she is my scar

More than anything, Trinity hates making mistakes.

Maybe in the past, it was just a form of perfectionism, a way to prove to herself and others that she was worth something. That viscous, sticky feeling that creeps into her mind and grows like a tumor in her brain when she realizes she didn't consider a variable, underestimated a factor, or overestimated a person she decided to rely on. And this applied to everything: a word accidentally said in the wrong tone in a conversation with Whitaker or Javadi, an incorrectly chosen route to the clinic when she wanted to avoid traffic but ended up being late anyway, a person she clearly shouldn't have fallen for because they, as it turned out, perceived their relationship completely differently. All of this meant she'd better bite off her tongue than admit to a miscalculation or an omission. At work, this turned into sleepless nights when she double-checks reports and analyses because her anxious Cancer-ascendant intuition suggests something's wrong, but logic insists everything is fine.

Making a mistake for Trinity means losing to herself, and she has no intention of accepting this defeat.

The only choice she was certain about was choosing pediatrics over surgery, which she had originally wanted.

Every day, walking into the hospital, she feels her habit of controlling everything around her stop being tyranny and become a kind of salvation. She can tell from parents' behavior that they're not telling the whole truth about symptoms, or if a patient is hiding that something is not okay. She can hear the faintest wheeze in a child's lungs that might seem normal to other doctors and conducts an additional examination to rule out worst-case scenarios.

Pediatrics took her fear of error and turned it into uncompromising dedication to her work. It unlocked her potential and best qualities: sensitivity, attentiveness, understanding. She knew from her own experience what children could go through and how important it was to be perceptive enough to spot signs in time to prevent something scarier than the illness itself.

Here Trinity realized she was exactly where she belonged.

So when she was invited to speak at the upcoming conference, she agreed without hesitation – it was a perfect opportunity to demonstrate her capabilities and present her research. And now she had arrived in Paris with the other doctors. Of course, Paris greeted her in all its splendor and perfection, but she had no time to enjoy exquisite pastries and cuisine or sightseeing. Instead, Trinity re-read and revised her speech over and over, trying to find flaws that didn't exist. Everyone kept encouraging her, assuring her that everything would go well, but Trinity couldn't stop thinking about what would happen if someone found an inaccuracy in her statistics and data, or asked a question she wouldn't able to answer.

She couldn't freeze on stage.

The conference started in just three hours, but Trinity already needed to get ready and head downstairs to go with the others to the convention hall. Besides, she was told that it was better to arrive early to meet the interpreter and find common ground, because the conference would be held in French.

Trinity and her team arrived at the conference venue. They were given badges and programs so they could check the order of presentations and were shown into the hall where they would give their speeches. Trinity stood waiting for the organiser to come over and introduce her to the interpreter.

"Dr. Santos!" A voice calls out.

Trinity turns and sees the organiser hurrying toward her, followed by a girl – presumably the interpreter. She is about Trinity's age, with a sharp gaze and a confident stride, like someone who needs to be imperceptible and indispensable at the same time.

"Allow me to introduce your interpreter. She's been working as a conference interpreter for six years and specializes in pediatrics."

"Nice to meet you." You extend your hand and shake Trinity's, noticing it's slightly damp. Trinity can't wipe her palms on her new trousers or blazer without losing face with one awkward gesture.

The organiser leaves you alone.

"So, Dr. Santos, I've reviewed your abstracts. It's an excellent work!" You start the conversation, and Trinity raises her eyebrows in surprise. "I'd like to go over a few terminology clarifications in the biomarkers section. I'm not changing anything, but we need to make sure the French audience hears exactly what you mean."

"Yes, of course, let me explain..." You and Trinity go over debatable points and highlight especially important moments that should be emphasised.

"I think it's better to translate in blocks rather than phrases so the narrative thread doesn't get lost. So speak one paragraph at a time until you've completed a thought. You'll have time to prepare the next part while I translate." You suggest.

"Yes, that's fine. I'll speak not too fast and with pauses in the right places so you know where to place accents." Trinity is nervous and crumples the edge of the paper.

"I think we're ready." You smile at her, and Trinity realises you've noticed her anxiety. "And don't worry, everything will go wonderfully."

"Thank you." Trinity nods at you, watching as you head backstage, waiting for the presentation to begin.

The hall quickly fills with people, and Trinity can hear the hum of English and French mixing into a single stream of noise. In the front rows sit doctors and professors, further back researchers and medical students. Trinity remembers being a student like that once, somehow convinced she would be a surgeon. And maybe today's presentation would help someone find their true calling.

Trinity hears herself being introduced, and she steps onto the stage, clutching her folder. Spotlight hits her face, and she sees hundreds of eyes turned toward her. But Trinity catches your gaze as you approach and stand beside her. You give her an almost unnoticeable nod, and Trinity suddenly feels calmer for some reason.

She begins to speak. Her presentation is dedicated to the latest research on cross-allergies. She talks about various allergic reactions, Quincke's edema, skin rashes, and itching in the oral cavity.

You translate. French flows beautifully but sounds firm at the same time, and Trinity, even without knowing the language, understands that you're correctly placing intonation, mirroring her manner of speaking.

Then Trinity presents statistics and clinical cases, concluding the presentation with a speech about future prospects and the creation of new-generation medications. She answers questions from the audience, which you translate as clearly and thoroughly as possible so Trinity can orient herself.

You both enjoy your tandem – this ideal balance.

The audience applauds as Trinity finishes her presentation. She goes backstage and slips quietly into the hall, but can no longer find you.

You step outside for some fresh air because your brain is buzzing with tension. But you're pleased with yourself, because you carry double responsibility: not to disgrace yourself and not to let down the person you're translating for. And when someone asks questions, the entire communication rests on you, and your job is to make sure it goes smoothly.

When you notice crowds of people appearing in the hallways, you realise the conference is over and everyone is heading to the banquet hall. You want to leave, but you're not one to turn down free snacks, so you follow a group of guests inside.

You stand in a corner, having previously taken a glass of a drink, which is offered by the waiters. You are used to merging with the environment, giving a voice when the situation requires it, probably it is some part of the professional deformation, and there are no people here with whom you can make small talk.

Suddenly you notice Trinity, standing alone as well. You decide to observe her for a while. Honestly, you even like her. Trinity is beautiful, in her own way, with all her sternness – not seeking attention but demanding respect. Her trousers have perfectly pressed creases, and her blazer has not a single wrinkle, although you saw her pull herself up when she tried to put her hands in the pockets out of habit. But behind that strict facade lies softness. You could tell from how tenderly she spoke about the children she'd correctly diagnosed and helped.

And she, like you, is constantly on the periphery.

Several doctors talk to her, but she doesn't seem particularly interested. Her gaze carries fatigue, more from the weight of responsibility than from the speech itself. Trinity replies briefly and is left alone again. She sets her half-empty glass on the edge of a table and walks away behind columns.

You follow her but lose sight of her. You keep turning around, scanning the crowd, and completely fail to notice someone standing in front of you.

"Oh." You look up. And there she is – Trinity. "Sorry."

"It's fine." Her expression softens. "Are you looking for someone?"

"No." And you find the absurdity of the situation a little funny. "Just observing."

"Observing whom?" Trinity leans against a column and smirks slyly.

"Just... people." You shrug, pretending nonchalance.

"And am I one of your subjects of observation?" She laughs at your flustered expression. "You're a much better interpreter than a elusive observer."

