#pride fics

You know better than to trust a hospital atrium with fairy lights.

The Pitt is still The Pitt, even with rainbow banners looped around the second-floor railing, even with a temporary mocktail bar set up beside the donor wall, even with a local youth choir singing a very earnest cover of “True Colors” from the small platform admin rented for the night. The emergency department is still eating itself alive two floors below you. Somewhere, a trauma pager is still going off. Somewhere, a family is still waiting for news. Somewhere, Dana Evans is probably threatening to staple someone to a chair if they move her supply cart again.

But up here, for a few hours, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center is trying to look soft.

Trying is the word.

The event is called Pride in Practice, which is exactly the kind of name a committee comes up with after three meetings, four competing Google docs, and at least one person saying, “We need something that sounds inclusive but not too political.” It’s meant to be a resource fair for patients, staff, and families, especially queer teens and queer healthcare workers who are used to being expected to disappear into professionalism. There are booths for gender-affirming care referrals, HIV prevention resources, harm reduction kits, free pronoun badge stickers, a quiet sensory room, and a wall where people can write down the name of someone who made them feel safe.

You helped design most of it.

You’re not a doctor. You’re not a nurse. You don’t wear a white coat unless someone hands you one by mistake, and you spend more time on the floor with terrified kids than you do standing behind a nurses’ station. Your badge reads:

Patient Support ServicesCertified Child Life Specialist and Trauma Care Liaison

It’s a mouthful. Most people don’t know what it means until they see you doing it.

It means you’re the person who explains a CT scan to a six-year-old using a toy tunnel and a stuffed dinosaur. It means you teach a teenager how to breathe through stitches. It means you sit with siblings who aren’t allowed in trauma bays. It means you translate hospital terror into something a child can survive. It means you carry bubbles, coloring books, weighted stuffed animals, tablet chargers, hair ties, grief pamphlets, and stickers in the same rolling cart like you’re smuggling tenderness into a place built for crisis.

Tonight, it means you’re in charge of the quiet room, the family welcome table, the Pride memory wall, and apparently making sure no resident accidentally says something lawsuit-worthy on a microphone.

That last part is unofficial.

That last part is mostly because of Trinity Santos.

You spot her across the atrium before she spots you.

She’s standing beside the Stop the Bleed demonstration table with her arms crossed over her scrub top, a rainbow badge clipped crookedly to her chest. Someone has given her a sticker that says Ask Me About Emergency Medicine, and she looks like she’s one bad question away from committing a felony with a tourniquet.

Dr. Robby stands beside her, looking tired in the specific way only Robby ever looks tired, like his soul has been triaging since 1998. He’s talking to a group of hospital donors while Trinity stares at a plastic training limb like it personally offended her.

“Smile,” Robby mutters without looking at her.

“I am smiling.”

“You look like you’re deciding where to hide a body.”

“That’s my approachable face.”

“It’s really not.”

Trinity’s mouth twitches. “Maybe people should approach less.”

You bite down on a laugh and pretend to straighten the pamphlets on your table.

You’ve known Trinity Santos long enough to know she doesn’t do crowds well, not because she’s shy, and not because she lacks confidence. She has confidence in the way a scalpel has a blade. Sharp, useful, dangerous when handled wrong. She walks into rooms like she’s already decided she’s going to be the best person in them, and most of the time, she makes a decent argument for it.

She’s brilliant. Annoying. Competitive. Too blunt for her own good. Former athlete posture, all squared shoulders and restless hands. She hates being underestimated, hates being corrected in public, hates when anyone sees her hesitate. She can be abrasive with adults, but you’ve seen her crouch beside an injured kid and lower her voice until it stops being armor and starts being care.

That’s the part that ruined you.

Not the smirk. Not the cheekbones. Not the way she looks at you like she’s trying to solve you and avoid you at the same time.

It was the night a twelve-year-old came in after a crash with glass in her hair and blood all over her favorite soccer jersey. Trinity had been short with everyone else, snappy with Dennis, borderline feral with a consultant who took too long to answer a page. Then she walked into that bay, saw the kid shaking, and said, “Hey, I played midfield for six years, so I’m legally required to respect a good jersey. You gonna let me help you keep it?”

The kid had nodded.

Trinity had carefully cut the jersey along the seam instead of through the number.

You’d been done after that.

Completely, stupidly done.

“Hey.”

You jump, almost knocking over your basket of pronoun pins.

Dana gives you a look from the other side of the table, one eyebrow raised. She’s holding a clipboard, which is always a threat when Dana is the one holding it.

“You’re doing that thing,” she says.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you pretend to organize supplies while staring at a resident.”

“I’m not staring.”

Dana looks over her shoulder at Trinity, then back at you. “Honey.”

You feel your face go hot. “I was assessing whether she’s going to scare away donors.”

“She is,” Dana says. “But Robby put her there, so that’s his problem.”

“Should we intervene?”

“Absolutely not. Watching Robby manage Santos in public is the closest thing I get to theatre.”

Before you can answer, Dennis Whitaker appears carrying a cardboard box full of buttons. He looks slightly sweaty, very earnest, and deeply afraid of disappointing the entire queer community.

“I brought the rest of the pronoun pins,” he says. “Also, I may have made some of them backward.”

Dana closes her eyes. “Backward how?”

Dennis reaches into the box and pulls one out. It reads reh/ehs.

You stare at it.

Dennis stares at it.

Dana stares at it.

From across the atrium, Mel King walks by holding a stack of coloring sheets and says, “That one’s for a mirror.”

Dennis brightens. “Thank you.”

Dana points at him with her pen. “Do not be encouraged by that.”

Mel smiles faintly, then sets the coloring sheets on your table. “The sensory room is stocked. I put the fidgets in the left basket and the noise-canceling headphones on the hooks. Someone put glitter glue in there, so I removed it before we created a permanent crime scene.”

“You’re a hero,” you say.

“I know,” Mel says, with the calm seriousness of someone who has accepted this as fact.

Mel leans closer to you and lowers her voice. “Is Santos mad because she had to come, or is that just her face?”

“Yes,” you say.

Dana snorts.

Mel looks like she’s trying to decide if that’s an answer. “Okay. Good. That clears it up.”

Across the atrium, Trinity looks over.

Her eyes find yours immediately, like she already knew where you were.

For half a second, the noise of the atrium thins. The choir, the donors, the rolling laughter from the photo booth, the squeak of sneakers on polished floor, all of it drops behind the simple, awful fact of her looking at you.

Then she raises her eyebrows like she caught you doing something embarrassing.

You roll your eyes.

She smirks.

Your chest does something traitorous.

Dana makes a low sound beside you. “That’s painful to watch.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re both ridiculous.”

“We’re coworkers.”

“Sure.”

Dennis looks between you and Trinity with growing interest. “Wait, is there a thing?”

“No,” you say.

Dana says, “Yes.”

Mel says, “Statistically, probably.”

Dennis nods slowly. “I’m learning a lot tonight.”

You pick up the basket of pins and shove it into his hands. “Go learn over there.”

He takes it with a wounded look. “I support love.”

“Go.”

He goes.

Dana is still smiling, which is a problem because Dana smiling usually means she knows something you wish she didn’t.

“You know,” she says, softer now, “a Pride event at a hospital is a terrible place to lie to yourself.”

You pretend to count pamphlets. “I’m not lying.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I’m working.”

“You’re always working.”

The words land closer than you expect them to.

Dana must see something shift in your face, because her expression changes. Less teasing now. More careful.

“Hey,” she says. “You good?”

You look out over the atrium.

There are kids making bracelets at the craft table, a teenage boy laughing while his grandmother pins a rainbow sticker on her purse, two respiratory therapists taking selfies under the balloon arch, a patient from outpatient oncology writing a name on the memory wall with shaking hands. It’s beautiful. It matters.

It’s also a lot.

You built parts of this event because you wanted people to feel held. Because you know how many queer patients come into hospitals expecting to be corrected, questioned, pitied, ignored, or turned into a lesson. Because you’ve spent years making yourself useful in rooms where fear has teeth. Because being useful is easier than being seen.

“I’m fine,” you say.

Dana’s eyes narrow.

