity whispered immediately, gently pulling your hands back down. “No no no. Don’t hide from me.”
Your eyes burned violently now.
“Nobody’s ever said things like this to me before,” you admitted shakily.
“I’m gonna fight everyone who ever made you think love was conditional.”
Despite everything, a startled wet laugh escaped you.
Trinity smiled softly at the sound before leaning forward carefully and kissing you.
Slow.
Warm.
Intentional.
Not lust.
Not distraction.
Love.
When she pulled back, her forehead rested against yours again.
“You know what the craziest part is?” she whispered.
You shook your head weakly.
“You still think taking care of you is some huge sacrifice.” Her thumb brushed your cheek gently. “But loving you is easy.”
Your breath caught painfully.
Because she sounded so sincere.
Like she genuinely couldn’t understand why you struggled believing that.
“I like taking care of you,” Trinity admitted softly. “I like helping when your body hurts.” A tiny smile tugged at her mouth. “I like getting your heating pad ready and reminding you about meds and bringing you soup.”
You stared at her.
Completely undone.
“And honestly?” Trinity murmured. “I think you’ve spent so long trying not to be difficult that you forgot people who love you want to show up for you.”
The tears slipped free again immediately. This time you didn’t apologize for them and Trinity held you through every single one. Sometime in the middle of the night, the pain finally loosened its grip enough for sleep to take you. Not the restless half-sleep you usually got during bad flares either. Real sleep.
The kind your body only allowed when it finally felt safe.
The heating pad had long since clicked off automatically beneath your back. The fan still hummed softly across the room, stirring cool air through the dark apartment while rain tapped quietly against the windows outside.
And tangled around you was Trinity.
One of her legs carefully hooked between yours beneath the blankets. Her arm draped warm and possessive across your waist like even asleep she wanted to stay connected to you somehow.
You’d drifted closer to her little by little throughout the night unconsciously.
Years of sleeping curled inward around pain and loneliness slowly giving way beneath the simple steady comfort of another person wanting to hold you.
At some point your cane had ended up forgotten against the wall.
Your meds sat on the nightstand beside matching water glasses.
One of Trinity’s hoodies was tossed over your desk chair like it belonged there permanently now.
Domestic.
But for the first time, the thought didn’t make panic climb your throat.
It made your chest ache softly instead.
Because the walls were finally gone.
Not all at once.
Not dramatically.
They’d cracked slowly over months:
through soup deliveries and bad movie nights and careful hands helping during flares and Trinity staying every single time you expected her to leave.
And now here she was.
Curled around you in the middle of the night after hearing every ugly frightened part of your past.
Still here.
Still loving you.
Half asleep, you shifted slightly against the pillows, face pressing instinctively into Trinity’s neck.
Immediately her arm tightened around your waist.
A sleepy sound escaped her before she kissed the top of your head without even waking fully.
Your chest tightened painfully soft.
Because no one had ever loved you like this before.
Not cautiously.
Not conditionally.
Not while waiting for things to become easier.
Just fully.
As you were.
The realization settled deep beneath your ribs while sleep tugged at you again.
And for the first time in years…
You stopped bracing for abandonment long enough to simply be held.
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Summary: Ever since your ex-wife left you because you became "too much" you've kept everyone at a distance so why is this R2 you're keeping things casual with getting under your skin?
word count: 7.7K
Warnings: Chronic pain flare, storm/barometric-pressure-related pain, mobility aid use, wheelchair use, mentions of migraines/nausea/medication/pain patches, accessibility frustrations in public spaces, brief public ableism toward a wheelchair user, emotional vulnerability, internalized insecurity about being wanted versus being “useful,” caretaking, mild financial insecurity around groceries, romantic tension, domestic intimacy, and light swearing
Authors note: I wanted to take these two out on their first real outing. This takes place just before part 4 so they're still in that casual, but things are becoming more of a relationship before either of them says it in part 4
The storm announces itself before the rain does. It starts in your hip. Then your spine. Then the base of your skull, a low pressure ache blooming behind your eyes before you even open them. You lie there for a second, staring at the ceiling, and consider becoming one with the mattress. A medically sound plan.
Beside you, Trinity is still asleep on her stomach, one arm shoved under the pillow, your shirt twisted around her waist. She has been staying over more. No conversation about what it means that her toothbrush is in your ensuite, her canned coffee is in your fridge, and her hoodie has colonized the chair in your bedroom like a soft little invasive species.
Still. She is here. Again. You turn your head and look at her. Her hair is a mess. There is a faint crease on her cheek from the pillow. She looks younger when asleep. Less sharp. Less braced for impact. Then thunder rolls somewhere far off, low and dull. Your hip answers immediately.
“Rude,” you mutter.
Trinity stirs. One eye opens.
“Are you talking to the weather?”
“It started it.”
She blinks a few times, then lifts her head. Her voice is rough with sleep.
“Pain?”
“Yes.”
“Bad?”
“Getting there.”
That wakes her more. She pushes herself up on one elbow, squinting at you like she can diagnose barometric pressure through sheer hostility.
“Storm?”
“Storm.”
“Fuck.”
“Elegant clinical summary.”
She rolls onto her side, facing you fully.
“What do you need?”
There it is. No pause. No sigh. No tiny reluctance dressed up as concern. Just the question. You look away before your face does something stupid.
“Groceries.”
Trinity’s brows pull together.
“What?”
“We need groceries.”
“We?”
You sit up slowly, grimacing when your lower back objects.
“Yes, Santos. We. The fridge currently contains half a lemon, three string cheeses, your morally questionable canned coffee, and a container of rice I no longer trust.”
She props herself up more.
“You’re going grocery shopping?”
“Yes.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“In storm pain?”
“I would like to go before it’s swamped with people and my pain gets too bad from this storm we’re getting.”
Trinity stares at you. Then laughs once. Not mean. Confused. Like she is waiting for the punchline to crawl out from under the bed.
“Okay.” You look at her. She smiles faintly. “Have fun.”
You blink.
“Have fun?”
“Yeah.” She gestures vaguely. “I’ll, I don’t know, clean up here. Or steal more of your gum.”
“You’re coming with me.”
Her smile freezes.
“What?” Her face scrunches up more.
“You’re coming with me.”
She sits up fully now. The blanket falls to her lap. For a second, she looks almost offended by the physics of the sentence. Then she laughs again.
“Oh wait.” Her eyes search your face. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.” You reach for the water bottle on your nightstand. “And I’d like to go before it’s swamped with people and my pain gets too bad from this storm we’re getting.”
Trinity just looks at you. Something in her expression shifts. Small. Quick. Gone almost before you catch it. Not annoyance. Not dread. Something more like surprise with a bruise under it.
“You want me to go grocery shopping with you?”
“Yes.”
“Like…outside?”
You pause. Then turn toward her more fully.
“Santos.”
“What?”
“Do you think I keep you in the apartment because I’m embarrassed by you?”
Her mouth opens. Closes.
“That is not what I said.”
“No. It’s what you looked like.”
She looks down at the blanket, thumb worrying the edge of it.
“I just…” She shrugs. Too sharp. Too false. “People don’t usually want the whole normal thing.”
“The whole normal thing being cereal and pharmacy aisle negotiations?”
“Kind of.”
Your chest aches. You hate that answer. You hate how small she makes it. You hate that she sounds like someone who has been invited into bedrooms, into secrecy, into late-night emergency wanting, but not into the bright fluorescent mundanity of buying bananas. You set the water down.