"Sorry, I don't know anyone here except the organiser and you." You step closer to Trinity so people behind you can pass by the exit.

"I'm joking. But you are a real professional at what you do. Not a single stumble, and you seem so confident." Trinity coughs into her fist, as if unaccustomed to giving compliments, which adds sincerity to her words. "You don't just translate mechanically, you feel it, I don't know how to describe it."

"Thank you. Your research is groundbreaking. I can't estimate it as a professional, of course, but as a patient, I think it's really important."

Trinity usually says "I know" or nothing at all, but you sound so warm, as if you genuinely want to talk to her longer, steering the conversation from professional to something more personal. "Actually, it's a more common problem than many people think."

"As a child, doctors couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. They'd give me pills and send me home, and I'd keep itching for days... Sorry, I guess a rash isn't the best topic for discussion." You feel awkward.

"No, not at all. I'm glad my research turned out to be useful for someone." Trinity looks past you. "I think someone's heading our way, and I'm really not in the mood for an intellectual conversation. Would you mind leaving?"

"I was just about to do it." You both laugh and walk out of the building. Evening Paris hits you in the face: warm wind, the noise of passing cars, the smell of roasted chestnuts, and the light of streetlamps reflected in shimmering flares on the wet pavement. It has rained recently, and the air has become clean and humid.

"Where we going?" You ask.

"Actually, this is my first time here. I only know that the Eiffel Tower lights up at night."

"Seriously? You haven't been anywhere yet?"

"Well, I came here for work and spent the whole day preparing." A defensive note sounds into Trinity's voice.

"Then I'll show you the most beautiful places." You walk down the steps, and her shoulder brushes yours a couple of times.

"You must be a local, since you know everything so well." Trinity assumes.

"No, I'm from Pittsburgh too." You say, and Trinity is momentarily confused, but then realises that she was introduced at the conference. "I'm where the job is, here and there."

The showcases glow with warm yellow light, fragments of conversation and music drift from open windows, and in the park across the street, someone is playing the saxophone. Trinity slowly relaxes. She no longer adjusts her collar or straightens her blazer. Her shoulders drop, and she even allows herself to shove her hands into her trouser pockets.

Apparently, she's comfortable enough with you to not be extremely perfect.

But then two guys appear ahead. They walk toward you, too arrogantly and spreading wide, occupying almost the entire narrow street. One is wearing a tracksuit with a hood pulled over his head, the other – a leather jacket with worn elbows, holding a beer bottle. They're talking loudly in French. When they draw level with you, the one in the jacket suddenly steps sideways, blocking your path. Trinity bumps into you, staggering slightly, and stays there, pressed against your back.

"Careful, mademoiselle. Is Paris making your head spin so much you can't stand?" He speaks English with a heavy accent.

You straighten up, shielding Trinity with your shoulder, and your hand finds hers. You answer him in French, sharply and clearly. You frown, eyes narrowed.

The guys exchange glances; one mutters something and jerks his head, pulling the other back. They glance at you a few times, then walk away, and you continue on.

"I don't know what you said to them, but it was impressive." Trinity says, still not letting go of your hand.

"Such types pop up sometimes, you have to know how to put them in their place. They even apologized at the end." You smirk.

Your steps slow down on their own, as if you don't want the night to end. You reach a small square right in front of the Eiffel Tower. It looks enormous, so massive and delicate. Trinity gazes up, throwing back her head. But you've already seen the tower a hundred times, so you look at Trinity, at her clear profile, illuminated by honey-colored light. She suddenly turns to you and smiles so brightly that your pulse quickens.

"Just a few more minutes and..." All the words escape you.

At that moment, the tower lights up, and thousands of sparks flicker on all at once. It was truly an unforgettable sight: the entire city seemed to hold its breath. And when the last light at the top came on, the whole tower blazed, as if for a single spectator.

Trinity lowers her head and squeezes your hand tighter. You look at her, trying to read her thoughts.

Is she thinking about the same thing you are?

"You know, there's something here that deserves more attention." She leans in, and you meet her halfway. Your lips meet in a gentle kiss. Everything around becomes just background: the tower, people, lights. You draw back to take a breath, then pull Trinity closer again by the lapel of her blazer.

She promises herself to remember this night...

Months pass, and everything goes on as usual. After that night, nothing changed: it didn't go further than kisses, and after the walk you went back to your hotel rooms. Trinity didn't know if you'd return to Pittsburgh, but she hoped to see you in the hallway before the flight. But you weren't there, nor in the airport waiting area.

As they say, Paris is the city of love?

Apparently, love doesn't exist outside its borders.

Trinity does her morning rounds, asking patients about their well-being and any new symptoms. Chaos reigns in the corridor: people are being assigned to rooms, doctors walk back and forth with medications, and someone is being rushed to the ICU. Trinity steps into the corridor because she can see she's needed. She pulls on gloves and listens to the description of the problem: allergic reaction, Quincke's edema, breathing difficulties. And when Trinity finally looks at the gurney.

She sees you.

"Epinephrine intramuscularly!" Trinity acts quickly, without hesitation. She gives the injection to constrict blood vessels and open your airways. "Antihistamines and an oxygen mask."

You cough a few times when you can finally breathe again. A nurse brings an IV, and Trinity squeezes your hand as she places the catheter. You didn't even realise how fast it all had happened. You'd been sitting in a café, everything was fine, and then suddenly you felt it becoming harder to breathe. You called an ambulance anyway, even though you'd taken an antihistamine from the first-aid kit the waiter brought you, because you weren't getting any better. And now here you are. At first, you couldn't believe your eyes when you saw Trinity.

After all, the brain remembers the best things before death, right?

You slowly open your eyes and lie there, watching what's happening in the hallway. Trinity walks past, glances in at you, and steps into the room when she sees you're awake.

"I'd have preferred we meet again under more pleasant circumstances." She sits down on a chair beside you. "How are you? What's happened?"

"Much better now. I was betrayed by curry." You let out a quiet laugh.

"In that case, I'll have to treat you to dinner when you're discharged." Trinity looks at you, waiting for a response to her invitation.

"You saved my life. I think I'm the one who should be thanking you." You parry.

"Then you'll have to go on two dates with me. What do you think about that?" Trinity grins contentedly.

"Perfect." You squeeze her hand and smile back. "I'd kiss you, but I still can't feel my lips."

The Pitt never sleeps, and it sure as hell never shuts up.

That’s the first thing you learn when you work here.

Not the medicine. Not the charting system that seems determined to humble every physician alive. Not the way time stretches and collapses until ten minutes can feel like an hour, and twelve hours can disappear in a blur of labs, consults, discharge instructions, and cold coffee you keep forgetting you poured.

It’s the noise.

The Pitt is all noise.

Monitor alarms. Overhead pages. Someone is coughing behind a curtain. Someone retching into an emesis bag. A patient in Bay Four is yelling that he’s been waiting forever and doesn’t care that the trauma team is currently trying to keep someone alive down the hall.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. A radio crackles at Dana’s hip. A gurney wheel squeaks past in a rhythm that drills straight through your skull.

Your hearing aids catch it all.

Every alarm.

Every scrape.

Every sharp edge of sound.

That’s the thing people don’t understand about hearing aids. They think they fix things. They think you put them in, and suddenly the world makes sense again.

They don’t know that sometimes they just make the chaos louder.