You smile before she can ask again. “I need to check the quiet room.”

“Convenient.”

“It’s literally my job.”

“Everything is literally your job when you don’t want to talk.”

You pick up your radio and clip it to your waistband. “Tell Dennis not to hand out the backward pins.”

“I’m keeping one,” Dana says. “It has character.”

You step away before she can stop you.

You’re halfway around the atrium when Trinity intercepts you near the elevators.

Not dramatically. Trinity doesn’t do dramatic unless she can pretend it’s tactical. She simply appears beside you with the kind of timing that makes you wonder how long she’s been watching.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

You keep walking. “Quiet room.”

“Lucky.”

“You’re jealous of a room with dim lights and beanbags?”

“I’m jealous of anything that doesn’t involve a donor asking me if emergency medicine is like television.”

“You could say yes.”

“I did. Robby kicked me under the table.”

“You probably deserved it.”

“I always deserve it. That doesn’t make him right.”

You glance at her. She’s walking close enough that your shoulders nearly brush, but not quite. Trinity is careful like that. She gets near the line, then acts like the line moved on its own.

“You okay?” you ask.

She scoffs. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Because you look like you’re about to bite through a lanyard.”

“It was in my mouth for one second.”

“Trinity.”

Her expression flickers at her first name. You don’t use it as often at work. In front of everyone else, she’s Santos. Sharp, quick, impossible to pin down. Trinity is quieter. Trinity is what slips out when you forget to protect yourself.

She looks away. “I hate these things.”

“Pride events?”

“Crowds pretending they’re not crowds.”

“That’s fair.”

“And people acting like because there are rainbow balloons, no one’s allowed to feel weird.”

You slow near the hallway that leads away from the atrium. The noise dulls a little as the walls narrow around you.

“You feel weird?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You kind of did.”

“I said, people. Hypothetical people.”

“Ah, yes. Your close friends, hypothetical people.”

Trinity gives you a look. “You’re very annoying for someone everyone thinks is nice.”

“That’s because I save most of it for you.”

“Flattered.”

“You should be.”

The corner of her mouth moves again, but it doesn’t quite become a smile.

Behind you, someone calls your name.

You stop.

It’s Robby, weaving through the crowd with a paper cup of coffee in one hand and a stack of event programs in the other. He looks from you to Trinity, then to the hallway you were clearly trying to escape into.

“Quiet room check?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say.

“Good. Take Santos with you.”

Trinity blinks. “Excuse me?”

Robby sips his coffee. “You’re scaring donors.”

“I’m educating them.”

“You told a board member the femoral artery doesn’t care about philanthropy.”

“It doesn’t.”

“No, but apparently he does.” Robby nods toward the hallway. “Five minutes. Then I need you back at the demo table with less murder in your eyes.”

Trinity mutters, “I can do three minutes and manslaughter.”

Robby points at her. “Five. No crimes.”

He turns away before either of you can answer.

You look at Trinity.

She looks at you.

“Well,” you say. “You’ve been medically ordered into quiet.”

“I’m going to diagnose him with being a pain in my ass.”

“That’s not in the DSM.”

“I’ll publish.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself.

Trinity hears it. Of course she does. Her face changes, not much, but enough. A small shift around her eyes. A softening she’d deny under oath.

“Come on,” you say.

And for once, she follows.

The quiet room used to be a family consultation room back when the hospital still pretended beige paint could calm people down.

You and Mel transformed it over three lunch breaks and one very long evening after a mass casualty drill. Now there are soft lamps instead of fluorescents, weighted blankets folded on the couch, noise-canceling headphones on wall hooks, a bin of fidgets, a basket of plush animals, and a laminated sign that says:

You don’t have to earn rest.

Mel made the sign.

You cried when she showed it to you, which you blamed on allergies because the alternative was letting Mel see your entire soul. She’d just handed you a tissue and said, “That’s a very specific allergy.”

Tonight, the room smells faintly like lavender and hospital disinfectant. The music from the atrium is only a distant pulse through the wall.

Trinity steps inside and immediately exhales.

It’s quiet enough that you hear it.

You close the door behind you.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Trinity walks to the table and picks up a squishy rainbow stress ball. She squeezes it once, makes a face, then squeezes it again like she’s mad it helped.

“Don’t get attached,” you say. “That one’s popular.”

“It has bad recoil.”

“It’s not a weapon.”

“Anything’s a weapon if you’re committed.”

You lean back against the door, arms folded. “There she is.”

“What?”

“You. Deflecting in under ten seconds.”

Trinity looks at you sharply. “Wow. Didn’t realize I was getting evaluated.”

“You’re always evaluating everyone else.”

“That’s different.”

“Because you’re better at it?”

“Obviously.”

You should laugh. Usually you would. That’s how the two of you work. She says something arrogant, you undercut it, she smirks, and both of you pretend the warmth underneath isn’t there.

But the quiet room is too quiet.

The sign on the wall is too honest.

You don’t laugh.

Trinity notices.

Her fingers still around the stress ball. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“The fake nothing.” She sets the stress ball down. “You do it all the time. Your voice gets all smooth and professional, like you’re talking to a parent who’s about to scream at registration.”

You stare at her.

She looks irritated with herself for saying it.

“You noticed that?”

“Unfortunately, I notice a lot of things.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It is. Thanks.”

A silence settles between you. It isn’t empty. It’s full of every almost-conversation you’ve both walked away from.

You move to the table and start straightening the fidget toys even though they’re already straight.

Trinity watches you do it.

“You’re doing the thing,” she says.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you organize instead of having a feeling.”

You glance at her. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“I don’t organize. I insult people.”

“Healthier.”

“More efficient.”

You smile despite yourself, but it doesn’t last.

Outside, the choir starts another song. The sound is muffled through the walls, all harmony and indistinct words.

Trinity leans against the edge of the table. “You looked like you were drowning out there.”

You freeze.

She says it badly, because of course she does. Blunt. Too direct. But not unkind.

“I was working,” you say.

“You were smiling like your face hurt.”

“It’s a hospital event. That’s the dress code.”

“Don’t.”

The word comes out low.

You look at her.

Trinity’s jaw is tight. Her arms are crossed again, but it feels less like attitude and more like she’s holding herself together.

“Don’t do the thing where you make it sound like I’m stupid for asking,” she says. “I’m not good at this, but I’m not stupid.”

Your chest pinches.

“I don’t think you’re stupid.”

“Good. Because I’m not.”

“I know.”

“I’m annoying and abrasive and apparently hostile to philanthropy, but I’m not stupid.”

“No one who knows you thinks you’re stupid.”

“People who know me think a lot of things.”

You step closer, then stop because you’re not sure what you’re allowed to do. That’s always been the problem with Trinity. She can stand close enough to make your hands ache, but she can flinch from care like it’s a needle.

“People who know you think you’re intense,” you say carefully. “And brilliant. And sometimes an absolute nightmare.”

“That was almost nice.”

“I’m building to it.”

“Take your time.”

You breathe out a laugh, then look at the sign on the wall.

You don’t have to earn rest.

You wish you believed that.

“I hate how exposed it feels,” you admit.

Trinity’s expression shifts.

You keep your eyes on the sign because looking at her might stop you.

“The event. Pride. All of it. I love it, and I wanted it, and I fought admin on half the wording because they kept trying to turn queer patients into a branding opportunity. I’m proud of it. I am.” You swallow. “But being out there with everyone looking at me like I’m supposed to be proof that this place is safe? That’s hard.”

Trinity doesn’t interrupt.

That alone feels like a gift.

“I spend all day making things easier for other people,” you continue. “Kids, parents, patients, staff. I explain, I soften, I calm, I make space. I hand people the right words when they can’t find their own. And tonight, everyone keeps telling me how meaningful this is, and I know it is. I know. But I can’t stop thinking that if I stop smiling for one second, someone will decide I’m ungrateful. Or dramatic. Or not professional enough. Or too much.”

Your voice thins on the last words.

Trinity’s face goes still.

You laugh once, awkward and small. “Sorry. That was a lot.”

“Don’t apologize.”

You look at her then.

She says it like an order, but her eyes are careful.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

Trinity looks down at her shoes. “I get that.”