“Trinity.”
She looks up.
“You are not a houseplant.”
Her face goes blank.
“What?”
“I’m not leaving you here by the window and hoping you photosynthesize until I get back.”
She stares.
Then snorts.
“That was the worst reassurance I’ve ever heard.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m not a fern.”
“No. Ferns are calmer.”
She kicks your shin very lightly under the blanket. You smile despite the pain simmering under your skin. Then you soften.
“I want you to come with me.”
Trinity goes quiet.
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“Because you need help?”
“I do need help.”
Her face does the thing. The little tightening. The old calculation.
“So I’m useful.”
You catch it immediately.
“No.”
She looks at you.
“You are helpful,” you say. “That is not the same as being useful.”
Her brows knit. You continue before she can wriggle out of it.
“I want you there because I like when you’re there. I need help because my body is being a weather instrument. Both things can be true.”
She swallows.
“Annoyingly reasonable.”
“Psychiatrist.”
“Hot.”
“Santos.”
“What? Barometric pain honesty is hot.”
You sigh and swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your hip complains with feeling. Trinity is up before you can pretend it did not. She does not grab you. She simply steps around to your side of the bed and offers her hand. You take it.
“Chair day?” she asks.
You glance toward the bedroom doorway, toward where your wheelchair is folded open near the wall because you had been too tired to put it away last night.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“You sound relieved.”
“I am. Grocery stores are big and people are stupid.”
“That should be printed on the entrance.”
“I’ll make a sign.”
She helps you stand, then watches while you transfer into the chair. No hovering. No fussing. Just enough presence to make the room feel less hostile. Then she starts moving with sudden purpose.
“Okay. Clothes. Meds. Water. List.”
You blink.
“List?”
“You have one, right?”
“On my phone.”
“Rookie mistake. Phones die. We need paper.”
“We?”
She points at you from the doorway.
“I’m committing to the normal thing.”
You look at her. She freezes. Then flushes.
“I mean. Grocery shopping.”
“Mm.”
“Do not look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you heard me.”
“I did.”
“Terrible habit.”
She disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a notepad from your built-in study nook and a pen she stole from your desk. You frown.
“That’s my good pen.”
“It lives in a communal space.”
“My study nook is not communal.”
“It is when we’re emotionally meal planning.”
You close your eyes.
“I regret inviting you.”
“No, you don’t.”
You do not. That is the problem. The two of you get ready in pieces. Not efficiently. Not gracefully. Your body refuses efficiency on principle. Trinity brings you clothes that will not make your skin angry. Soft pants. Loose shirt. Hoodie. Compression socks. She kneels to help with the socks, then glances up.
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
She slides them on carefully, thumbs smoothing the fabric without pulling too hard. Then she gets dressed in jeans and one of your hoodies. You look at it. She looks down.
“What?”
“That’s mine.”
“It likes me better.”
“You are going grocery shopping in my hoodie.”
“Do you want it back?”
You do.
You very much do not.
“No.”
Her smile is small but bright. Victory, but fragile. In the kitchen, you dictate the list while Trinity writes. She has stolen the notepad from your built-in study nook and one of your better pens, which she is pretending is not theft because apparently your apartment has communal property laws now.
“Bread.”
“Bread,” she repeats, writing it down with unnecessary seriousness.
“Pretzels. Dark chocolate. Saltines. Maybe kettle chips.”
“Maybe?”
“Definitely.”
She writes kettle chips with unnecessary flair.
Then adds something else beneath it.
You lean forward.
“Did you just write canned coffee?”
“For me.”
“This is my grocery list.”
“I can pay for my coffee and snacks,” Trinity says quickly. “Anything that’s for me.”
You laugh. Not cruelly. Just surprised enough that it slips out before you can catch it. Trinity’s face tightens.
“What?”
“Why would I let you do that?”
Her brows pull together.
“Because I can pay for my own things?”
You look at her. Really look. At the defensive tilt of her chin. At the way her fingers grip the pen like she is ready to cross herself off the page before you can. At the way she has learned to make herself cheap in other people’s lives. Temporary. Low maintenance. Easy to return.
“Oh, moja Słoneczko,” you say, soft and a little amused. “I make six figures. You aren’t paying for anything that’s in my house.”
Trinity goes still. Completely still. The pen hovers over the notepad. Her mouth opens, then closes again. You can practically hear the gears grinding themselves into sparks. “That’s not…” She stops. Starts over. “That’s not fair.”
“To whom?”
“To you.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“I am devastated by the financial burden of canned coffee and sour gummy worms.”
“Don’t be an ass.”
“I’m Polish. It’s cultural.”
“That is not how that works.”
“It is today.”
Her face is still pink. Not just embarrassed. Moved. Cornered by kindness in a kitchen. A terrible place to be cornered by kindness, really. No exits except pantry and emotional collapse. She looks back down at the list.
“I don’t want you to feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”
“You’re not.”
“I’m here a lot.”
“I noticed.”
“I eat your food.”
“You also cook when I can’t.”
“Well…yeah….”
“You made eggs.”
“I burned one side.”
“Protein with texture.”
She huffs, but it is weak. You soften.
“Trinity.”
She looks up.
“I want your coffee in my fridge.”
Her face changes. Tiny. Devastating.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you drink it. Because you’re here. Because you get cranky if you have to drink my energy drinks.”
“Your energy drinks are too much.”
“My energy drinks have gotten me to where I am.” She smiles and so do you. “Add the canned coffee.” She looks down at the notepad. Then slowly writes it again, darker this time, like she is making it official. Canned coffee. Then, after a pause, she adds sour gummy worms. You see it. You say nothing. She glances at you anyway.
“For the household,” she says.
Your chest does something inconvenient.
“For the household,” you agree.
The pen stops again. Her face changes the second the words settle between you. The household. Not your house. Not her snacks. Not guest food. Household. The fridge hums. Rain taps once against the balcony glass. Then again. Trinity stares at the list like it has betrayed her. You lean back in your chair, giving her room to breathe.
“Add actual food too,” you say. “You cannot survive on canned coffee and spite.”
“Watch me.”
“I have. It’s medically unimpressive.”
She laughs then. Small, shaky, real. Then she writes down pasta sauce, bananas, and the specific protein bars she likes but always pretends not to like because they are overpriced. You notice. Of course you notice. This time, you do not tease her. You just let her add herself to the list. One item at a time.
𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹
The grocery store is still quiet when you get there. Not empty. Never empty enough. But early enough that the parking lot has gaps, the carts are not all missing one wheel, and the produce section is not yet a battlefield of retirees, tired parents, and people blocking entire aisles to contemplate bananas. The sky overhead is bruised gray. Rain clings to the windshield in thin, nervous streaks. Thunder rolls somewhere in the distance, low and heavy enough that your hip answers before the sound even finishes. Trinity looks over from the passenger seat.
“You’re doing the face.”
“I have several faces.”
“The one where your skeleton is sending legal correspondence.”
You sigh.
“Poetic.”
“Pain?”
“Loud.”
Her mouth tightens, but she does not spiral. Not outwardly. Instead, she unbuckles.
“Chair?”
“Chair.”
“Okay.”
She is out of the car before you can tell her not to rush. You watch her in the side mirror as she gets the wheelchair from the back. She has learned the sequence. Brakes first once it is open. Footrests out. Seat bag attached. Check the side pocket. Leave enough space beside the car. She does it carefully, but not like the chair is precious. Like it is practical. Part of the choreography. Part of you getting through the store with less damage. That distinction matters more than you want it to. She comes around to your side and opens the door.