You stand at the nurses’ station, watching Dana’s mouth more closely than you want to admit.

She’s talking fast because Dana always talks fast when the department is on the verge of tipping from busy into disaster. Her eyes are on the board, her hand already reaching for the next chart, her radio spitting static between you.

“Room Nine,” she says.

The radio crackles.

You miss the rest.

“What?”

Dana looks back at you.

Not annoyed. Not yet. Dana notices more than people think. Sometimes that makes you feel safer. Sometimes it makes you feel too visible.

“I said Room Nine’s been waiting over an hour. Eighteen-year-old. Abdominal pain. Deaf. No interpreter yet.”

You catch it that time.

All of it.

Your stomach tightens.

“VRI?”

“Cart’s down.”

Of course it is.

“Interpreter services?”

“Called forty-five minutes ago. Still waiting.”

You glance toward the hallway.

Room Nine.

You already hate this.

The Pitt runs on speed, instinct, and duct tape. Everyone knows what’s supposed to happen. Everyone knows the policy. Everyone knows the right number to call, the form to fill out, the backup procedure that exists somewhere in a binder nobody has time to read.

But when the system breaks, it breaks on the patient.

It always breaks on the patient.

“I’ll take her,” you say.

Dana watches you for half a second.

“You sure?”

You know what she’s asking, even if she doesn’t know exactly why she’s asking it.

Not whether you can handle abdominal pain.

Whether you can handle this kind of abandonment.

This kind of failed.

This kind of personal.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m sure.”

Dana hands you the tablet.

“Bell, Maya. Triage notes bare bones. Good luck.”

You don’t say thank you.

You’re already moving.

The hallway is its usual obstacle course.

You sidestep Javadi with a stack of discharge papers tucked against her chest. She says something as she passes, but her mouth is turned away and the radio pops at the exact wrong second.

You smile anyway.

It’s automatic.

You hate that it’s automatic.

You’ve spent your entire life becoming fluent in pretending. A smile when you miss a sentence. A nod when you catch enough to guess. A small laugh when everyone else laughs, and you’re a beat behind. Most people don’t notice.

That’s the point.

Dennis nearly clips your shoulder coming around the corner with a urine cup in each hand and panic written all over his face.

“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,” he says. “Have you seen Dana?”

“Behind me.”

“Great. Perfect. Thank you.”

He gets three steps away before turning back.

“Wait, blue tops before purple, right?”

“Blue first.”

“Blue first,” he repeats, like he’s trying to carve it into his brain. “I knew that.”

He absolutely did not know that.

You keep walking.

At the trauma board, Robby is talking to Mel, his voice low and clipped. Trinity stands near them with her arms folded, listening while pretending not to look like she’s listening. She catches sight of the chart in your hand.

“What’ve you got?”

“Room Nine. Abdominal pain.”

“Anything good?”

“Deaf patient. No interpreter.”

Her expression shifts, quick and controlled.

“Still?”

“Still.”

She glances toward the board. “We’re about to get slammed.”

“We’re already slammed.”

“That’s my point.”

Her eyes stay on you for a second longer than they need to. There’s a question there, maybe a warning. Trinity lives in the pressure point of things, always ready to move, always measuring where she’ll be most useful. It’s part of what makes her good. It’s also part of what makes her hard.

You keep walking before she can say anything else.

Room Nine is at the end of the hall.

The curtain is half-drawn.

You pause outside long enough to scan the chart.

Maya Bell. Eighteen. Right lower quadrant pain. Started around the belly button this morning. Worse now. Nausea. No vomiting. No documented fever. Vitals stable.

The triage note says, “Patient is Deaf. Requests an ASL interpreter.”

That’s it.

Nothing about what it feels like to sit in pain for over an hour while people talk around you.

Nothing about fear.

Nothing about isolation.

Nothing about the way a hospital can be full of people and still leave someone completely alone.

You pull the curtain back.

Maya is curled on her side on the gurney, knees drawn up, one arm wrapped tight around her middle. She’s wearing an oversized blue hoodie, the sleeves pulled over her hands. Her face is turned toward the wall.

Her shoulders shake.

She’s crying.

Silently.

No sob. No gasp. No sound that would make someone walking by turn their head.

Something in your chest twists.

You step inside and let the curtain close behind you.

The noise of the ED dulls, but it doesn’t disappear. It never does. Still, in the room, there’s a pocket of something quieter. Not peaceful. Not safe. Just contained.

You move slowly into Maya’s line of sight and lift one hand.

She turns.

Her eyes are red, wet, and terrified.

You raise both hands.

“Hi,” you sign. “I’m the doctor. I’m going to take care of you.”

Maya stares at you.

For a second, she doesn’t move.

Then her face changes so fast it hurts.

“You sign?” Her hands shake, but her signs are clear. “You actually sign?”

“I do,” you sign back. “I’m hard of hearing. I sign.”

Her mouth opens around a breath you barely hear.

“I’ve been here so long,” she signs. “No one understands me. They gave me a clipboard. I kept trying to explain, but they just pointed at the pain scale. It hurts. It really hurts. My dad died in a hospital. They didn’t have an interpreter. He was alone. I’m scared.”

The words come fast.

Too fast.

Like they’ve been trapped in her hands for an hour, and now there’s finally somewhere for them to go.

You pull the rolling stool closer and sit at eye level.

“I’m here now,” you sign. “I’ll explain everything. You’re not alone.”

Maya wipes at her face with the sleeve of the blue hoodie. The fabric is worn soft at the cuffs. There’s a faded crease across the front, like it’s been washed too many times and loved too hard.

You wait.

You don’t rush her.

You know what it means when someone finally gets language back.

You know what it means to be given a room where your hands can speak faster than your mouth ever could.

Maya takes a shaky breath, then nods.

You start with the pain.

“When did it begin?”

“This morning,” she signs, pointing around her belly button. “Here first. Then it moved.”

She points lower. Right side.

“Sharp?”

“Yes.”

“Worse when you move?”

“Yes.”

“Nausea?”

“Yes.”

“Vomiting?”

“No.”

“Fever?”

“I don’t know.”

You watch her hands, her face, the way she protects her abdomen when she shifts. Pain has a language of its own. It’s in the shoulders, the breath, the way someone tries not to move until the fear of moving becomes its own symptom.

It looks like appendicitis.

You’re asking about allergies when the curtain opens behind you.

“There you are.”

You don’t turn right away.

You finish signing, “Any allergies?” and wait for Maya to answer.

“No.”

Only then do you turn.

Trinity stands in the opening, already braced for an argument.

“We’ve got an MVA coming in,” she says. “Two critical. Robby wants extra hands.”

“I’m with a patient.”

“I can see that.”

Her eyes flick to Maya, then back to you. They don’t linger on Maya for long enough. Not yet.

“Can Dennis take over for five minutes?”

“No.”

Trinity’s jaw tightens.

Not anger exactly.

Pressure.

She gets like this when the department surges. Focused. Sharp. Too fast for softness. Her whole body seems to lean toward the crisis that isn’t here yet, already anticipating where she’ll be needed, already annoyed by anything that slows the room down.

“We’re about to have two critical traumas,” she says.

“And she’s been sitting here for over an hour without access.”

“I’m not saying that’s okay.”

“Then don’t ask me to leave her.”

Maya’s hands move behind you.

“What’s happening?” she signs. “Is something wrong?”