“You do?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I just didn’t know.”

She rubs a hand over the back of her neck. “I hate stuff like this because there’s no right way to be in it. If I care too much, I look stupid. If I don’t care enough, I look like an asshole. If I talk, I say the wrong thing. If I shut up, people decide I’m cold.”

Your voice softens. “You are kind of cold sometimes.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Not all the time.”

Trinity looks at you again.

There it is. That flash of something underneath the armor. Hurt, maybe. Fear, maybe. Something younger than the rest of her.

“I don’t know how to be,” she says.

It’s so quiet you almost miss it.

You don’t move.

Trinity’s mouth tightens like she wants to take the words back, but the room has already heard them. So have you.

“I spent my whole life being good at things,” she says. “Sports, school, procedures, whatever. You win, you improve, you don’t complain, you don’t let people see where it hurts because then they know where to hit. That worked for a while.”

“And now?”

“Now I work in a place where everybody’s bleeding, and somehow I’m still surprised when I am too.”

The sentence settles between you with brutal clarity.

You want to touch her.

You don’t.

Trinity looks away first, blinking hard like she’s angry at her own eyes.

“I’m not good with this,” she says. “The feelings thing. The Pride thing. The standing in a room full of people acting like visibility doesn’t cost anything thing.” She laughs under her breath, but there’s no humor in it. “I keep thinking everyone else got a manual I didn’t get.”

Your hand curls around the edge of the table.

“I didn’t get one either,” you say.

“You seem like you did.”

“That’s because I made myself into one.”

Trinity looks at you.

You press your lips together, then decide to be brave in the only way that matters.

“I’m afraid all the time,” you say. “I’m just useful while I’m doing it.”

Something in her face breaks open for half a second.

Not much.

Enough.

“That’s a terrible system,” she says.

“So is yours.”

“Mine has better protocols.”

You laugh, and this time it doesn’t hurt.

Trinity smiles for real.

It’s quick. Almost shy, though she’d probably rather throw herself into traffic than let anyone call her shy. It makes her look younger. Less like a weapon. More like someone who’s tired of having to be one.

You’re suddenly aware of how close you are.

The room feels smaller than it did a minute ago.

Trinity notices at the same time.

Her smile fades, but she doesn’t step back.

You should. You know that. You’re at work, technically. You’re in a quiet room during a hospital event you’re supposed to be running. She’s a resident. You’re not in her chain of command, and she’s not in yours, but The Pitt is a gossip machine with vital signs.

You should step back.

You don’t.

Trinity’s gaze drops to your mouth, then snaps back up like she’s mad at herself.

Your heartbeat kicks.

“Trinity,” you say.

She closes her eyes for a second. “Don’t.”

You still. “Don’t what?”

“Say my name like that unless you mean it.”

Your breath catches.

Outside, the crowd erupts in applause for something you can’t see.

Inside, Trinity Santos looks at you like she’s finally run out of places to hide.

“I mean it,” you say.

Her expression tightens.

“You don’t know what I’m asking.”

“I think I do.”

“No, you don’t.” Her voice sharpens, but her eyes are scared. “You do this thing where you see the one decent part of someone and decide it’s the whole person.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“You do it with kids because you have to. You do it with parents even when they’re awful because you’re trying to get them through the worst day of their lives. You do it with Huckleberry when he’s spiraling. You do it with Mel when she gets quiet. You do it with everyone.”

“You’re not everyone.”

The words leave you before fear can stop them.

Trinity goes silent.

You keep going because if you don’t, you’ll never say it.

“I see the difficult parts too. I see the way you snap when you’re embarrassed. I see how you act like every correction is an attack. I see how you push people before they can push you. I see how you hide behind being the smartest person in the room because you don’t know who you are if you’re not proving something.”

Her jaw clenches.

You soften your voice.

“And I see the way you talk to scared patients when you think no one’s listening. I see the way you remember details. I see the way you pretend not to care and then care so much it almost takes you out at the knees. I see you, Trinity. Not just the decent part.”

For once, she has nothing ready.

No joke. No insult. No sharp little comment to cut the moment into pieces.

Just Trinity.

Just the quiet.

Then she says, “That’s inconvenient.”

A laugh slips out of you, half breath, half ache. “Yeah.”

“I wasn’t supposed to like you.”

Your whole body goes still.

Trinity looks furious with herself now, but she doesn’t stop.

“You were supposed to be annoying.”

“I am annoying.”

“Not the point.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re doing it again.”

You close your mouth.

She drags a hand down her face. “God, this is horrible.”

“Admitting feelings?”

“Having them.”

Despite everything, you smile.

Trinity points at you. “Don’t look pleased.”

“I’m not pleased.”

“You’re extremely pleased.”

“I’m a little pleased.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“You like me.”

Her eyes lock on yours.

The teasing falls away.

“Yeah,” she says. “I do.”

Your breath leaves you.

Trinity looks like she wants to run, stay, and fight someone all at once.

“I like you,” she says again, as if repeating it might make it less terrifying. “And it’s been making me insane because you’re kind, and people like you, and you know how to be gentle without making it weird, and I don’t. I break things. I say the wrong thing. I make people defensive. I make myself defensive. And every time you look at me like you think I’m worth waiting for, I want to believe you so badly that it pisses me off.”

Your eyes sting.

“You don’t have to be easy to be worth loving,” you say.

Trinity flinches.

Not away from you.

Into herself.

You realize what you said a second after you say it.

Loving.

The word is there now.

You can’t pull it back.

Trinity’s voice drops. “Is that what this is?”

You could lie.

You’ve lied in smaller ways for months. Every time Dana teased you. Every time Dennis asked if there was a thing. Every time Mel gave you a knowing look over the sensory cart. Every time Trinity lingered near your desk for no reason except maybe the same reason you started keeping her favorite protein bars in your drawer.

You could lie.

But you’re so tired.

“Maybe,” you say. “It could be.”

Trinity looks at you like the words physically struck her.

You take a careful step closer.

“If you wanted,” you add.

She huffs a laugh. “That’s such a you thing to say.”

“What?”

“Leaving me an exit.”

“I’m not trying to trap you.”

“I know.” Her voice is rough. “That’s the problem.”

You’re close enough now that you can see the tiny crease between her brows. Close enough to see the glitter someone must have brushed against her cheek in the atrium. Close enough to notice the way her hands keep opening and closing at her sides.

“You can say no,” you whisper.

Trinity looks offended. “I know I can say no.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not saying no.”

“Okay.”

“I’m saying I’m bad at this.”

“I know.”

“I might get worse before I get better.”

“I know.”

“I’m not suddenly going to become some perfect Pride rom-com girlfriend because we had one feelings talk in a glorified closet.”

You smile. “It’s a quiet room.”

“It has a mop sink.”

“It has ambiance.”

“It has a mop sink with a rainbow sticker on it.”

“That’s Pride.”

She laughs, and it sounds startled out of her.

You’re smiling now. You can’t help it.

Trinity’s gaze drops again, slower this time.

The question is there.

You answer by lifting your hand, giving her enough time to move away.

She doesn’t.

Your fingers touch her wrist first. Lightly. Barely there.

Trinity inhales.

“Is this okay?” you ask.

She nods, then seems annoyed by the fact that nodding isn’t enough. “Yes.”

You slide your hand into hers.

Her grip is stiff for half a second, then startlingly firm. Warm. Real.

She looks down at your joined hands like she’s trying to memorize the mechanics of it.

“Your hands are cold,” she says.

“You’re ruining the moment.”

“You knew who I was.”

“I did.”

She turns her hand properly in yours, palm to palm.

The room goes quiet in a new way.

“I like you too,” you say, because she deserves to hear it plainly. “A lot. More than I meant to. More than is convenient.”

“Good,” Trinity says.

You raise your eyebrows.

She clears her throat. “I mean, terrible. For professionalism.”

“Obviously.”

“HR would hate this.”

“HR hates everything.”

“Dana already knows.”

“Dana knows everything.”

“Whitaker might cry.”

“Whitaker cries at cat videos.”

“Mel will say something calm and devastating.”

“She will.”

Trinity shakes her head, but she’s smiling again. Softer this time. Less like a dare.