“Ready?”
“In spirit, no.”
“In body?”
“Also no.”
“Excellent. We’re aligned.”
You huff a laugh and transfer into the chair.
Your hip sparks sharply, and your hand tightens against the car door.
Trinity sees it. Her hand lifts. Stops. Waits.
“Can I?”
You nod once. Only then does she steady your elbow. Warm. Firm. No grabbing. No assuming. When you settle into the chair, she crouches briefly to adjust the footrest. Then she looks up at you.
“Okay?”
“No.”
“Store okay?”
“Yes.”
She stands and closes the car door.
“Terrible sentence. Accepted.”
You glance toward the entrance. The automatic doors are framed by displays of bottled water, charcoal, and patriotic paper plates that look like July Fourth threw up on capitalism.
“Cart,” you say.
“On it.”
Trinity grabs one from the corral and gives it a test push. It wobbles violently. She stares at it.
“No.”
She returns it and picks another. This one squeaks. She narrows her eyes.
“Also no.”
“Santos.”
“I’m choosing a steed.”
“You’re choosing a cart.”
“A cart with bad alignment could ruin us.”
You let her try a third. It rolls smoothly. She looks triumphant.
“See?”
“You are very brave.”
“I know.”
Inside, the fluorescent lights hit first. Then the smell. Produce mist. Coffee from the little kiosk near the front. Bakery sugar. Wet coats. Cleaning solution. The thousand tiny grocery store smells that become one large grocery store smell. Trinity slows beside you. You can feel her attention sharpen. Not on the shelves. On you. She notices how you pause just inside the doors to orient yourself. How your eyes move through the front section quickly. Produce on the left. Bakery ahead. Pharmacy far back. Frozen along the wall. Checkout near the exit. A map made in seconds because you have learned to conserve movement the way other people conserve money. You point toward produce.
“We start there.”
“Yes, captain.”
“Never call me that again.”
“Noted, captain.”
You look at her. She grins. She pushes the cart beside you, trying to keep pace. At first, she does it badly. Not because she does not care. Because she does. Too much. She keeps drifting too close, then overcorrecting. She almost clips a display of peaches and mutters an apology to the fruit. You stop. She stops too fast.
“What?”
“You’re hovering.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. You’re doing cart-based hovering.”
She looks down at the cart like it has betrayed her.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
The admission comes out sharper than she means it. You soften.
“I know.”
Her face flickers.
“I don’t want to be in the way.”
“Then don’t guess. Ask.”
Her fingers flex on the handle.
“Okay.”
“You can walk beside me when the aisle is wide. Behind me when it narrows. If I need something high, I’ll ask. If people are blocking the aisle, do not turn into a tiny hospital security guard.”
“I am not tiny.”
“That was your takeaway?”
“I need boundaries too.”
You smile despite yourself.
She breathes out and nods.
“Okay. Beside when wide. Behind when narrow. Ask instead of hover. No tiny security guard.”
“Good.”
“Can I still glare?”
“You may glare recreationally.”
“Thank god.”
You roll toward the produce. Trinity walks beside you this time, leaving more room. She notices immediately why it matters. The store is technically accessible. Aisles wide enough on paper. Floors flat enough. Doors automatic. But the produce section is full of little obstacles no architect drew into the plan. A damp floor sign jutting too far out. A display of tomatoes angled into the path. A stack of baskets near the apples. A man standing in the middle of everything, reading a text like he has taken a vow of spatial ignorance. You navigate around them without drama. Small turns. Tiny adjustments. A practiced arc to avoid clipping the wheel against a wooden crate. You do it so smoothly that Trinity almost misses the effort. Almost. Then she sees your hand flex after a turn, your jaw tighten when the wheel catches slightly on the edge of a, the way you scan for the cleanest route before you ever move. Her face changes. You can feel it. The quiet anger. Not at you. At the store. At the world. At every inch you have to calculate while someone else just walks in and complains about avocado prices.
“You’re doing it again,” you say.
She blinks.
“What?”
“Getting loud internally.”
She looks down at the cart.
“The tomato display is a crime.”
“It is.”
“Why is it sticking out like that?”
“Because people think accessible means there was technically a path before they filled it with seasonal produce.”
Trinity’s mouth tightens.
“That’s stupid.”
“Yes.”
“And normal?”
“Also yes.”
She looks furious now. You reach for strawberries before she can decide to fight a crate. She catches the motion.
“Those?”
“Check them.”
She grabs a package and turns it over with solemn intensity.
“Tragic.”
You look. Mold.
“Good call.”
She gets another.
“Less tragic?”
You inspect it.
“Acceptable.”
She places it in the cart carefully, like the strawberries have passed a residency interview. Next are grapes. She holds up a bag.
“These look firm.”
“Too many loose ones.”
She grabs another.
“These?”
“Better.”
She adds them. At the apples, she starts to put them in one of the thin plastic bags and immediately gets into a fight with it. The bag refuses to open. Trinity glares. You watch for five seconds.
“You’re losing.”
“This bag is defective.”
“It is a bag.”
“It has chosen violence.”
You take it from her, rub the edge between your fingers, and open it easily. She stares.
“Witchcraft.”
“Experience.”
“That’s worse.”
You hold the bag while she puts apples in. The domesticity of it is stupid. Tiny. Sharp in the ribs. You, holding the bag open. Trinity choosing apples. The storm pressing against the roof. The cart slowly collecting evidence that she is allowed to want things in your house. At the end of produce, the aisle narrows near a promotional display of patriotic cupcakes. Trinity starts to move beside you, then catches herself and drops behind. You notice.Do not comment.
She says, quietly,
“Behind when narrow.”
“Good.”
Her voice is casual. Her face is not. You continue into the bread aisle. This one is worse. A stock cart blocks half the space. Someone has abandoned a basket near the bottom shelf. A woman with headphones is standing in front of the sandwich bread, completely unaware of the universe. You stop at the end of the aisle. Trinity looks from the stock cart to you.
“Can you fit?”
“Yes.”
The answer is technically true, but not without turning your chair at an angle and scraping your knuckles if you misjudge by half an inch. Her jaw works.
“Do you want me to move the basket?”
“Yes.”
She does.
No commentary.
No big dramatic “let me help you.”
She just moves the basket to the side and returns to the cart. Progress. You angle through the space.The wheel brushes the stock cart. Your hand bumps the rim and pain sparks through your knuckles. Trinity inhales. You glance back.
“Recreational glaring only.”
“I am recreationally furious.”
“Keep it in your hobbies.”
She exhales slowly. When you reach the bread, she grabs your usual loaf, then pauses.
“Sourdough?”
You look at her. She looks at the shelf. Trying very hard to seem normal. Failing in high definition.
“Do you want sourdough?”
“Yes.”
“Then get it.”
“For your apartment?”
“Our toast can have diversity.”
She goes very still. Only for half a second. Then she grabs the sourdough and puts it in the cart with the regular bread. No joke. No deflection. Just a small swallow, a pink flush at the tips of her ears, and the cart moving forward again. In the snack aisle, the store starts waking up. More people. More carts. A child crying two aisles over. A man laughing too loudly near the chips. Your head throbs. The storm pain blooms heavier through your pelvis and up your spine. You slow. Trinity notices without staring.
“You want to do pharmacy next and skip the rest?”