You turn back to her immediately.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you sign. “Another patient is coming in. I’m staying with you.”

Maya looks past you toward Trinity. Her eyes are wide and searching. She’s trying to read the room with none of the tools the room is using.

When you look back, Trinity’s expression has changed.

Not softened.

Not yet.

But she heard that.

“She has abdominal pain,” Trinity says, quieter now.

“She has no communication,” you say. “That’s not a side issue.”

“I know that.”

“No,” you say, and your voice comes out lower than you mean it to. “You know it as a policy. She’s living it.”

Trinity looks at Maya again.

This time, she really looks.

Maya has one hand pressed to her side and the other clenched in the front of her father’s hoodie. Her eyes move between you and Trinity, trying to understand a conversation that keeps moving without her.

Trinity’s mouth tightens.

You see the moment the facts rearrange themselves for her.

She doesn’t like being challenged. She doesn’t like being wrong. But she likes missing the point even less.

“Okay,” she says.

You blink.

She looks back at you.

“I’ll tell Robby you’re staying. But if the trauma goes sideways, I’m coming back.”

“That’s fair.”

She nods once and leaves.

No dramatic exit.

No cutting remark.

Just movement.

That’s Trinity too.

She pushes. She tests. She challenges. But when the truth lands, she recalibrates.

Even if she hates that you made her do it.

You finish the exam.

You explain every step before you touch Maya.

“I’m going to listen to your heart and lungs. Then I’m going to press on your belly. I’ll start away from where it hurts.”

Maya nods.

You warm the stethoscope between your palms before placing it against her. It’s something small, probably not important in the grand scheme of things, but Maya watches the movement and relaxes half an inch before you even touch her.

Heart regular. Lungs clear.

When you move to her abdomen, you go slowly. You start away from the pain, like you promised. Your hands are gentle, but the second you reach the right lower quadrant, Maya flinches before you even press.

“Here?” you sign.

“Yes. There.”

Guarding. Rebound. McBurney’s point is tender as hell.

You pull off your gloves.

“I think this might be appendicitis,” you sign.

Her eyes widen.

“Do you know what that is?”

“A little. Appendix infected?”

“Close. It gets inflamed and blocked. It’s a small organ attached to your intestine.” You point to the spot. “When it swells, it hurts. If it bursts, that can be dangerous. We need blood tests and a CT scan. If it’s appendicitis, surgery will probably remove it.”

“Surgery?”

Her signs get smaller at that word.

“Yes,” you sign. “But it’s common. The surgeons here are good. And you’ll have an interpreter for consent and questions.”

Her hands pause.

“You won’t leave?”

You feel that one in your throat.

“I won’t leave you without communication,” you sign. “I promise.”

Maya stares at you for a second, like she’s trying to decide if promises can be trusted in hospitals.

Then she nods.

At the nurses’ station, you put in the orders.

CBC. CMP. Lipase. Urinalysis. Pregnancy test. CT abdomen and pelvis with contrast. Fluids. Pain control. Nausea meds.

Dennis appears beside you, facing you directly this time.

“Dana sent me. What do you need?”

“Check whether the VRI cart is actually broken or just dead. Then call interpreter services again and get an ETA.”

“Got it.”

He starts away, then stops.

“And I should not go in there and try to use my one semester of ASL, right?”

“Correct.”

“I know turtle.”

“That won’t help.”

“It rarely does.”

“Dennis.”

“Going.”

He goes.

Dana comes up on your other side.

“Probable appy?” she asks.

“Yeah. CT pending.”

“Pain meds?”

“Ordered.”

“I’ll get the line.”

You look at her.

“Thanks.”

Dana’s eyes flick over your face. Brief. Assessing. There’s something there, something almost like concern, but Dana doesn’t dress concern up in soft clothes. She makes it sound like an order.

“Don’t burn yourself down in one room.”

You almost laugh.

“Trying not to.”

“Try harder.”

You’re halfway to Room Nine when Trinity catches you near the supply alcove.

“Hey.”

You stop.

She keeps her voice low, which you appreciate even though the hallway is still too loud.

“Robby’s got enough hands. Trauma’s covered.”

“Good.”

She watches you for a second.

Then, “I didn’t know she was that scared.”

“You didn’t ask.”

Trinity’s eyes sharpen, but she takes it.

“Yeah. I know.”

You don’t say anything.

For once, neither does she.

The silence stretches between you, awkward and too honest for a hallway full of movement. Trinity shifts her weight, arms still crossed, but her posture is less defensive now. Her gaze cuts toward Room Nine, then back to you.

“This is personal for you.”

It isn’t an accusation this time.

It’s an observation.

“Yes.”

“Because she’s Deaf?”

“Because access is personal.”

Trinity’s gaze flicks to your ears.

It’s quick.

Almost nothing.

But you see it.

Of course you do.

Her face changes.

Not a lot.

Enough.

You feel your stomach drop.

“Don’t,” you say.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

Her mouth opens.

Then closes.

It’s rare, Trinity Santos, without a fast answer. Rare enough that it almost makes you ache.

You step around her.

“I need to get back to my patient.”

This time, she lets you go.

Maya’s IV is in when you return.

Dana is finishing the tape, facing Maya whenever she speaks, glancing to you only when something needs to be signed.

It’s small.

It matters.

“Pain meds are going in,” you sign to Maya. “CT should be soon.”

Maya nods.

Dana steps out.

Maya watches the curtain settle.

“She’s nice,” Maya signs.

“She’s scary,” you sign back. “But yes.”

Maya almost smiles.

It changes her whole face, makes her look eighteen again instead of small and stranded.

Then she looks at you more carefully.

“Can I ask something?”

“Of course.”

“You said hard of hearing. Not Deaf?”

You appreciate the question.

You appreciate that she knows there’s a difference.

“I’m hard of hearing,” you sign. “Progressive sensorineural hearing loss. I’ve had hearing loss since I was a kid. It’s gotten worse over time. It’ll keep getting worse.”

Maya’s face softens.

“I wear hearing aids,” you continue. “I sign. I’m connected to the Deaf community, but I also work in the hearing world. It’s complicated.”

“My mom says hearing people make everything complicated.”

“Your mom’s right.”

That gets a real smile.

Small, but real.

Maya looks down at the blue hoodie. Her fingers rub the cuff, thumb moving over the worn seam.

“This was my dad’s,” she signs. “He died three years ago.”

You wait.

“He had chest pain. My mom asked for an interpreter. They said someone was coming. It took too long. He was scared. My mom tried to interpret, but she was scared too. Then everything got bad.”

Her hands stop.

She presses the sleeve to her face.

“I wore this because she said it would keep me safe.”

You swallow.

“It’s a good hoodie,” you sign.

Maya looks down at it like she wants to believe you.

Then she signs, smaller, “I thought maybe if I wore it, hospitals couldn’t take anyone else from us.”

You don’t have an answer for that.

Not a good one.

Not one that fixes anything.

So you don’t reach for something false.

You just sign, “I’m sorry.”

Maya nods once.

Her eyes fill again, but this time she doesn’t look away.

Robby finds you after CT confirms it.

Acute appendicitis. No perforation.

He listens to your rundown without interrupting.

“How long without an interpreter?” he asks.

“Over an hour before I got to her. More if we’re talking formal interpreter access.”

“VRI?”

“Down.”

“Backup?”

“In-person interpreter called but delayed.”

His jaw tightens.