You squeeze her hand.

She squeezes back.

Then the door opens.

Dennis stands there holding a tray of cupcakes.

He freezes.

You freeze.

Trinity does not freeze. Trinity looks at him like she’s deciding how hard she’d have to throw a cupcake to make a point.

Dennis looks at your joined hands.

Then at your faces.

Then back at your hands.

“Oh,” he says.

“Leave,” Trinity says.

“I was told to bring cupcakes to the quiet room.”

“Take them on a walk.”

Dennis nods too quickly. “Sure. Yeah. Absolutely. Cupcakes need enrichment.”

“Huckleberry.”

“Leaving.”

He starts to back out, then stops. His expression softens in a way that makes you want to forgive him and push him into the hallway at the same time.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I support this. Not that you asked. I just, you know, support.”

Trinity narrows her eyes. “If you tell anyone, I’ll intubate you with a Twizzler.”

Dennis considers this. “That feels unnecessary.”

“Try me.”

He looks at you for help.

You sigh. “Dennis, please don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t.” He pauses. “Dana already knows, though.”

From somewhere behind him, Dana’s voice carries down the hall. “Dana knows what?”

Dennis goes pale.

Trinity lets go of your hand so fast you almost laugh, but she stays close. Shoulder brushing yours now. Not hiding as much as rearranging herself into something she can survive.

Dana appears in the doorway beside Dennis, clipboard still in hand.

Her eyes move from you to Trinity to the suspicious amount of space you aren’t leaving between your bodies.

Her face does something unbearably fond.

“Nope,” Trinity says immediately.

Dana raises both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was about to say the quiet room has a fifteen-minute limit when there’s a waitlist.”

“There’s a waitlist?” you ask.

Dana gives you a look. “It’s a hospital Pride event with speeches, balloons, and Robby trying to make small talk. Of course there’s a waitlist.”

Behind her, Mel appears with a clipboard of her own, though hers has stickers on it. “There are three people waiting, one overwhelmed volunteer, and Javadi, who says she’s not overwhelmed but has reorganized the same stack of brochures seven times.”

“Send Javadi in next,” you say automatically.

Mel nods. Then her eyes flick to Trinity.

Trinity points at her. “Don’t.”

Mel’s expression doesn’t change. “I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking something.”

“Yes.”

“Stop.”

“No.”

Dana presses her lips together like she’s trying not to laugh.

Dennis whispers, “This is beautiful.”

Trinity turns on him. “Do you want the Twizzler?”

He steps behind Dana.

You rub a hand over your face, smiling despite yourself. “We’re coming back out.”

“Good,” Dana says. “Robby needs Santos at the demonstration table, and you need to stop pretending you’re the only person who can keep this event from collapsing.”

You blink.

Dana’s tone softens.

“It won’t collapse because you take ten minutes,” she says.

The words hit too close to the sign on the wall.

You look away.

Trinity notices. Of course she does.

She reaches down, not quite taking your hand again, but brushing her knuckles against yours.

Small.

Private.

Enough.

Mel sees it and says nothing.

Dana sees it and says nothing.

Dennis sees it and looks like he’s about to explode from the effort of saying nothing.

Trinity glares at him. “Breathe through your nose.”

“I am,” he squeaks.

You laugh.

The sound surprises everyone, including you.

It’s not the polite laugh from the atrium. Not the careful one you use with administrators or the gentle one you use with children who are trying to be brave. It’s real. Tired and relieved and a little ridiculous.

Trinity looks at you like she’s never heard that version before.

Maybe she hasn’t.

Dana steps aside. “Come on, lovebirds.”

Trinity groans. “Absolutely not.”

“You prefer disaster magnets?”

“That’s worse.”

“Coworkers with unresolved tension?”

“Dana.”

“Fine.” Dana smiles. “Professionals.”

Mel says, “Professionals with resolved tension.”

Dennis nods solemnly. “Growth.”

Trinity points toward the hallway. “All of you. Out.”

Dana laughs and leads the way back toward the atrium.

Dennis follows, still carrying the cupcakes.

Mel lingers for half a second. “The room helped?”

You look at Trinity.

Trinity looks at the weighted blankets, the dim lamp, the sign on the wall, then at you.

“Annoyingly,” she says.

Mel nods like this is useful data. “Good.”

Then she leaves too.

You and Trinity are alone again, but only for a breath.

The event is waiting. The crowd. The noise. The questions. The work.

You don’t want to go back.

You will anyway.

Trinity shifts beside you. “You okay?”

It’s not smooth. It’s not delicate. It’s not a perfect question.

It’s hers.

You nod. “Better.”

“Good.”

“You?”

She considers lying. You can see it happen.

Then she says, “Also better.”

Your smile is small. “Good.”

She opens the door wider. “We should go before Dana starts billing us for room usage.”

You step into the hall.

The atrium noise rises around you as you walk back, brighter and messier with every step. The choir has stopped singing, and now someone is giving a speech near the platform. You can hear applause, laughter, the soft static of a microphone being adjusted.

Before you turn the corner, Trinity catches your wrist.

You stop.

She looks like she regrets it already, but she doesn’t let go.

“I’m not holding your hand in front of everyone,” she says.

You try not to smile. “Okay.”

“Not because I don’t want to.”

Your smile fades into something softer.

“Okay,” you say again.

“Because if Whitaker sees, he’ll make a face, and then I’ll have to kill him, and Robby said no crimes.”

“That’s very respectful of you.”

“I’m known for restraint.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“No.”

She looks down at your wrist, then lets go slowly.

“But,” she says, “I’m not pretending nothing happened.”

Your throat tightens.

“Neither am I.”

She nods once. Like a decision has been made. Like she can work with that.

Then she walks back into the atrium beside you.

Not touching.

Not hiding either.

Robby spots Trinity immediately.

“Santos,” he calls. “Tourniquet demo. Please avoid sarcasm as a substitute for patient education.”

Trinity says, “I make no promises.”

“That’s what scares me.”

She glances at you, and for a second, the corner of her mouth lifts. Then she heads back to the table, shoulders squared, sharpness returned but not quite as hard as before.

You go back to your booth.

Dana is there, handing a pronoun pin to an older woman with purple glasses. Dennis is arranging cupcakes in what appears to be a medically precise grid. Mel is sitting with Javadi at the edge of the table, quietly demonstrating a grounding technique using a textured fidget strip.

Javadi looks up as you approach. “I wasn’t overwhelmed.”

“Of course not,” you say.

“I was optimizing brochure placement.”

“Very important.”

Mel says, “She’s feeling better.”

“I hate all of you,” Javadi mutters, but she keeps the fidget strip.

Dana leans close to you as you step behind the table. “You good?”

This time, you don’t say fine.

You glance across the atrium.

Trinity is demonstrating pressure on the fake limb with crisp competence while Robby watches like a man praying silently. A donor asks something you can’t hear. Trinity answers. Robby’s eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn’t intervene, so it must be acceptable.

Then Trinity looks up.

Finds you again.

This time, she doesn’t smirk.

She just looks.

Steady. Open enough for you to see the effort.

You breathe.

Then you look at Dana.

“I’m good,” you say.

Dana studies you for a second. Then she smiles, smaller than usual. “Yeah. I think you might be.”

A little girl approaches the table with her father, staring at the basket of pins.

You step forward automatically. “Hey there. You looking for a sticker?”

The girl nods, then points to one with a tiny rainbow stethoscope. “That one.”

“Excellent choice.”

Her father smiles tiredly. “She wants to be a doctor.”

The girl frowns. “Or a dinosaur scientist.”

“Both are strong options,” you say.

Across the atrium, Trinity raises her voice just enough for you to hear. “Dinosaur medicine is underfunded.”

The little girl gasps. “It’s real?”

Trinity looks over from the demonstration table, utterly serious. “Not yet. Be the change.”

Robby closes his eyes.

You laugh. So does the girl. So does her father.

Dana mutters, “God help us, she’s good with kids.”

You pin the rainbow stethoscope sticker gently to the girl’s shirt. “She is.”

Trinity hears you.

You know she does because she looks down quickly, pretending to adjust the training gauze.