“We need the rest.”
“We need you not wrecked.”
“I am already wrecked.”
“More wrecked.”
You look at her. She looks back, stubborn but careful. Not ordering. Not yet. You give her the list.
“Find kettle chips. Pretzels. Dark chocolate with sea salt. Sour gummy worms. Saltines. Graham crackers.”
Her eyebrows lift.
“You trust me alone in the snack aisle?”
“No.”
“But?”
“But it will save me one loop.”
She looks at the list.
Then at you.
“Stay here?”
“I can move down the aisle.”
“Do you want to?”
You pause.
Honest answer.
“No.”
“Then stay here.”
She says it like it is simple. Like staying still is not a failure. Like making the route shorter is not surrender. You stay. Trinity goes down the aisle with the cart. You watch her. She reads labels. Gets the right chips. Grabs pretzels.
Hesitates between two dark chocolate bars, then picks both because apparently restraint died at chocolate. She finds sour gummy worms and tosses one bag in. Then, after a second, adds another. She grabs the slatines you always have, she goes for the store brand of graham crackers then looks at you, you shake your head then she grabs the name brand and you nod.
A woman tries to squeeze past you without saying excuse me, then stops when she realizes she cannot get by unless you move. You look up. She smiles tightly.
“Can I just…”
There it is. Just. The magical word people use when they want you to become furniture. Before you can respond, Trinity is back. Her voice is pleasant. Too pleasant.
“She needs the aisle too.”
The woman blinks.
“Oh. I just need to get by.”
“Then you can say excuse me and wait for a safe place, like a person.”
Your eyes close briefly.
“Trin...”
“What? Recreational.”
The woman mutters something and backs up enough for you to turn into a wider spot near the endcap. Trinity watches until she passes. Then looks at you, suddenly uncertain.
“Too much?”
“A little.”
Her face falls.
“But not wrong,” you add.
She exhales.
“I’m working on delivery.”
“Clearly.”
“I wanted to bite her.”
“I gathered.”
“She talked about you like you were a cart.”
“Yes.”
“That happens?”
You glance at her. She regrets the question immediately. Not because she does not want the answer. Because she knows it now.
“Yes.”
Trinity’s hands tighten on the cart. Then she nods once. No joke. No quick anger dumped into your lap. Just nods.
“Okay.”
In the pharmacy aisle, the lights feel brighter. Your body is tired enough that the shelves blur a little. You reach for pain patches, but they are on the second shelf and tucked too far back. You could get them. It would hurt. You would do it if you were alone. Trinity sees the calculation happen.
“Which ones?”
You point.
“Blue box.”
She grabs them.
“Two?”
“One.”
“Storm.”
You sigh.
“Two.”
She adds the second. Electrolytes, ginger chews, nausea lozenges, migraine meds. She does not flinch at the pile. That is the thing. She does not make the pile strange.No little sympathetic face. No joke to make herself comfortable. No quick glance around like someone might see. She just organizes the boxes in the cart so the bread does not crush. You watch her do it. Something in you unclenches by one careful inch.
“Thank you.”
She looks up.
“For what?”
You nod toward the cart.
“For not making it weird.”
Her expression changes. Soft. Almost offended.
“I don’t think your body is weird.”
The sentence hits too hard for fluorescent lighting. You look down at your hands. Your knuckles are reddened from the wheel. Your fingers ache. Your hip pulses with the storm.
“That’s a dangerous thing to say to me in a grocery store.”
Her mouth curves.
“Too real by the nausea meds?”
“Deeply inappropriate location.”
“Okay.”
She does not take it back. By frozen foods, the store is officially getting busier. Carts rattle. Voices stack. The rain outside turns harder, drumming on the roof. Your pain climbs with it. You stop in front of the waffles. You can see the blueberry ones through the freezer door. You also know that opening the door from this angle will pull your shoulder wrong. You stare at it for maybe two seconds too long. Trinity steps beside you.
“Blueberry?”
“Yes.”
She opens the freezer door and grabs one box. Then a second. You lift an eyebrow.
“Storm,” she says before you can object.
“That has become a very flexible argument.”
“It’s a strong brand.”
She adds frozen soup dumplings. You look at her.
“For me,” she says.
“Are they going in my freezer?”
“Our freezer is welcoming.”
She freezes the second she says it. You both do. A teenager behind you opens another freezer door with no awareness of the domestic grenade that just rolled across the aisle. Trinity looks at the dumplings. Then at you.
“I can pay for those.”
You tilt your head.
“Moja Słoneczko.”
She closes her eyes.
“Oh no.”
“You aren’t paying for anything that’s in my house.”
Her ears go red.
“Our freezer?” you ask.
She points the dumplings at you.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said it with your face.”
“My face is allowed to participate.”
“Your face is smug.”
“You like my face.”
She looks at you.
Caught.
Then says, “Unfortunately.”
You smile.
“Dumplings go in the cart.”
She puts them in. At checkout, she unloads everything. Not because you cannot. Because it is faster, and your hands are shaking now. She notices. Mel would notice. Dana would notice. Robby probably would not notice until you were already on the floor, but he would feel bad about it afterward. Trinity notices immediately.
“Hands?”
“Storm.”
“Pain?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to bag?”
“If you want.”
“I want.”
She says it quickly. Firmly. Then she bags with the intense concentration of someone trying to prove care can be competent. Cold with cold. Heavy at the bottom. Soft things separate. Pharmacy items in their own bag. Your safe foods together. Her canned coffee with the refrigerated things. The cashier scans the sour gummy worms and smiles faintly.
“Storm prep?”
Trinity says, “Household necessity.”
You have to look away. The total appears. $253.86. Trinity’s hand twitches toward her pocket. You catch it.
“Santos.”
She freezes.
“I was just…”
“No.”
“It’s a lot.”
“I know how much groceries cost.”
“I eat some of this.”
“You better.”
Her mouth shuts. You tap your card before she can spiral into another argument. The machine beeps. Done. Trinity looks at the bags instead of you. You let her have the privacy of pretending that did not matter. Outside, the rain is worse. Trinity leaves you under the covered part of the entrance while she brings the car closer. You want to object. You do not.
That is the bravest thing you do all morning. She pulls up, hazards blinking. The rain dots her hair when she gets out. She loads the bags first, then brings the chair close to the passenger side.
“Ready?”
“Not remotely.”
“Great. On three?”
You transfer with her steady at your elbow, the rain loud against the pavement, thunder muttering overhead like an old god with joint pain. Once you are in the car, she folds the chair and puts it in the back. Her hoodie is damp when she slides into the driver’s seat. Your hoodie, technically. Not that either of you are litigating that anymore. She sits there for a second before starting the car. You look at her.
“What?”
She shakes her head.
“Nothing.”
“You remain terrible at nothing.”
She grips the wheel.
“I didn’t know.”
“Know what?”
“How much you’re doing all the time.”
You look at the rain sliding down the windshield.
“Most people don’t.”
“I don’t mean that like pity.”
“I know.”
“I mean…” She exhales, frustrated with the shape of her own thoughts. “You make it look normal. Not easy. But normal. Like you’ve already planned for every stupid obstacle before anyone else even sees it.”
You are quiet. She glances at you.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
Your honesty surprises both of you. Trinity’s face softens. Then hardens. Not at you. For you.
“I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t design the tomato display.”
“I might still fight it.”
“Later.”
“Okay.”