“Document every step.”

“I will.”

“I’m filing a safety report.”

You nod.

You expected that, but it still settles something in you.

Robby looks toward Room Nine.

“Communication access isn’t optional.”

“No.”

“Good work staying with her.”

The praise is brief. Direct. Then he’s gone, pulled toward another problem.

That’s fine.

You don’t need a speech.

You need the report filed.

The interpreter arrives before surgery comes down.

His name is Jonah. He introduces himself to Maya, explains his role, and positions himself so Maya can see him clearly.

You step back.

That part matters.

You’re Maya’s doctor, not her interpreter. Emergency communication is one thing. Informed consent is another.

Dr. Garcia comes in from surgery and explains the laparoscopic appendectomy, the risks, the recovery, the timing. Maya asks good questions. Jonah interprets. Dr. Garcia answers without rushing.

That should be the baseline.

It still feels like a victory.

Maya’s mother arrives twenty minutes later with her aunt.

The second Maya sees her, she starts crying again. This time, her mother is there to catch it. Their hands move fast, fear and relief all tangled together. Maya’s mother touches her daughter’s cheek, then the hoodie, then the side of the bed, like she’s confirming everything is real.

Maya’s aunt keeps apologizing.

“I had to go to work,” she says. “I shouldn’t have left her. I shouldn’t have left her here.”

“You didn’t know,” you say gently.

Maya’s mother turns to you.

You introduce yourself in ASL.

Her eyes lock on your hands, then your face.

For a moment, she just looks at you.

Then she steps forward and hugs you hard.

You freeze for half a second, caught off guard by the force of it, by the motherness of it. Then you hug her back.

When she pulls away, she signs, “Thank you for seeing my child.”

Not treating.

Seeing.

You nod because you don’t trust yourself with anything else.

From the hallway, you feel someone watching.

You glance over.

Trinity stands near the doorway, half-hidden by the curtain, her tablet held against her chest. She isn’t interrupting. She isn’t inserting herself.

She’s just watching.

And this time, you think she understands a little more.

Maya goes to surgery at eleven.

The case is clean. Uncomplicated. She’ll be okay.

You check the OR board anyway.

Three times.

At two in the morning, you end up in the staff lounge with coffee you’re too tired to drink.

Your hearing aids hurt.

The molds have been in too long. The edges rub. Your brain feels raw from sorting noise for hours. Every alarm from the shift seems to have left an echo behind your eyes.

You want to take them out.

You can’t.

Not at work.

Not when someone might call your name. Not when a code might be announced. Not when the world still expects you to meet it on its terms, even when those terms leave you exhausted.

The door opens.

Trinity steps in.

She pauses when she sees you.

“Can I sit?”

You nod.

She sits beside you, angled toward you. Purposefully. So you can see her face.

You notice.

So does she.

Neither of you says anything about it.

“Maya did okay,” Trinity says.

“Yeah.”

“I saw the OR note.”

“Of course you did.”

She ignores that, but one corner of her mouth moves like she almost smiled.

Then she looks down at her hands.

“I was wrong earlier.”

You stare into your coffee.

“You already said that.”

“I’m saying it again.”

Of course she is.

Trinity doesn’t like being wrong, but once she decides she is, she doesn’t half-admit it.

“I let the trauma dictate the whole room,” she says. “That’s not an excuse. I made it sound like access was secondary because the patient wasn’t actively crashing.”

You don’t interrupt.

“She could’ve gotten worse,” Trinity continues. “She needed consent. Pain control. Imaging. Surgery. None of that works if she can’t understand what’s happening.”

“No,” you say. “It doesn’t.”

Trinity nods once, almost to herself.

The room settles around you. The hum of the vending machine. The distant murmur of voices through the wall. The soft click of Trinity’s nail against the side of her paper cup.

Then her gaze drops again.

Your ears this time.

You go still.

“How long?” she asks.

You almost pretend not to understand.

You’re too tired.

“Since I was a kid.”

“Progressive?”

“Yeah.”

“How progressive?”

You press your thumb into the side of the cup.

“It’ll get worse.”

Trinity’s face closes down for half a second.

Not cold.

Controlled.

Her control always looks cold if you don’t know her.

“I didn’t notice,” she says.

“No.”

“That’s not a question.”

“I know.”

“We’ve been together six months.”

“I know that too.”

Her jaw tightens.

She looks angry, but not at you. Not exactly.

“With your hearing aids,” she says slowly. “Have you always worn them around me?”

“Most of the time.”

“Most of the time?”

“At home, sometimes I take them out.”

“I thought you were just tired when you got quiet.”

“I usually am.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

She looks away.

For a second, you think she’s going to snap. That sharp Santos defense, the one that comes out when she’s scared of feeling too much.

Instead, she takes a breath.

“What helps?”

You blink.

“What?”

“What helps?” she asks again. “At work. With me. In general.”

You stare at her.

You’d expected hurt. Anger. A demand. Maybe all three.

Not that.

You set the coffee down.

“Face me when you talk,” you say. “Don’t call from behind me and expect me to catch it. In loud rooms, get my attention first. Touch my arm, wave, something. Don’t cover your mouth. Don’t say never mind when I ask you to repeat something.”

Her expression changes at that.

She’s said never mind before, a lot.

You both know it.

“Okay,” she says.

“And don’t tell people before I do.”

Her eyes lift to yours immediately.

“I wouldn’t.”

You believe her.

That scares you more than not believing her would.

A long silence settles between you.

Trinity leans back into the couch, shoulders tense, eyes fixed somewhere past the coffee table.

“I’m trying not to make this about me,” she says finally.

You look at her.

Her voice is quieter now. Stripped down. Still Trinity, but without the armor polished quite so bright.

“But I keep thinking about all the times I missed it,” she says. “All the times I was talking too fast, or turned away, or annoyed because you didn’t answer me the first time.”

You swallow.

“I didn’t tell you.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It wasn’t supposed to.”

She huffs once, but there’s no humor in it.

“I hate that I didn’t see you.”

That breaks through more than anything else.

Not because it’s perfect.

Because it isn’t.

It’s messy and guilty and blunt. It’s Trinity, honest in the only way she knows how, with the edges still on.

“I didn’t want to be seen,” you say.

She looks at you then.

“I know.”

The softness in her voice almost ruins you.

You make it to the end of your shift on fumes.

Dana tells you to go home twice before you actually listen.

The first time, you pretend not to hear her.

The second time, she stands directly in front of you and says, “Don’t even try that with me.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Try what?”

Dana points at the locker room.

“Home.”

“I have one note.”

“You have one foot in the grave. Finish the note and leave.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She gives you a look but lets you go.

In the locker room, you take your hearing aids out.

The world softens.

Not silence.

Never full silence.

But close enough that your shoulders drop for the first time in twelve hours. The buzzing lights vanish. The hallway noise fades into a dull vibration. Your own breath becomes the loudest thing in the room.

You close your eyes.

For a second, you let yourself exist without translating.

The door opens.

You don’t hear it.

You see Trinity in the mirror.

She says something, then stops when she realizes.

You point to your ears.

She nods, pulls out her phone, types, and turns the screen toward you.

Coffee? Not here.

You stare at her for a second.

Then nod.

The diner two blocks from the hospital is almost empty.

The windows are fogged around the edges. The booth seats are cracked. The sugar packets sit in a little metal holder that looks older than both of you combined. Someone in scrubs sleeps face-down at a corner table with one hand still wrapped around a coffee cup.