The Pride wall fills slowly behind you as the evening goes on.

People write names in marker. Partners, siblings, teachers, nurses, doctors, friends, the first person who used the right name, the first person who stayed.

At some point, during a lull, you pick up a marker yourself.

You stand in front of the wall for a long moment.

Then you write:

For the people who make quiet feel safe.

You cap the marker.

When you turn around, Trinity is standing a few feet away.

She must have come up silently, or maybe you were too focused to notice. Her demo table is empty for the moment. The crowd has thinned. The lights seem warmer now.

She reads what you wrote.

Then she looks at you.

“You’re impossible,” she says.

You smile. “That’s your thing.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“Do you?”

“Like, three.”

You laugh softly.

She steps closer, not enough to cause a scene, but enough that your shoulders nearly touch again.

“I wrote one too,” she says.

You look at the wall. “Where?”

She points with her chin.

Near the lower corner, in black marker, cramped and almost aggressively unsentimental, are the words:

For the ones who stay even when it’s inconvenient.

Your chest aches.

You look at her.

Trinity stares at the wall like it’s safer than your face.

“That’s nice,” you say.

“It’s not nice. It’s accurate.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“I won’t.”

“You’re making a face.”

“I have a face.”

“It’s doing things.”

You bite your lip to keep from smiling too much.

Trinity sighs. “This is already unbearable.”

“You could leave.”

She looks at you then.

“No,” she says.

It’s simple.

Terrifyingly simple.

You nod.

Around you, the hospital keeps moving. Someone laughs near the elevator. A monitor alarm sounds faintly from somewhere below. Robby calls for a wheelchair. Dana tells Dennis not to stack cupcakes vertically. Mel asks Javadi if she wants water. The Pitt remains The Pitt, full of noise, pressure, grief, absurdity, and people doing their best with too little time and too much feeling.

But for a moment, beside the Pride wall, you let yourself stand still.

Trinity stands with you.

Not perfect. Not easy. Not suddenly soft in a way that would make her unrecognizable.

Just there.

For tonight, that’s enough.

Lottie stared at herself in the mirror, narrowing her eyes. 

“Baby, are you okay?” you asked, gently smoothing a hand over her braided updo you had spent nearly an hour constructing. Your daughter looked absolutely stunning. Even more than usual. Which was no doubt the reason she had been invited to prom early by one of the juniors. 

“Me?” she asked and whipped her head around to you, as if she had been in a land far far away in her own head until you asked. “Yeah, I’m fine.” She pressed her lips together and went back to staring at herself in the mirror. 

You smiled. “I know prom is kinda nerve wrecking. That’s normal. But it’s just a party at the end of the day, don’t think about it too much.” 

“Mh,” she hummed, nodding absentmindedly. 

You took a deep breath. You should probably mention something else. You and Lottie had talked about it before, but prom seemed to be a good and sensible time to bring it up again. 

“I put condoms in your bag,” you said straight up, figuring it would be less awkward that way. 

“Mom,” Lottie whined but you held up a hand. 

“Just in case. You’re fifteen. I’m not saying you have to or that I don’t want you to or whatever. It’s your body, your decision, but if you do I want you to be able to be safe.” 

Lottie grimaced. “I won’t be needing them.” 

“This is more of an ‘in case you do’ situation. You and Hayden have been dating for a while and I know what happens at prom, I’m not stupid,” you said, remembering the peer pressure everybody put each other under to lose their virginity very well. High school was tough. Watching your first-born go through it and reminding yourself to not intervene and trust her to make her own decisions was even tougher. 

“Mh.” Lottie nodded again, her chin trembling ever so slightly. 

“Are you okay?” you asked again, reaching for her. 

She pulled away. “Yes, mom, I’m okay, I already said that,” she snapped. 

You sighed, watching her fidget and kneading her hands in her lap. “And if you must know, me and Hayden have done nothing except kissing.” 

You shook your head. “I don’t need to know that. That’s your private life. You don’t need to tell me unless you want to.” 

Lottie gnawed on her fingernails and watched you through the mirror. 

You placed your hands on your daughter’s shoulders. She looked so grown up in her prom dress. It felt like it had only been yesterday that you had taught her how to use a fork and feed herself and now she was already going on a prom date with her boyfriend. 

“Lottie, I don’t want to interfere with your life. But I really want you to come to me in case something happens that you need to talk about, okay?” 

The dam broke. Your daughter burst into tears. 

“Oh no,” you whispered, hugging her from behind. “What’s wrong?” 

“Everything,” she sobbed, demonstratively tugging at her dress. “I look like a clown in a costume. None of this is me.” 

“But you and your friends went dress shopping together,” you said. “I thought you chose the one you liked.” 

“I chose the one everybody thought Hayden would like,” she went on. “I don’t even think I like Hayden. I hate the way he smells.” 

Being a teenage girl was horrific.

“Lottie, do you want to go to prom with him?” you asked gently, offering her an out. 

“Not really,” she murmured. “But he’s part of the football team and when he asked me everybody got excited and Brinleigh was asked before me and everybody says it’s social suicide to say no, so I said yes, even though I don’t even care about any of that stuff.”

You held your daughter, listening and nodding softly. 

“I’m performing like a clown in a circus,” she sobbed and a new wave of tears trickled down her cheeks. “And then you’re coming in with putting condoms in my purse. I can’t imagine anything I’m less interested in than touching Hayden’s—” She gestured vaguely. “Penis.” 

“I understand,” you whispered, pressing your cheek against hers. She leaned into your touch. 

“Mom, can I ask you something?” she whispered, barely audible. 

“Of course,” you said, wiping the tears from her face.

“When did you realise you liked … boys? Like really liked them?” 

You watched her, your motherly instinct telling you this wasn’t about Hayden at all. More like the concept of him.

“I don’t know. I guess everybody just liked them and expected me to as well. I never questioned it. It was all very clumsy, Lottie. Nobody had any idea what the hell was going on.”

“But when you were with dad, what did it feel like? You knew then right?” 

You nodded. “I knew then, yes. But also because I was madly in love with him. Without having any idea what love meant, might I add. We were teenagers and very susceptible to whatever we were presented with.” You chuckled and Lottie nodded, her forehead wrinkling in thought. You tilted her chin and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

“Do you think you might not be into boys?” 

Lottie froze. “I think so.”

You nodded. “How do you feel about girls?”

“I think they’re beautiful,” Lottie whispered. “And a little scary.” 

You smiled. “You don’t have to date boys just because everybody else is, Lottie.” 

Lottie gripped your shoulders tightly, holding on to you. 

“And for the record, I don’t care if you end up having a boyfriend or a girlfriend or nobody at all. You’re my daughter and I want you to be happy,” you said. “You don’t have to perform for anyone, but definitely not for us, baby.” 

Her small frame shook in your arms and you gently tucked her head under your chin. Your baby girl. 

“I’m scared to tell dad,” Lottie admitted, voice so quiet you barely heard her. 

Your eyebrows shot up. “Why?” 

“He’d want me to bring home some guy that’s kinda like him, right?” Lottie whispered. “To watch sports with him or whatever. Do what straight guys do.” 

“When has your dad ever watched sports? He’s barely home and when he is he spends every second with you, me or your siblings.” 

“He rewatches my dance recitals with me,” Lottie said. “That’s a sport.” 

You clicked your tongue, looking at her. “And is that because he’s so into sports or because his oldest daughter is mad into ballet, do you think?” 

Lottie giggled. “Okay.” 

You sighed, trying to gauge if what you were about to say next would empower or overwhelm your daughter. Either way, she should know. 

“And your dad isn’t straight.” 

“What?” Lottie stared at you, eyes wide. “But he’s married to you. Since forever.” 

You pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.” 

“Wait, this isn’t like a lavender marriage, right? You have three kids.”

You chuckled. “No, he’s bisexual.” 

Lottie nodded. “I don’t know what to say.” 

“Do you feel better now that you know that?” you asked, brushing your thumbs over her cheeks. 

“Yeah,” she breathed, wrinkling her forehead. “But wait—” 

“I am not telling you anything about your dad’s sex life, you are fifteen, this is for your own good,” you cut in, ending the conversation. 