She starts the car. As she pulls away, one hand leaves the wheel briefly and lands palm-up on the console. Waiting. You look at it. Then place your hand in hers. Her fingers close around yours. Warm. Damp from rain. Steady. The grocery bags rustle softly in the back as she drives. Bread, sourdough, storm snacks, canned coffee, frozen waffles, dumplings, pain patches. All of it going back to your apartment.
Your house, your fridge, your shelves, your life, and Trinity, who had thought you were joking when you invited her, now drives through the rain like she is carrying something fragile and newly named. By the time you pull into your spot, the rain has fully committed. Not drizzle. Not the dramatic first few drops of a storm pretending it might behave. Heavy, silver, insistent, drumming over the roof of the car and turning the windshield into a sheet of moving glass. Trinity parks and keeps both hands on the wheel for a second, staring at the apartment building like she is calculating load-bearing emotional logistics.
“You stay here,” she says.
You turn your head slowly. She looks at you. Then winces.
“I heard it.”
“Good.”
“I meant, I’ll bring everything in first, then you.”
“No.”
“Okay, terrible plan. You first, then groceries.”
“No.”
Her brows pull together.
“Then what?”
“We both go in. You take the heavier bags. I take the lighter ones. We do not turn this into a hostage negotiation in a parking lot.”
“It’s pouring.”
“I noticed.”
“Your chair is going to get wet.”
“My chair has survived worse than weather.”
“You’re in pain.”
“Yes.”
“And you still want to carry groceries?”
“Trinity.”
She goes quiet. You soften your voice before the edge gets too sharp.
“I am not decorative.”
Her face changes immediately. That lands. Harder than you meant it to, maybe, but not unfairly.
“I know,” she says.
“Do you?”
She swallows.
“I’m trying to.”
You nod once.
“Then let me help.”
The rain hammers the roof.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then Trinity exhales and unbuckles.
“Okay. Lighter bags.”
“Lighter bags.”
“No soup cans.”
“No soup cans.”
“No glass jars.”
“Santos.”
“I’m making rules because I’m nervous.”
“I noticed.”
She smiles faintly despite herself and gets out into the rain. By the time she gets your chair set up beside the car, her hair is already damp at the edges, your hoodie darkening across the shoulders. She locks the brakes, checks the footrests, then opens your door.
“Ready?”
“Not even slightly.”
“Honest. Nice.”
You transfer carefully, expecting your hip to scream the way it had in the store. It does not. Not as badly. You pause halfway into the chair, hand braced on the car door. Trinity notices instantly.
“What?”
You settle into the seat, testing your weight.
“The rain broke.”
“Yeah?”
“The pressure’s dropping. Or settled. Whatever it is.” You roll your shoulder once, then breathe out. “Less pressure in my joints.”
Her eyes move over you, cautious.
“Good less?”
“Less bad.”
“I’ll take it.”
“So will I.”
She looks relieved enough to make your chest ache. Not because you are suddenly fine. You are not. Your body is still tired from the store, from the bar last night, from the storm warning it gave you before the sky finally opened. But the sharp pressure has eased. The deep, awful packed-glass feeling in your hips has loosened by a fraction. Enough that the world feels possible again. Enough that carrying a bag of bread and gummy worms into your own apartment feels less like stupidity and more like dignity. Trinity opens the back door and starts sorting.
“Heavy,” she mutters, putting one bag aside. “Heavy. Heavy. Why did we buy soup like we’re feeding a bunker?”
“Storm.”
“I hate when you use my arguments against me.”
“Growth.”
She hands you a bag with bread, sourdough, chips, and the sea salt chocolate.
“Approved?”
You glance inside.
“No soup cans. No jars. No frozen things.”
“Look at me respecting boundaries.”
“Miraculous.”
She grabs two heavier bags, one in each hand, and closes the car door with her hip. You roll toward the covered path, rain splashing against the footrests and misting your pants. Trinity keeps pace beside you. Not in front. Not hovering behind. Beside. The bags pull at her arms, but she does not complain. The automatic entrance doors open with a soft mechanical sigh, and the lobby air hits warmer than outside, smelling faintly like wet pavement and carpet cleaner. You shake rain from your hands. Trinity glances down at the wheels.
“I’ll towel them when we get in.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
She pauses.
Then corrects herself.
“I want to.”
You look at her.
That one is better.
You let it pass.
The trip from the lobby to the apartment is easier than the store, but it still works. The hall is wide enough, the turn toward your door familiar. Your building had been another choice made with your body in mind. Wide doors. Flat thresholds. Enough room for the chair to move without every corner becoming a tiny duel.
Trinity notices that too now. You can tell. She watches the way you angle toward your door without scraping the frame. The way you shift the grocery bag to your lap before reaching for your keys. The way the entry gives you enough room to get inside without folding yourself into some impossible shape. She has been here plenty of times. She has slept in your bed. Showered in your ensuite. Stolen your hoodie from the chair by the robe. But this is different.
This is her watching the apartment work for you. Not perfectly, but intentionally.
Like the place itself knows better than to make everything harder. You unlock the door.
Inside, the apartment is dim and warm, soft gray light coming in through the balcony doors, rain streaking down the glass beyond the living room. You roll into the entry and set your bag carefully on the floor near the dining table. Trinity steps in behind you, dripping slightly.
“Shoes,” she says automatically.
You lift an eyebrow.
She points at herself.
“Mine. I was talking to me.”
“Mm.”
She kicks off her wet shoes by the door, then takes your keys from your hand and drops them into the bowl. The little ceramic sound rings through the entry. Keys in the bowl. Shoes by the door. Groceries on the floor. Rain against the balcony. The whole normal thing. Trinity looks at the bags.
“Okay. You direct. I’ll unload.”
“I will also unload.”
Her mouth opens. You stare. It closes.
“Lighter things,” she says.
“Excellent recovery.”
She takes the heavy bags to the kitchen first, setting them on the counter by the pantry and fridge. You roll after her, keeping the lighter bag in your lap.
The apartment’s open center makes it possible, the dining table just ahead, kitchen tucked to the right, living room beyond. There is enough circulation space for you to turn without bumping cabinets or asking Trinity to move every three seconds.
You set the bread on the counter yourself. Then the sourdough. Then the chips. Trinity watches you for half a beat too long.
“Santos.”
“I’m not stopping you.”
“You’re watching like I’m defusing a bomb.”
She looks down at the bread.
“Sorry.”
You soften.
“I know you’re nervous.”
“Yeah.”
“But this is the part I can do.”
She nods once.
“Okay.”
Then, after a second,
“What do you want me to do?”
That is better too.
Not assuming.
Asking.
You point toward the pantry.
“Soup cans go bottom shelf.”
“Yes.”
“Pasta next shelf.”
“Okay.”
“Electrolytes in the bin by the fridge.”
“The weird medical-looking one?”
“The storm survival bin.”
“Hot.”
“Santos.”
She grins and starts putting things away.
You handle the counter things.
Bread into the bread box.
Chocolate in the snack drawer.
Kettle chips in the pantry because if you leave them out, you will eat half the bag before dinner and pretend it was a pain-management strategy. Trinity sees where you put them.
“Coward.”
“Future me deserves protection.”
“Future you sounds boring.”
“Future me has impulse control.”
“Unproven.”
You roll your eyes and reach for the sour gummy worms. There are two bags. Of course there are. You hold one up.
“The household appears to have a gummy worm problem.”
Trinity turns from the pantry, one soup can in hand.
“The household has taste.”