You put your hearing aids back in with fresh batteries, the quiet making it easier. Trinity chooses the booth in the back without asking. She waits until you sit, then takes the spot across from you, facing you fully.

Again, you notice.

Again, she doesn’t make a thing of it.

The waitress leaves with your orders.

Trinity waits until the footsteps fade.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“You said that.”

“I have more.”

You almost smile.

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I know you hid it, and I’m not blaming you for that. But I hate that I missed it.”

You look down.

Her hands are wrapped around her coffee cup even though it hasn’t been filled yet. She’s holding onto the empty space like she needs something to steady herself.

“I’m sorry for talking to you from another room,” she says. “I’m sorry for getting annoyed when you didn’t answer. I’m sorry for every time I said never mind.”

Your throat tightens.

“And I’m sorry if I made you feel cornered tonight,” she says. “You didn’t owe me that information in the middle of a shift.”

“I should’ve told you.”

“Maybe.” Trinity leans back. “But disclosure isn’t simple. I know enough not to pretend it is.”

You look at her then.

Her face is tired. Guarded. Honest.

“I was afraid,” you say.

“I know.”

“No, Trinity. I was afraid of you.”

That one lands.

You watch it hit.

She doesn’t look away.

“Okay,” she says quietly.

“I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”

“I already look at you differently than everyone else.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know.”

You breathe out.

The waitress brings your tea and Trinity’s coffee. Trinity doesn’t touch hers right away.

She reaches across the table, but she doesn’t take your hand. She just sets her palm there, open, waiting.

You look at it for a long second.

Then you meet her halfway.

Her fingers close around yours.

“I’m mad,” she says.

Your stomach drops.

“Not because you’re hard of hearing,” she adds. “Not because you didn’t tell me fast enough. I’m mad because the world made you think hiding was safer.”

That breaks something in you.

Not all the way.

Just enough.

“I don’t know how to stop,” you admit.

“Then don’t stop all at once.”

You laugh once, watery and tired.

“That’s your medical advice?”

“Yes. Gradual exposure. Very evidence-based.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You like that about me.”

“Sometimes.”

“I’ll take it.”

The laugh that slips out of you this time is small, but real.

Trinity’s thumb moves once over your knuckle. It’s barely there, a small brush of warmth in the too-bright diner. She watches the movement like she’s making sure it’s allowed.

It is.

You let your fingers relax in hers.

For a while, neither of you talked about the hard parts.

Trinity tells you about the trauma you missed. You watch her mouth as she speaks, catching most of it over the low hum of the diner and the distant clatter from the kitchen. Two critical patients. One intubated. One stabilized. Robby calm in the middle of it, Mel catching a med discrepancy, Dennis almost dropping suction tubing and recovering so dramatically that half the bay noticed.

“You should’ve seen his face,” Trinity says. “Like the suction tubing had betrayed him personally.”

“He gets attached.”

“To tubing?”

“To being useful.”

Trinity’s mouth curves. “That’s annoyingly generous of you.”

“I’m a delight.”

“You’re something.”

Her voice is dry, but her thumb is still moving lightly over your hand.

You let the warmth of it settle you.

There’s something almost ordinary about sitting there with her. Your tea is cooling between your hands. Her coffee is untouched because she keeps making faces every time she tries it. The sunrise is beginning to pale at the edge of the window. The exhaustion sits heavy in your bones, but not swallowing you.

This could be normal, you think.

Not easy.

But real.

Trinity looks at you over her coffee cup.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You have a face.”

“I always have a face.”

“You have a specific face.”

You roll your eyes. “I was just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“You’re one to talk.”

She smirks, then sobers.

“I want to learn ASL.”

You freeze. “Trinity.”

“I know,” she says quickly. “It’s a language. I know it’s not a cute girlfriend project. I know I’m not going to become fluent in a month because I’m good under pressure and annoying enough to make flashcards.”

“You’d make flashcards?”

“I already have.”

You stare at her.

She shrugs, defensive now.

“Not from some random app. I looked up Deaf-led classes.”

“You did?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“When I was supposed to be sleeping.”

“Of course.”

“I want to learn properly,” she says. “Not to interpret at work. I know that’s not my role. But I want to understand more. For patients. For you. For me, honestly, because I don’t like being bad at something I should know enough about to not be useless.”

“That’s very you.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t exactly a compliment.”

“I take what I’m given.”

You look at her hand on yours.

“I love you,” she says.

Your chest stops.

Six months together, and neither of you has said it.

You’ve said it in other ways. In coffee. In spare scrubs. In the way she texts you after bad shifts and pretends the meme she sends isn’t a check-in. In the way you know when she needs food before she knows she needs food. In the way she steals fries off your plate and then gives you the last bite of her dessert without commenting on it.

But not like this.

Not out loud.

Trinity looks terrified in the controlled way she gets when she’s decided to be brave and hates every second of it.

You lift your free hand.

Slowly, you sign it.

“I love you.”

Trinity watches carefully.

Then she copies you.

Badly.

So badly you laugh before you can stop yourself.

Her eyes widen. “What?”

“That was not right.”

“How not right?”

“Deeply.”

“Did I insult someone?”

“Maybe a goat.”

She groans. “Oh my god.”

You show her again.

This time, she slows down.

This time, she gets it.

Mostly.

“I love you,” she says aloud, holding the sign with awkward, careful fingers.

Your eyes sting.

“I love you too.”

Trinity’s face changes.

It’s not one of the expressions she lets the department see. Not sharp. Not smug. Not guarded.

It’s open.

Just for you.

She slides into your side of the booth without asking, which is very Trinity. Then she stops halfway, like she remembers she’s supposed to be careful now.

“Can I?”

You nod.

She sits beside you, shoulder pressed to yours, and you lean into her before you can overthink it.

She smells like hospital soap, coffee, and the faint citrus of the shampoo she uses. Her cheek rests briefly against the top of your head.

Neither of you says anything for a while.

You don’t need to.

The next shift, Trinity changes small things.

She doesn’t announce them.

That’s why they matter.

She comes up on your left side when she can. When she needs your attention, she taps two fingers lightly against your forearm. In the trauma bay, if Robby gives an order while turned away and the noise eats half of it, Trinity repeats the key part while facing you.

Quietly.

Efficiently.

Like it’s medicine.

Like it’s teamwork.

The first time she does it, you nearly miss the next step.

Trinity notices.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she mutters.

“Like what?”

“Like I donated a kidney. I repeated a lab value.”

You smile.

“Still.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no heat in it.

Across the bay, Dennis watches the exchange with open curiosity until Mel elbows him without looking up from the chart.

“Stop staring,” Mel says.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“I was observing.”

“Creepily.”

Dennis turns red and suddenly becomes deeply invested in restocking gauze.

Trinity looks at you and lifts one eyebrow.

You press your lips together to keep from laughing.

Dennis finds out by accident.

He comes up behind you at the nurses’ station and says your name twice.

You don’t hear him.

Trinity does.

“Dennis,” she says, not looking up from her tablet. “Move where she can see you.”

He freezes.

Then his face goes red so fast you feel bad for him.

“Oh. Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t realize. I mean, I did realize just now because Santos said it, but before that I didn’t. Obviously. Because I was behind you. Which was the issue.”

You turn around.

“What did you need?”

“Robby wants you to look at the lac in Seven.”