Lottie’s nose crinkled. “You’re probably right.” 

“Of course I am, I’m your mother.” 

The doorbell rang. Hayden. Your daughter's hot date that all the girls at school were swooning over. His hairstyle kind of made him look like he desperately wanted to be a surfer even though he had never stood on a board, but who were you to judge what teenage girls found attractive.

Lottie looked at you, eyes wide with panic. 

“I’ll tell him you came down with something Ollie brought home from school and you can’t go, okay?” you offered and your daughter nodded. Her face was red and puffy from all the crying and her make up was ruined.

You felt bad for the boy but you knew physical appearance mattered a great deal to someone Lottie's age. Aside from that that she was in no state emotionally to have a good time at one of the most compulsory and performatively heterosexual events of her whole life.

“Thank you, mom,” Lottie whispered and you squeezed her hand as you got up to break the news to Hayden. 

“Just don’t tell him I have the shits or something, please mom,” she yelled after you as you rushed down the stairs.

-----

You’d arrived yesterday and stepping off the dock alone was liberating. This must've been what it was like for Dorothy to step out of Kansas into Oz; stepping out of the boring monotony and into a literal rainbow. Pride flags waving in the breeze of the gorgeous June afternoon made you smile wide. Walking past the town hall, the streets were filled with people of all types; elderly retired couples who've probably lived here for years, vendors busking, you smiled big at a beautiful black women trying to entice customers into a restaurant.

You decided to stop and take a quick look the menu. A new city, a schedule of events in your head. Tonight alone you had tickets to a new drag trivia show, "Are You Smarter than a Drag Queen?" And now…dinner plans. You asked the woman for directions to your hotel. Finding it fairly quickly, and walking past a bookstore that you had seen pictures of online. It was once a standard beach shack, nothing more than a place to camp out near the beach; set back a ways from the sidewalk, covered in ivy and wild flowers. You knew inside the books were stacked floor to ceiling. But the bookstore was closed; it would have to wait til tomorrow.

Your first full day had been as fun as your first night. The bookstore was perfect, easily finding a whole bunch of books, including some new plays for next school year. Now, you were dressing for a Pride weekend kick off rave hosted by a club known as the “Red Room” and the theme was Beyonce vs Gaga.

Your new pink dress almost shimmered, matching well with the platform sandals you’d found in a vintage shop. You’d been studying makeup tutorials and decided to go with a slightly Wicked-esque makeup design, pairing emerald green eye shadow with bubblegum pink lipstick. Your trans flag colored fan making a perfect accessory to the pink dress and fake tiara you’d won last night; your knowledge of queer TV/movie trivia proving you WERE smarter than a drag queen.

The club was everything you’d ever thought a gay nightclub could ever be. Low red lighting mixed with flashing highlights in all different colors, bodies pressed against each other.

You were able to get your order to the bartender over the loud remixes of Beyoncé’s and Gaga’s greatest hits. Sipping your drink, you nearly dropped it as someone caught your eye. You weren’t sure if they were a boy, girl, or neither.

Their dark raven hair was plaited on the sides, with a few silver beads in the strands; the rest tucked up into bun. A green mesh shirt revealed a beautiful wolf tattoo that stretched up their arm. It also paired well with what looked like black leather shorts and platform boots that made their already tall form seem giant. Their face seemed to sparkle with a golden shimmer and a slight green highlight to their cheeks. Black lipstick matched their nails and their eyeliner wings were surely sharp enough to cut any homophobe down.

You got a good look as you suddenly realized they were making eye contact and strolling over to you. They leaned against the bar next to you and were pleasantly surprised you were able to hear their deep masculine voice order an old fashioned. Classy. You flashed them a wry smirk which they returned with a wink.

You bit your lip nervously. Sometimes you truly felt like a wallflower, clinging to the sides but once someone saw you, you could bloom. It was just getting started you struggled with.

They leaned in close and were glad you could hear them whisper in a velvety steel voice, “I need a smoke. Care to join me?" You nodded in response. Taking your hand, you found their touch cool, but in a refreshing way. Even more so as the two of you stepped out into the welcoming night air. Bringing the small paper tube to their lips and lighting it, you were surprised to smell not the usual tobacco, but weed. They turned to you

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not so long as you share.” You joked back and they passed you the joint. You took a deep inhale as the alcohol and THC mingled in a wonderful cocktail of bliss.

“My name is Loki," they introduced themselves. You told them your name as you passed the joint back. Taking it, they brought your hand to their lips, pressing a kiss to it.“I actually saw you last night at the drag show. I’m pleased to see you here tonight.” They said. Their eyes sparkled in the street light like two emeralds.

“Oh really?”

“Yes, you were absolutely adorable on stage. And I was impressed at your knowledge of queer media."

“Thank you, kind of a passion of mine.” You admitted, shyly. As much as you found it all interesting, you were used to people rolling their eyes. Loki on the other hand, took a hit from the joint, and actually managing to blow a smoke heart into the air.

“I wonder what else you’re passionate about.” They purred. Feeling a surge of confidence. You plucked the joint from their lips and took the final hit.

“Follow me and I’ll show you.” The two of you descended the stairs back into dance club where your fears seemed to disappear into the darkness while your confident side emerged. Leading you into the crowd, a remix of Telephone blasted through the speakers.

You understood why fans became not just as tools for artistic expression in ballroom culture but helping to keep cool in the tight dance spaces as you started to move your body to the rhythm of the song. Your back to Loki's chest, they leaned in close and their voice was so clear, you'd swear it seemed to echo in your mind "May I touch you, pet?"

You turned your head and nodded at them. Their hands started at your hips, somehow seeming to pull you even closer. Moving up your waist over your soft tummy, their touch was that same coolness from before, which brought its own sweet relief. Their hands just grazing your breast, their teasing touch driving you crazy with desire.

As the evening stretched on, the crowd was treated to a drag queen dressed as in cowboy garb as she danced and lip-synched a mix of Beyoncé’s hits from Cowboy Carter. Afterwards was last call and the crowd began to move out into the street.

“Maybe it’s the weed, or the booze, but I am DYING for a piece of pizza.” You said, giggling. Loki smiled.

“I know just the spot."

Even though Loki was a bit taller than you, the two of you seemed to lean on each other as you strolled up the main street of Provincetown in the glow of not only the streetlights and the moonlight, but the town hall was light up in a rainbow of spotlights.

“Wow, it’s kind of amazing to be in a place so open and …well, prideful.” You joked. Loki chuckled.

“Let me guess, small town?”

“Yeah, is it that obvious?”

“Don’t worry. I actually find it admirable. Your eyes lighting up with the passion and pride inside you.” Your face heated up at their words, feeling not just seen, but admired. “Sometimes in a big city, people can get lost and even being different starts to feel the same.” They explained, then paused and giggled. "That didn’t make much sense, did it?"

"In a drunk way, it did.” You joked back.

“Good.” Loki led you up the block to a place that a neon slice piece of pizza called 'Twisted Pizza'; a tall building tucked on a corner. Inside, 4 different pizzas sat in a display. You ordered a slice of sausage/pepperoni pizza and Loki ordered a veggie; they also insisted on paying.

"My treat for your company." They said, coolly.

The two of you found a bench and sat in a comfortable silence as you ate. The pizza was absolutely delicious; the crust was sprinkled with a hint of paprika, making the tomato sauce seem even more robust with a perfect amount of cheese.

“Gods.” Loki groaned. “Some may say New York has the best pizza, but I’d choose this any day.”

“You sound so sure."

"I live in New York, darling. Trust me, this is better."

“Fair enough. What do you do in New York?” You asked, making Loki pause, their smile seeming to falter for only a moment.

“Oh, this and that. What about you? Surely something of extreme importantance.”

“You could say that. I’m a theater teacher.”

“Ah-ha! A role of great importance. Who do you teach, the bard I’d hope?”

"Of course. He’s a definite, and then I have a rotating cannon of absurdists, and I’ve even introduced theater of the ridiculous to my high school seniors."

“Fascinating.” The two of you sat discussing theater for easily another hour, that is until you started yawning.

“Oh don’t, you’ll get me going-“ Loki said before they yawned. “I suppose it is rather late. Are you staying in town long?"