“Our household?”
She freezes. Just slightly. The soup can hovers over the shelf. You wait. The rain taps steadily against the balcony glass. The fridge hums. Somewhere outside, thunder grumbles farther away now, less threatening than before. Trinity sets the soup can down. Then looks back at you.
“Our household,” she says, quieter.
This time, no correction. No panic joke. No immediate scramble for cover. Your chest warms. Dangerous. You look away first, because apparently you can sing at your ex-wife in a bar but cannot survive two words in your kitchen.
“Gummy worms go in the snack drawer.”
“Yes, doctor.”
“You’re doing that on purpose.”
“Always.”
She puts the rest of the pantry items away while you handle the fridge. Canned coffee goes on the shelf beside your electrolyte drinks. Not hidden or shoved into the back like it is temporary. Right there. Visible. Trinity comes over and sees it. Stops. You keep arranging yogurt.
“Problem?”
“No.”
“You’re staring at the coffee.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
She reaches out and touches one can with the tips of her fingers. Just a light tap. Like checking if it is real.
“You put it next to your stuff.”
“It is stuff.”
“My stuff.”
“In my fridge.”
She glances at you.
You do not look away.
“In your fridge,” she says.
You shrug.
“That’s where cold things go.”
Her mouth twists.
“You are so annoying.”
“I’ve been told.”
She takes the frozen bags next. Waffles. Dumplings. Ready made meals.
You roll toward the freezer to help, but she stops and looks at you before saying anything. You notice the effort. The whole little battle against her own instinct.
“Do you want to put some away?” she asks.
“Yes.”
She hands you the waffles. Not the heaviest thing. Not nothing. A middle choice. You take them and open the freezer. Cold air spills over your hands. You slide the waffles into place, both boxes, then make room for her dumplings. Trinity steps in beside you, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours.
“Dumplings?”
“Our freezer is welcoming,” you say.
She makes a wounded little noise.
“You remembered.”
“You said it.”
“I say a lot of things.”
“Unfortunately.”
She puts the dumplings in and closes the freezer door. For a moment, you are both quiet. The kitchen is half-unpacked now. Bags crumpled on the counter. Rain on the balcony. Your chair angled between the dining table and pantry, exactly enough room to turn. Trinity standing in your kitchen in your damp hoodie, hair curling at the edges from the rain, her canned coffee in your fridge, her snacks in your drawer, her dumplings in your freezer. The whole normal thing. It should feel too big. It does.
The rain has taken some of the pressure out of your joints, and maybe that is not the only place pressure has eased. You reach for the last bag on the floor. Trinity beats you to it, then stops herself halfway. You lift an eyebrow. She hands it to you instead.
“Light.”
You check. Crackers, ginger tea, nausea lozenges, migraine meds.
“Approved.”
She smiles, proud and sheepish at once. You put the crackers in the pantry. She puts the ginger tea on the little shelf by the kettle because she has noticed where you reach when nausea hits. Neither of you says that. You both know. By the time the groceries are away, your energy is thinning. Not gone. Thinning.
Your body has given you a little grace now that the rain has broken, but it is still keeping receipts. You back your chair toward the dining table and lean forward, elbows on your knees for a second. Trinity notices from the sink, where she is folding the reusable bags.
“You done?”
You inhale.
“Almost.”
“That means yes.”
“It means almost.”
She dries her hands and comes over, stopping beside you.
“Water?”
“Yes.”
“Pain patch?”
“Probably.”
“Heating pad?”
“Definitely.”
“Toast?”
You look up. She looks almost nervous asking. Like toast means more now that there is sourdough on the counter and both of you know who it belongs to. You nod.
“With our bread?”
Her face goes soft. Ridiculously soft.
“Yeah,” she says. “With our bread.”
You huff.
“You are very easy.”
“I am not.”
“You are when carbs are emotionally significant.”
She points at you.
“You bought two kinds of bread and called it toast diversity.”
“Accurate clinical language.”
“Psychiatrists are a scam.”
“Why do you think I make so much?”
She smirks as she turns toward the counter and starts making toast. Your toast. Her toast. Regular bread for you because your stomach is fussy. Sourdough for her because she likes it and now apparently your kitchen knows that. You sit at the dining table while she works, watching rain slide down the balcony doors beyond the living room. Your hip still aches. Your spine still hums. Your hands are still tired, but the storm has shifted from threat to weather. From pressure to release. Trinity sets a plate in front of you. Toast. Peanut butter. A few strawberries sliced messily on the side.
“Chef Santos,” you say.
“Do not mock my plating.”
“Your strawberries look panicked.”
“They were cut under emotional conditions.”
She sits beside you with her sourdough toast and a canned coffee. Her canned coffee. She cracks it open, takes a sip, and sighs like it has restored several organ systems. You stare.
“That stuff is horrifying.”
“It’s delicious.”
“It smells like a battery that went to business school.”
She nearly chokes. You smile into your water. For a while, the two of you eat in comfortable quiet. The rain keeps coming down. The apartment holds around you. Everything where it should be. Everything easier than it used to be in other places. Trinity looks around slowly, like she is only now seeing all of it together. Not just your apartment. Your access. Your patterns. Your life. Then she looks at you.
“You did more than I thought you’d be able to.”
You pause.
Her face immediately panics.
“Not like that. I didn’t mean…”
“I know what you meant.”
She closes her mouth.
You take a sip of water.
“The rain helped.”
“Less pressure?”
“Yes.”
“And you wanted to do it.”
“Yes.”
She nods slowly.
“I think I need to learn the difference between helping and stealing things from you.”
You look at her.
“My gummy worms?”
“My independence.”
The honesty in it makes the room go quiet.
You set your glass down.
“That is a very good distinction.”
She looks at her toast.
“I’m going to mess it up.”
“Yes.”
Her head snaps up.
You shrug.
“So will I. I’m going to snap when you’re only trying to help. You’re going to hover when you’re scared. I’m going to say I’m fine when I am objectively not. You’re going to offer to carry seventeen bags and call it efficient.”
“I could carry seventeen bags.”
“I know, Atlas.”
She smiles faintly.
You soften.
“We learn.”
Her eyes search yours.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Rain runs down the glass. The kitchen smells like toast and coffee and wet pavement. Your body still hurts, but less sharply now. There is less pressure in your joints. Less pressure in the room. Less pressure in the space between what this is and what neither of you has called it yet. Trinity reaches under the table. Palm up. Waiting. You put your hand in hers. She squeezes once. Then goes back to eating her toast like she did not just fit herself into another corner of your life. The groceries are put away.
Summary: Ever since your ex-wife left you because you became "too much" you've kept everyone at a distance so why is this R2 you're keeping things casual with getting under your skin?
Summary: Trinity finds out the weird ways you sleep due to hypermobile joints
word count: 2.8K
Warnings: chronic pain, chronic illness, EDS/hypermobility, disability, mobility aids mentioned, unusual joint positioning while sleeping, fear of being perceived as “weird” or too much, emotional vulnerability, intimacy in a casual situationship, early relationship uncertainty, caretaking, boundaries around touch, hospital/work exhaustion, brief panic over possible injury, medical concern/check-ins, internalized shame around disability, soft hurt/comfort.
Authors note: I was sleeping funny last night cause of my own EDS and this idea came to me of how worried Trinity would be walking into that.