“Okay.”

He hesitates.

You wait.

“Can I ask something and you can tell me if it’s stupid?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, I can ask or yes, it’s stupid?”

“Both are possible.”

“Fair.” He rubs the back of his neck. “After Maya, I was thinking I should learn more ASL. Not from you. I mean, unless you wanted to point me somewhere. But I don’t want to be useless next time.”

Your chest softens.

“Look for Deaf-led classes,” you say. “Not random videos. And don’t use family members as interpreters for consent.”

“Deaf-led classes,” he repeats. “No family for consent. Got it.”

Trinity glances at him. “And don’t make her your personal tutor.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it.”

“I was thinking near it.”

“Don’t.”

“Noted.”

You try not to smile.

You fail.

Dennis smiles back, relieved, and disappears toward Seven.

Trinity watches him go.

“He means well.”

“He does.”

“He’s going to sign turtle at someone by accident.”

“Probably.”

“We’ll survive.”

You look at her.

She shrugs like she didn’t just include herself in the we without thinking.

Then she touches your wrist lightly.

“Seven,” she says. “Robby’s waiting.”

You nod and go.

Maya comes back three days later for a post-op check.

She’s wearing the blue hoodie again.

Her mother is with her, watching everything with the kind of attention you understand completely.

Maya looks tired but better. Less folded into herself. Less afraid of the room. She’s sitting up this time, legs crossed at the ankles, one hand resting near the surgical sites like she’s protective of them but not terrified.

“Hi,” you sign. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” she signs. “Sore, but better.”

The incision sites look clean. No fever. No worsening pain. No redness or drainage.

“You’re healing well,” you sign. “Keep following the surgery instructions. Come back if you get fever, worsening pain, vomiting, redness, or drainage.”

Maya nods.

Her mother asks two follow-up questions, both sharp and practical. You answer both. She watches your hands the whole time, then your face, then your hands again.

Trust is not instant.

You don’t expect it to be.

Then Maya’s eyes flick past you.

Trinity is in the hall, pretending to review a tablet.

Maya grins.

“Your girlfriend?”

You feel your face heat.

“Yes.”

“Obvious.”

“It is not.”

Maya’s mother gives you a look that says it absolutely is.

You sigh.

Maya signs, “Did you tell her?”

You know what she means.

“Yes.”

“How did she react?”

You glance toward the hallway again.

Trinity looks up at exactly the wrong moment, catches you looking, and immediately looks back down at the tablet like it contains the secrets of the universe.

“She’s learning,” you sign.

Maya’s face brightens.

“ASL?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s love,” Maya signs.

You don’t answer right away.

Then you nod.

“Yeah,” you sign. “It is.”

Maya’s mother watches you for a moment, then signs, “Love should learn.”

The words settle somewhere deep.

You carry them with you when you leave the room.

When you step into the hallway, Trinity pushes off the wall.

“How is she?”

“Good. Healing well.”

“Good.”

A pause.

Then Trinity lifts her hands.

Carefully, she signs, “I’m happy she’s okay.”

The grammar is rough. The movement is stiff. Her expression is too intense because she’s concentrating like this is a central line.

It’s perfect.

You sign back, “Me too.”

Trinity squints. “Too fast.”

“You’ll live.”

“I’m a beginner. Be nice.”

“I am being nice.”

“You look smug.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Dana passes behind you with a stack of charts.

“You two done flirting in my hallway?”

Trinity doesn’t miss a beat.

“No.”

Dana snorts. “At least you’re honest.”

The email takes two nights.

You write about Maya.

About the delay.

About the broken VRI cart.

About the lack of a functioning backup process.

About the clinical risk of treating communication access like a courtesy instead of a safety issue.

You write it at your kitchen table after a shower that didn’t quite wash the hospital off you. Your hearing aids sit in their charger beside your laptop. Without them, the apartment is soft around you. The refrigerator hum is gone. The traffic outside is a distant vibration more than sound. Your fingers move over the keys, and for once, no one is asking you to translate yourself in real time.

You send it to Robby first.

He replies eight minutes later.

Send it.

So you do.

You don’t know what it’ll change.

Maybe nothing.

Hospitals are big. Systems are slow. Everyone believes in access until access requires money, staffing, training, and accountability.

But you send it anyway.

Then your phone buzzes.

Trinity.

Proud of you.

Before you can answer, another text comes through.

Also I practiced for 20 minutes and may have told my ASL instructor I’m romantically committed to tacos???

You laugh so hard you have to put your phone down.

A second later, your phone buzzes again.

Don’t laugh. This language has too many handshapes.

You type back, I am absolutely laughing.

Trinity replies, Rude. Accurate, but rude.

You sit there in your quiet kitchen, smiling at your phone like an idiot.

For once, the quiet doesn’t feel like hiding.

It feels like home.

The Pitt doesn’t transform overnight.

Of course it doesn’t.

The VRI cart gets fixed, then misplaced, then found in a storage alcove nobody admits using. Dana starts checking it at the beginning of every shift with the same energy she uses to check staffing. Robby keeps pushing. Mel quietly makes a laminated reference sheet for interpreter requests and leaves it by the charge desk.

Dennis starts ASL classes and practices at inappropriate times until Trinity tells him that if he fingerspells pancreatitis one more time while she’s eating, she’s going to throw something at him.

“You can’t discourage education,” Dennis says.

“I can discourage you.”

“That feels targeted.”

“It is.”

You laugh into your coffee.

Trinity keeps going to class.

She’s bad at it at first, which bothers her deeply.

“I’m good at languages,” she complains one morning after shift.

“ASL is a language.”

“That’s why this is offensive to me personally.”

“You’re improving.”

“I signed hospital wrong and my instructor looked at me like I’d disappointed her entire bloodline.”

“She sounds great.”

“She is great. I fear her. I need her approval.”

“That tracks.”

Trinity gives you a look.

You smile back.

She’s learning more than signs.

She learns to pause.

To face you.

To touch your arm before speaking when the ED is loud.

She learns not to say never mind.

She learns that when you take your hearing aids out at home, you aren’t shutting her out. You’re coming back to yourself.

The first time she sleeps over after everything changes, you stand in the bathroom with your hearing aids in your palm, suddenly nervous.

Trinity appears in the doorway.

She doesn’t speak.

She just leans against the frame, watching you with that careful stillness she only uses when she knows the wrong move matters.

You look at her in the mirror.

Without the hearing aids, you can’t hear the apartment the way you usually do. You can’t hear the small sounds of her shifting. You can’t hear the city outside. You can’t hear if she says your name.

But you can see her.

Trinity lifts her hands and signs, slowly, “You’re safe.”

The sign isn’t perfect.

The meaning is.

Your fingers close around the hearing aids.

Then you set them in the charger.

Trinity smiles, small and private.

You turn off the bathroom light and follow her to bed.

The Pitt is still loud.

It always will be.

The alarms still hit you the second you walk through the doors. Voices overlap. Phones ring. Gurneys squeak. Someone yells. Someone cries. Someone laughs too loudly at the worst possible time because sometimes that’s the only way anyone survives this place.

But you stop pretending it doesn’t cost you.

Not completely.

Not every second.

When you miss something, you ask for it again. When someone talks from behind you, you tell them to face you. When your hearing aids overload in the middle of a shift, you step into the quietest corner you can find and breathe for thirty seconds.

You stop treating your needs like evidence against you.