“Through Monday.”

"Excellent. Are you planning to go to the rally tomorrow, and the parade?”

“Yep! Though I have nothing planned for the evening. The after party for the parade I heard is a little lame.”

“I’ll be at the rally as well and can confirm the party is usually a let down. Would you like to go to dinner after the parade?”

“Sounds wonderful."

Wonderful was an understatement. It was perfect. Even though the clouds threatened rain all day; everything seemed to go off without a hitch. You found a little café to grab a coffee and muffin for breakfast; Deciding to settle in with a new book you'd bought, a script you’d picked up that you were thinking about teaching next year. You watch people, couples, families, crowds ebb and flow in the store fronts and the public square where volunteers were setting up for the rally. It truly filled you with pride, to see a community so colorful and friendly all together.

“Well, hello darling.” You turned. Loki was dressed what looked like a black tank binder, a vest covered in patches, black shorts with fishnets and platform boots. Not to mention sharp black eyeliner, and green eye shadow that matched their dark green lipstick with golden glitter gloss. their hair was partially plated and flowers and beads were tied into the braids.

“Hello yourself, beautiful.”

“Oh this old thing?” Loki smirked.

“It’s very well made, lemme see.” Loki sat next to you so you could further examine their patches. Your favorite was a toss up between one that said “My super power is throwing dildos full of wasps,” and another that said “Going to Hel on a Full Scholarship.”

The two of you talked further until the rally kicked off. A beautiful drag queen in a fabulous pink shirt that matched her hair, and white overalls splattered in paint the colors of the lesbian flag. She read her speech from a clipboard, speaking about trans rights, the history of pride in Provincetown, and how important community and solidarity are in unprecedented times. Her words moved you to tears, and Loki wrapped an arm around your shoulder, pulling you a little closer towards them.

Your heart was racing, being able to be so openly emotional,and Loki made you feel safe to do so. The rally continued as members of the local select board, representatives, and members of the community talked. You were especially inspired by a black woman who read a beautiful poem entitled Lesbians.

After the rally was the parade down through the center of town. You and Loki happily strolled along behind a an elderly gay couple wearing matching outfits that looked like the yellow brick road, with red ruby sneakers. They were pulling a speaker, some of the best queer anthems playing loud, even louder with you and Loki singing along.

The parade lead right into the bar where the after party was held. But just as you and Loki were getting close, thunder rung out from above, and a few drops quickly turned into a torrential downpour.

“Oh shit.” You yelled, hoping not to get too soaked as you held your bag over your head Suddenly, you were sheltered as an umbrella seemed to open magically above you. You weren’t even sure where Loki had pulled from. But you eagerly huddled close to them all the same. You looked up at Loki, who seemed to roll their eyes but smiled.

“What’s that look for?" You asked

“Nothing. I just have to thank someone later before I smack him in the head.” Loki said.

Thankfully, the rainstorm didn’t last long; but even with Loki’s umbrella you could feel that your shoes were soaked, and god only knows what your makeup looked like.

"I think I need to freshen up, so I’ll go back to my hotel room and meet you for dinner?”

“Sounds lovely, darling." They said, voice filled with romantic promise. "Until we meet again.” They pressed a kiss to the back of your hand and strolled off whistling 'Singing in the Rain.'

A nice cook shower helped refresh you from the chill of the rain, and you were happy you’d brought one more formal sundress. An emerald green with matching gold gladiator sandals.

Applying a few spritzes of perfume, you saw out the window that the sun was just starting to dip below the buildings; the remaining clouds appearing purple against an orange sky as the last of the afternoon storms gave way to a rainbow.

The restaurant was a seafood place overlooking the beach. Loki’s hair was hung loose; Black inky waves flowing free but they’d pushed it back on side with a clip of a jasmine gardenia. A white button up shirt, with the top button undone and the sleeves rolled up, black suit trousers and shoes helped present more masculine, but with a soft edge.

A friendly familiar greeting from Loki to the hostess resulted in the two of you on a rooftop deck, dining under the sky. Loki pulled your chair out for you, and offered their hand as soon as you both were seated.

"Thank you Loki. Not just for dinner, but for making my first time in P-Town so special."

“It has been my privilege and my pleasure, darling. It’s been wonderful to spend time with such a thoughtful kind soul. My coworkers can get a little…egotistical.”

“Oh really? And what exactly do you do for work?” You noted to yourself that this was the second time you asked. And again, Loki gave pause.

“Oh uh...” Loki's eyes cast downward. But regained their confidence quickly. “Well, I work in public service, as it were. But I’d rather hear more about your work. Teaching must certainly have its ups and downs."

“Oh absolutely.” You accepted the deflection for now, not wanting to push something they might not want to talk about.

The rest of the meal was a romantic, wonderful experience. But every time you tried to ask more about Loki’s personal life, they seemed to deflect. You'd asked them again about their life and instead they redirected back to you, though they did it rather sweetly.

"What would you do if you could do anything at all?" Without a moment's hesitation, you answered

"Open a bookstore café! With a small stage to host like poetry nights, small scenes, a fancy table to play Dungeons and Dragons. And sections specifically for queer and banned books right up front."

"It sounds wonderful. I’ve never played but I find the whole idea interesting. You Midgardians-" Loki paused, biting their lip

"Midgard… wait…you're from Asgard?" With some of the new citizens moving out of New Asgard, you'd had one or two Asgardian kids in your classes.

Loki looked at you curiously, their eyebrows ached. "Do you really not recognize me?"

You studied Loki's face. They weren't wearing makeup, but you still noticed their jaw line looked chiseled from ice. Forest green eyes that seemed to twinkle with golden flecks in the low light of the restaurant. You shook your head, worried you'd upset them.

Loki seemed to sigh, whether in relief of amusement you weren't sure

"I am Prince Loki of Asgard."

Suddenly it all clicked in your brain, your jaw dropping

"Oh..my god..i mean your highness? I mean,oh goodness…" you were suddenly flustered and Loki smiled

"Just Loki is fine from your lips, pet. Though you're simply adorable."

Taking a breath and gathering your thoughts, the first question out of your mouth was "What on are you doing in Provincetown?" Making both laugh

"How about we go for a walk on the beach and I'll explain everything?"

The sun was almost fully set over the horizon, reflecting off the beach to crate a picturesque moment between the two of you. Loki offered to carried your shoes as you walked along the now cooling sand; and you enjoyed wrapping your arms around theirs. Feeling safe and secure, not scared to be alone with them. You'd heard of Loki's vicious attack on New York, but you also had seen them working with the Avengers; helping take out Thanos and save the universe.

"Asgard is rather open; but there's something about Midgard queer culture that is so…fun." They smiled. "Plus, coming out here gives me a chance to hide in plain sight from my brother and his friends. They're not…so awful, I've even gone to New York pride with Barnes and Rogers. But Provincetown is so charming; so much art and culture, vibrant and full of life. Other Midgardians are so…boring.

"Yeah, Loki, they're straight." You teased. "I'm surprised you don't find me boring," you admitted.

"Perish the thought, darling. You're so creative and thoughtful. I'm going to have a talk with Stark. I'm sure there's a school in New York in need of a theater teacher. You'd fit right in."

Your heart swelled at the idea. A big city school, living near the Greenwich Village, art and culture on every corner? It was a dream come true…except…

"I can't, Loki. I have students who need me. I've got students trying to figure themselves out; they deserve to have someone like them in their corner. Someone has to teach them about ballroom culture." You teased.

"I understand completely. Do you think I could at least convince you to come visit me in New York?"

"Perhaps, it's a bit of a trip though."

Loki took your hands. "Do you trust me, darling?" They asked. And you nodded. "Yes, Loki." Leaning in close, Loki kissed you fully for the first time that weekend, their lips fitting against yours so perfectly.

They wrapped their arms around you, holding you close to their firm, strong chest. You closed your eyes as a warm gust of wind rushed around you. Opening your eyes and breaking the kiss, you saw you were standing in a lavish apartment that seemed to combine modern and what you assumed Asgardian culture. A real stone fireplace, but a decent sized TV; a plush looking velvet green couch and a dark wood coffee table that matched bookshleves lined with books of all sizes.