Trinity learns this embarrassingly early, a few months in, back when this is still casual, allegedly. Back when she still tells herself you are just the psych attending she sleeps with sometimes. Which is a very normal sentence. Very emotionally healthy. No problems there. She learns because she comes over after a shift that nearly eats her alive.
R1 year is actively trying to kill her. She is tired in her bones. Tired in her teeth, tired in whatever part of the brain controls not crying in hospital bathrooms. So she ends up at your apartment because of course she does, she has your code now. You gave it to her with a flat little,
“don’t abuse this, santos,” and then proceeded to never change it.
She tells herself she is just coming over to sleep with you or maybe sleep near you or maybe sit on your couch until her nervous system stops trying to crawl out of her body. again, casual. Extremely casual. She opens the door quietly or tries to your floorboard near the kitchen betrays her immediately and she winces.
“Shit.” no answer. That's unusual. Normally you call from somewhere in the apartment with something mean and fond.
Break in quieter next time.
If you're a murderer, take the laundry out first.
Shoes off, santos. I'm not raising you.
This time there’s nothing. The apartment is dim. tv off. one lamp glowing soft in the living room. Your wheelchair is parked near the bedroom door. Your cane is leaning against the wall beside it. Trinity's stomach drops before she can stop it because your chair is there, your cane is there, but you aren’t.
“Y/N?” still nothing. She moves faster now, bag dropping near the couch. “Hey?” Your bedroom door is half open. She pushes it wider and freezes because you are in bed. Asleep…probably…hopefully, but your body is arranged in a way that makes Trinity's medical training and basic common sense both immediately start screaming.
you are lying half on your side, half on your stomach. one leg is bent up almost to your ribs, the other is thrown over a body pillow at an angle she is pretty sure violates several orthopedic principles, your shoulder is tucked under you, one arm is twisted under the pillow, your wrist looks wrong; not broken wrong just wrong enough that her tired R1 brain immediately supplies: dislocation, subluxation, nerve compression, circulation issue, what the fuck, your neck is turned toward the wall, your hips are angled like you lost a fight with gravity and won on a technicality.
Trinity stands there, horrified.
“what the fuck.” you do not move. she comes closer, careful. “Y/N?” nothing. Her eyes darted over you again. Hip, shoulder, wrist, knee, neck. She has seen car accident patients in more normal positions. Slowly, she reaches out, touching your shoulder. “Hey. wake up.”
you make a small annoyed sound. not pain. Annoyed. good sign, maybe.
“Mmmmmm.”
“Baby?” an unusual thing to call you outside of your hookups.
You still, not fully awake, but enough.
“Don't baby me before coffee.”
Trinity exhales so hard it almost becomes a laugh then she remembers your leg is practically folded into a different zip code.
“Are you stuck?”
your eyes crack open…barely. One of them squints at her.
“What?”
“Are you stuck?”
you blink slow, sleepy, and deeply unimpressed.
“What kind of question is that?”
“Your body is doing something insane.”
you close your eyes again.
“It's sleeping.”
“It’s auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.”
“Rude.”
“Your knee is by your ribs.”
“Yes.”
“Your wrist is under your pillow.”
“Yes.”
“Your hip is, like, rotated.”
“Both of them are rotated. They're hips.”
“Y/N.”
You sigh and open your eyes more fully. Trinity is standing beside your bed in scrubs, hair falling out of her ponytail, expression somewhere between concern and clinical panic, you look at her then down at yourself then back at her.
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“You haven’t seen my pretzel sleeping yet.”
“Pretzel sleeping?”
“Yes.”
“That is not a medical term.”
“It is in this house.”
Trinity stares at you. You shift slightly, tucking your bent leg closer. Her face does something terrible.
“Don’t move.”
You pause.
“Did you just tell me not to move in my own bed?”
“Yes.”
“Bold.”
“Your joints look like they’re plotting against you.”
“They usually are Santos.” You remind her.
“That is not reassuring.”
You huff, then finally roll just enough to face her better, not all the way because apparently all the way is not comfortable. Your body is an elaborate puzzle box designed by a bored god.
“EDS,” you mumble.
Trinity’s brows pull together.
“I know you have EDS.”
“Hypermobility,” you clarify. “Sometimes normal sleeping positions feel worse. Sometimes pressure helps. Sometimes one joint is mad, so I arrange the rest of me around it.”
“So you become a pretzel?”
“A functional pretzel.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“Not my job.”
“You're literally a psychiatrist.”
“Off the clock.”
she looks at your leg again.
“Is that comfortable?”
“It was until a resident broke into my apartment and judged me.”
“I used the code.”
“legal breaking and entering.”
Trinity sits carefully on the edge of the bed. not too close. still watching you like you might come apart. you hate that. you hate it immediately. Your walls go up by muscle memory.
“If you’re going to look at me like I'm a freak show, you can go.”
Her face changes instantly. Hurt first. Next understanding. Then guilt.
“I’m not.”
You look away.
“Sure.”
“I'm not,” she says again, softer. “I just didn’t know.”
“Now you do.”
Silence. Your room hums softly around the two of you. The air purifier, traffic outside, the tiny creak of the bed when trinity shifts. She doesn’t leave which is annoying. She never leaves when she should. After a moment she says,
“I thought you were hurt.”
you glance back. She looks younger suddenly. R1 tired. Eyes red at the edges, still in her scrubs, still trying to be useful in a room where there is no code to run, no order to place, no blood pressure to fix.
“I mean, I am hurt,” you say.
Her face tightens and you lift a hand before she can spiral.
“Chronically. Not newly.”
“That's not funny.”
“It's a little funny.”
“It’s really not.”
“You’ll get used to my sense of humor.”
“I already hate it.”
“Good.”
Trinity looks at your wrist again.
“Are you sure that’s okay?”
You flex your fingers.
“Yes.”
“Circulation?”
You wiggle them.
“Still attached.”
“Numbness?”
“Not currently.”
“Pain?”
You give her a look and she sighs.
“Right. Stupid question.”
“Not stupid. Just broad.”
That seems to settle her a little. she nods, physician brain grabbing onto something structured.
“Okay. So what do I ask?”
You blink.
“what?”
“if i find you sleeping like a haunted pretzel again.”
You stare because no one's ever asked you that before.
Trinity looks serious, too serious. As if this is something she is committing to memory, as if there will be a next time. Which is stupid. Dangerous. Not something casual hookups do. Your chest tightens in a way you do not appreciate.
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
Your mouth closes. You look at the blanket.
“Ask if I'm stuck. If something is numb. If something is more painful than usual. If i need help moving.”
Trinity nods.
“Okay.”
“Do not try to straighten me out.”
Her eyes widened.
“People do that?”
“People see weird angles and panic. Then they move me like I'm a folding chair.”
Trinity’s face darkens.
“I won’t do that.”
The answer comes fast.
Hard.
Defensive on your behalf in a way that makes your stomach do something stupid.
You clear your throat.
“Good.”
She looks down at the bed.
“So you need...what? Pillows?”
“Usually.”
“How many?”
You hesitate. Then roll your eyes like the answer is annoying instead of vulnerable.
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Everything.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the most accurate answer.”
She nods slowly. Then gets up without saying anything. You frown.
“Where are you going?”
“Getting pillows.”
“Santos.”
“What?”
“I didn’t ask.”
She stops beside the closet and turns back.
“You said pillows help.”
“That doesn’t mean you need to start rearranging my apartment.”
“I’m not rearranging your apartment.”
“You’re in my closet.”
“I’m looking for pillows.”
“Why are emergency residents like this?”