"Is this? Are we…?" You could hardly believe it. You knew Loki was a magic user but had no idea the extent of their powers.

"See for yourself, pet." Loki said, a smirk tugging at their lips as they gestured towards enormous floor to ceiling windows. Rushing over, you looked out and saw you were indeed overlooking New York City. You were in Stark Tower, in Loki's apartment.

"And you should see the bedroom…" Loki purred in your ear, coming up behind you and wrapping their arms around your waist.

"Would you care to show me?" You said back, biting your lip.

Guiding you down a hall lined with beautiful art, some that you weren't entirely sure were just copies of famous works, into a bedroom with a grand wooden four-post bed frame. Green sheets covered the surface, with gold trimming on the pillows and edges of the blanket.

"What beautiful craftsmanship." You breathed. Loki came up behind you, kissing your neck. "And helpful for…other things, if you're into that."

"I've been…curious. You admitted, feeling your face heating up. A few nips to your neck in between Loki's hot open mouth kisses had your knees shaking.

"I can take the lead." Loki offered. "Unless you're really curious about other things. I do have powerful transformation magic." The idea sent your mind reeling, and made your pussy even wetter, combined with feeling Loki's hard cock nudging against your ass.

"Perhaps…another time… Do we need a safe word?" You asked, breathily

"I'll go slow at first." Loki promised. "Let you see everything I do to you, and if you want me to stop at all, simply say frost."

"Yes…my prince." You breathed out, feeling their smile at the crook of your neck.

"I have to admit, hearing that from your lips does make me feel…" they let out a low groan "powerful…." Loki flicked their wrist and you felt the zipper on your dress slide down slowly as they pulled the straps down. Slowly, they let your dress fall, revealing A special lingerie set you'd purchased one of those silly Instagram ads; a black mesh bra and panty set with little rainbow embroidered all over.

"So adorable, my little pet." Turning you in their grip they kissed your deeply, their tongue running against yours, seeking access which you happily welcomed in. Even if your head was spinning a little bit

"Loki" you whispered, breaking the kiss. They let out a low noise to acknowledge you, continuing to kiss your cheek as their hands wandered up and down your frame.

"Is this...just for tonight?" You tried to keep your voice calm and level, not wanting to make more out of this than it might be. But Loki truly had you feeling SOMETHING special. Smiling gently, they pressed a kiss to your forehead before pressing another soft kiss to your lips.

"I promise I will take care of you, however you need, pet. You didn't have to offer your hand, but since I've kissed it, I am at your command."

"Now I know why they call you silver tongue." You teased

"There's another reason, darling. Allow me to show you."

Lifting you, something that you'd never expected possible with your rubenesque form, and plopping you down on the mattress, which you found was soft as a cloud, leaning back against what felt like silk blankets and spreading your legs wide. Loki twirled their finger and suddenly soft ropes slid onto the bed like snakes, twisting in intricate knots to tie your limbs to the individual posts. They flicked their wrist again and slow jazz filled the room.

"Keep your eyes on me, pet. Or I shall prolong your pleasure." Unbuttoning their shirt slowly, then undoing their pants before pulling them down; their cock bouncing free from silk boxers. You were no stranger to toys of all sizes; though you had to admit a busy teaching schedule didn't leave much time to date. But Loki's cock had you trying to clench your thighs, the ties holding them wide open. Stroking it a few times, Loki growled.

"Such a desperate little whore. A perfect toy for a prince." The degrading words only heightened your arousal. Loki knelt on the bed between your legs. Still stroking their cock, they leaned down to kiss your inner thighs, getting closer to your cunt. "Absolutely soaking wet for me. I'm honored."

Licking a long stripe up your slit, your hips pushing up into their face as much as you could against the bonds. A low toe curling moan left your lips and Loki purred in return.

"Yes little pet. Dance for me." Focusing their attention with their tongue and lips on your clit, two fingers from their other hand came up to finger you, sliding in and out slowly. And that chill in their touch seemed even stronger now.

"Is that, your magic?" You panted

"Oh yes, pet. You'll find I'm full of surprises. All of which will drown you in unending pleasure."

Pressing up into your g-spot had you crying out in pleasure; Feeling the pressure of an orgasm build.

"Not so fast pet, I want to feel my cock buried in your warm wet cunt as it clenches me while you cum." Pulling their fingers from you and bringing them to their own lips, they laved their tongue over them. Then they traced them along your stomach in some kind of design.

"This will keep you from getting pregnant until we can discuss that aspect further."

"You…you want kids?"

"Perhaps, but nothing that must be decided now. For now, I want to spend every moment exploring every contour of your soft, pliant form." The words made you whimper in pleasure. You loved your body, but it wasn't always what partners were looking for. Hearing Loki praise your curves, drove you wild. Especially with the bite of harshness. Somehow Loki seemed to push every button you didn't know you had

Leaning over you fully, bringing their hands to fondle your breasts, pinching and pulling your nipples which pebbled instantly at their cool touch. Kissing you again, your longed to wrap your arms around them, dragging your nails down their back. The restraint though was even hotter though. Feeling Loki's strong body on top of yours.

Rubbing their cock up and down your slit, they looked deep into your eyes. "Tell me you want this, my pet. Tell me you want to be claimed by me."

"Yes, Loki. My prince, please. I want your cock deep inside me." You pleaded. Worried your pillow talk sound like some lame porno, you closed your eyes. Suddenly Loki's thumb and forefinger pinched your chin, bringing their face so close to yours that you could feel their words on your lips.

"I Said. Eyes. On. Me." Their lips thundered down on yours, kissing you deeply as they thrust their hips forward. Moving their cock in and out of you, breaking the kiss as you gasped out in pleasure, your toes curling and you pressed your body up against theirs.

"Fuck, pet. Your tight quim was made for my cock. I've been thinking about doing this since I met you in that club. Thought of fucking you against the wall in that alley."

"Loki, fuck… You feel so good. More, please!" You begged moaned. One of Loki's hands moved between your legs, circling your clit and alternating speeds. "Fuck Loki..right there…"

"Trust me darling, I know just the right spots to touch and love. Advantage of having a very fluid partner." Loki's face shifted just a bit appearing more feminine before shifting back. The thought of fulfilling your fantasies only drove your pleasure further. Every moment of Loki's touch pushed you further to climax.

"Loki I'm..I'm gonna…"

"Me too, pet. Can I come inside you?"

"Please please please!" You panted, the idea sounding so hot to you. In a moment, your hips bucked up, your pussy clenching Loki's cock. They gave one final hard thrust and you felt them cumming in you, the warmth spreading and mixing with your own fluids. Loki fucked you through both your orgasms, grunting and groaning.

Finally, your brain started to come back down to your body. Loki's thrusts slowed and they lay on top of you. Their body on top of yours made you feel so safe and secure. Especially since your mind was spinning from all the excitement you were feeling. An amazing weekend topped off with fantastic sex with THE god of mischief. The realization started to make you laugh at how insane it all seemed.

Loki rested their head between your breasts, smiling. "What's so funny, pet?"

"I just had sex with the god of mischief. Whom I met in Provincetown, during pride month. It's just a little wild don't you think?"

"It is, but I think it's also a bit…" they placed quick kiss to your lips "Mischievous." Both of you laughed again before Loki waved their hand and the restraints fell off your arms. You brought them to wrap around Loki as they positioned you to lay on your sides.

"I told you darling. I was rather impressed by your knowledge. I had to meet the delightful little spark I saw on staging voguing to 'Born this Way' You bit your lip, feeling your face heat up.

Part of the show had involved a dance competition with the drag queen. You hadn't danced on stage since high school, but you thought of how you encouraged your students and felt the confidence to dance. Knowing Loki was in the audience, it made you feel seen, in a way you weren't sure you'd ever felt before.

"Thank you, my prince." You pressed a kiss to their cheek. "You've made this a perfect weekend." Suddenly a thought hit you.

"Shit, all my stuff is at the hotel. And check out is in the morning." Loki once again waved their hand and all your stuff appeared in a neat pile in the corner.

"Feel like spending the summer in New York, darling? The pride festival is one of hell of a time."