“Because we see a problem and get weird.”
“I am not a problem.” You seethed at her, Trinity softens immediately.
“No.” Her voice is quieter now. “You’re not. I’m sorry I didn’t mean it like that.”
The room stills. You hate that too. You hate how quickly she corrects it. How carefully. How she hears the sentence under the sentence. You look away first. She opens the closet and finds the extra pillows anyway. Because apparently your objections are decorative. She brings three back. Different sizes. Different firmness. Which she could not possibly know matters, but somehow she handles them like they might.
“Where?”
You stare at her. She stares back.
“Where do you want them?”
You should tell her to leave. That would be safer. Cleaner. Less...whatever this is. Instead you sigh like you are being deeply inconvenienced.
“One under that knee. Not too high. The flatter one.”
She follows. Careful. Not touching you until you shift enough for her to slide it in place.
“here?”
“a little lower.”
She adjusts.
“There?”
“Yeah.”
She smiles faintly. Tiny victory. It should not be cute. It is cute.
“Next?”
You point with your chin.
“Body pillow behind my back.”
She moves it.
“And the small one?”
“Between my wrists.”
That makes her pause, but she does not ask in that pitiful way. She just hands it to you. You tuck it where you need it. Then settle again, body finding the weird little geometry that makes pain less loud. Trinity watches. This time not like you’re strange. Like she is learning. That is somehow worse. Better. Both.
“You good?” she asks.
You close your eyes.
“Better before you broke in.”
“Used the code.”
“Legal burglar.”
She smiles. Then hesitates near the bed. You can feel it. Her wondering if she is supposed to leave now. If this is too intimate. If casual means she should go sleep on the couch or go home or pretend she did not just learn the pillow architecture of your joints. You keep your eyes closed. Then you mutter,
“You can stay, but go shower first. You smell like hospital.”
Trinity freezes. Not dramatically. Just enough for you to know the words hit somewhere. You crack one eye open. She is standing there in your bedroom, still in her scrubs, looking at you like you have just handed her something fragile and pretended it was a paper towel.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself. I’m very tired and emotionally unavailable.”
Her mouth twitches.
“There she is.”
You close your eye again.
“Pajamas are in the bottom drawer. Something should fit you. I prefer baggy sleeping clothes for my pretzel needs.”
“Pretzel needs,” she repeats.
“Yes.”
“That sounds like a medical condition.”
“It is now.”
Trinity huffs a soft laugh. You hear her move around the room. The bottom drawer opens. There is a brief pause. Then,
“You have so many big shirts.”
“I like options.”
“You have one that says I Survived Another Meeting That Should Have Been An Email.”
“Do not judge my sleepwear.”
“I’m admiring it.”
“You are mocking.”
“I can do both.”
You make a vague, sleepy sound of threat. It earns another quiet laugh. Then she disappears into the bathroom. The shower turns on a minute later And the apartment shifts. Not a lot. Just enough. Hospital smell washing away. Water running through the walls. Trinity inside your shower, using your soap, wearing your borrowed clothes soon. Too domestic. Too intimate. Too not casual. You keep your eyes closed and pretend you are not thinking about that. Pretend your chest does not feel strange. Pretend the sound of her in your apartment does not settle something in you that you have no intention of naming. The shower shuts off. A few minutes later the bathroom door opens.
Trinity comes back in wearing one of your oversized shirts and a pair of soft pajama pants rolled at the waist. Her hair is damp. Her face is clean. She pauses beside the bed again. Less uncertain now, but still careful. Like she knows she has been invited into something and does not want to step wrong. You open your eyes. The shirt hangs loose on her. A little too big. Absolutely not cute.
“You look ridiculous.”
She looks down at herself.
“You gave me the clothes.”
“And yet.”
She smiles. Then gestures vaguely to the bed.
“Where do you want me?”
The question is too much. Too easy to answer wrong. Too easy to answer honestly. You look away first.
“Beside me, Santos. Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird.”
“You’re standing like a nervous Victorian suitor.”
She laughs quietly, then climbs into bed. Careful. So careful it almost hurts. She does not jostle your pillows. She does not bump your knee. She does not try to fix the strange angle of your hips. Just slides in beside you and stops. Waiting. The mattress dips under her weight. Warmth settles near your back. Not touching yet. Just close.
“Is this okay?”
You make a small noise.
“Mhm.”
A pause. Then softer,
“Can I touch you?”
You open one eye.
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“Answer this one...please”
You close your eye again.
“Yes.”
Her arm settles carefully over your waist, her hand splayed on your stomach in an almost protective way. She waits for you to flinch. You don’t. Her hand relaxes. The contact is warm through your shirt. Gentle. A little uncertain. Like she is learning a language one word at a time and does not want to mispronounce you. After a moment she whispers,
“You’re very bendy.”
You snort.
“Romantic.”
“I panicked. My flirting is impaired.”
“Your flirting is always impaired.”
“You slept with me anyway.”
“Against my better judgment.”
She laughs quietly into the back of your shoulder. The sound warms the room more than it should. You hate that you like it. A few minutes pass. Then she says,
“So if I wake up and you look like a crime scene made of limbs…”
“Do not call me that.”
“I ask if you’re stuck, numb, in worse pain, or need help moving.”
You do not answer right away. Because your throat has gone weird. Because she listened. Because she is repeating it back like it matters. Because this was supposed to be casual and she is lying in your bed, wearing your clothes, learning how not to hurt you, and holding you so gently. You swallow.
“Yeah.”
Her thumb brushes once over your stomach.
“And I don’t straighten you out.”
“No.”
“Functional pretzel.”
You huff.
“Unfortunately.”
She presses the smallest kiss to your shoulder. Barely there. Easy to pretend it didn’t happen if you wanted to. You don’t. You probably should, but you don’t.
“Sleep,” she murmurs.
You are already close. Warm. Supported. Pretzeled. Annoyingly not alone.
“Santos?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
You regret the words coming out, you want to take them back, tuck them back inside your chest, but you’re too deep now.
“For taking care of me. For asking and not assuming. For making sure you have the list right what needs to be asked.”
“Of course. I like being here for you, ya know?” She admits and you feel her tighten a bit, like she’s said something wrong and you’re going to kick her out for it.
“Good.” Is all you say and she relaxes, her mouth finding your shoulder again to pepper kisses that you didn’t know you needed until you felt your body relax more into her because of them.
There’s a pause. Then, because she is incapable of not being herself,
“You know, you should really chart this as hypermobility-related sleep origami.”
You open your eyes.
“Get out.”
“No.” She pouts.
“I’ll call security.”
“You gave me the code.”
“I regret that.”
“No you don’t.”
You say nothing. Which is, unfortunately, answer enough. Trinity’s arm settles more securely around you. Not too tight, but you feel more flushed against her even withe the body pillow between you.
Later, when she wakes in the middle of the night to find your leg in an even stranger position and your arm tucked under a pillow like a question mark, she does not panic. Not fully. She blinks sleepily.
Murmurs, “Stuck?”
You mumble, “No.”
“Numb?”
“No.”
“Worse pain?”
“No.”
“Need help?”
“Go back to sleep, Santos.” She does. Smiling into your back. Because a few months in, still casual, still pretending, Trinity Santos learns one more piece of you. Not the polished attending. Not the sharp psych doctor. Not the woman who terrifies residents and makes patients feel safe. Just you. Soft shirt. Weird joints. Three pillows. Pretzeled into comfort.