That might be the hardest part.

Harder than the medicine.

Harder than telling Trinity.

Harder than the noise.

One morning after a brutal overnight, you and Trinity walk out together.

She’s on your left side.

Your better side.

The parking garage echoes too much, turning footsteps into dull thunder and making every distant car door slam feel closer than it is. Trinity is telling you about a patient who swallowed a poker chip on a dare, but half the sentence gets swallowed by the sound of an engine starting two rows over.

“Again?” you ask.

Trinity turns toward you fully.

No sigh.

No never mind.

No flash of frustration.

She repeats it.

You catch it that time and laugh.

She looks proud in the smallest possible way, like she’s trying not to be obvious about it and failing.

You bump your shoulder against hers.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“That’s suspicious.”

“You’re suspicious.”

“Accurate.”

At your car, she stops.

She signs, “I love you.”

It’s smoother now.

Not fluent.

Not perfect.

But hers.

You sign back, “I love you too.”

Then, because she’s Trinity, she adds out loud, “And I love being right.”

“You weren’t right about anything in this conversation.”

“I was right that I’d get better.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re in love with me.”

You smile.

“Yeah,” you say. “I am.”

She steps closer, and for once, there’s no urgency in it. No trauma bay pace. No clock running out. Just Trinity in the gray morning light, one hand settling at your waist, the other brushing your sleeve like she’s still asking without words.

You lean in first.

The kiss is soft. Warm. Tired around the edges.

When you pull back, Trinity stays close enough that you can feel her breath against your cheek.

“Text me when you get home,” she says.

“I always do.”

“I know. Do it anyway.”

You roll your eyes.

She kisses your forehead.

It’s quick, almost embarrassed, like tenderness still feels like a thing she has to sneak past herself.

That makes it sweeter.

You drive home in the quiet, hearing aids resting in the cup holder, the world softened around the edges.

You think about Maya in her blue hoodie.

You think about her mother’s hands moving fast with fear and love.

You think about Dana checking the VRI cart like she’s daring it to fail again.

You think about Dennis trying too hard, Mel noticing everything, Robby turning anger into policy, and Trinity sitting in a diner booth at sunrise, signing love badly and meaning it completely.

You think about the silence you used to hide inside.

And the language you’re finally letting people see.

It’s not fixed.

You’re not fixed.

You were never the thing that needed fixing.

The Pitt is still loud.

The world is still built wrong in too many places.

But now, when you walk back into the noise, you don’t disappear inside it.

You lift your hands.

You use your voice.

You ask for access.

You let yourself be seen.

And when Trinity stands beside you, watching carefully, learning slowly, showing up again and again, you let yourself believe that love can be a kind of translation too.

Not perfect.

Not instant.

But patient.

Honest.

Yours.

Samira stared at her planner. It stared back accusingly. She was open on the month of September, which would start tomorrow. All over the two page spread was red writing. Red, according to the color code she’d set back in undergrad, meant work.

Red for work, orange for studying. Yellow for exams. Blue for interviews and meetings. Green for social activities. Her planner pages used to be a real rainbow, back then.

After she got into med school, and left most of her closest friends and family behind in New Jersey, green became less frequent, orange and blue much more. Then, when she got into her first choice residency program at PTMC, red overtook the orange and yellow of school days. Green colored only one or two days a month.

Now, as she stared down the last year of her residency, the green pen remained practically untouched.

She’d gotten an early offer for an emergency position in Jersey, at a reputable hospital close to her mom. It was what she’d spent the past twelve months stressing about and working towards, so why wasn’t she thrilled?

Good college. Good med school. Good residency. Now, good career. Right? She did everything she was supposed to, and it went exactly how she expected. In fact, this upcoming month looked hardly different from the last thirty-six, at least. So why, all of a sudden, did it bother her? She’d needed to stay focused, mind on work, to achieve what she’d achieved. Any dedicated doctor in her position would have done the same.

So why the fuck was she so goddamn lonely?

And why on earth hadn’t she accepted the job yet?

She huffed, pushing the notebook away from her. The only thing in a sea of red scribbles was a blue dot that read dentist. She racked her brains. She’d worked at PTMC for three years and counting — did she really have no friends to show for it?

She and Javadi had a good rapport, but more in a mentor mentee way than a friendship way. It was hard to connect with someone that much younger than you. Santos was crude, and Whitaker boring. Cassie was always nice to talk to, but again, in an entirely different phase of life. Robby was a nightmare, Jack nice, but they were a package deal and much much older than her. Heather moved away. Mel was a good contender, but always much too busy with her sister and work to have a large social life herself.

That pretty much left you. A fellow R4, her age, and perfectly friendly to her. Still, she wouldn’t call the two of you friends. In fact, she had always sensed there was a bit of a wall between you, one that was only noticeable after hours spent inspecting the way you interacted with everyone else.

You were the definition of bubbly, a real firecracker. You could turn yourself into a compatible friend for each person you came in contact with, and yet somehow, you never seemed disingenuous.

You were a “more the merrier” type thinker. Drinks at the bar? Come along! Baseball game? I’ll get some more tickets! Birthday party? Everyone’s invited!

You could make nice with anyone, even some of the most stubborn grumps. Robby, for example. Everyone expected you to tire him greatly when you first started, as bright eyed and energetic as you were. You joked and teased without a worry, lightened even the heaviest of cases in that way of yours.

Even Robby eyed you warily, but within months you were getting him talking, first about case studies, then sports, getting more personal as you went along. You earned his trust.

You were one of Harrison’s favorite baby sitters and a lifesaver to Cassie. You matched Abbot’s dry humor effortlessly. You ribbed with Santos, gave Javadi tips on flirting, and were the one to talk some sense into Whitaker about his farm situation, even heading down with him one day to learn about cattle. 

There wasn’t a nurse who disliked you. One phone call from you was enough to speed the lab techs up, or magically come up with a CT slot for a patient. You brought the cleaning staff donuts and coffee, even when your bank account was running on empty.

It wasn’t performative, it wasn’t for your benefit. It was just who you were.

So, no, it wasn’t that you were rude to Samira, far from it. She wasn’t sure you could be rude to her even if you wanted to. You always extended an invite to her and were quick to lend a hand on difficult cases. You smiled that sunshine bright smile of yours. And yet.

It was a small thing, really. Stupid. Insignificant. But not really, because Samira spent too much time thinking about it for it not to mean anything.

You were a nicknamer. Even first names felt too formal for you, apparently. Robby became Bob within your first week. Most new staff members were too nervous to try anything other than toddling around nervously, let alone assign the scary, gruff chief attending a silly nickname. But coming from you with that quickly familiar beam, somehow Robby couldn’t be mad. He tried, he scoffed and glared, but it stuck anyway.

Jack was John Boy. Javadi was Speed Racer, or Speedy. Dana was Big D. Mel became Missy, Kiara, Kiki. Even Esme from sanitation earned the moniker Queenie. But Samira? Nothing.

Of course, she was all too aware she did have a nickname, SloMo, but nothing cute or cheeky like you liked to give.

No, from you it was always a respectful Dr. Mohan, with the occasional Samira. At least you pronounced her surname right, but it still stung when, after working with you for two and a half years, she saw you immediately deem Whitaker “Gus” after the mouse in Cinderella on his first day. Why, she didn’t know. She just knew she was a little jealous.

Picking up the rusty green pen, she circled the next few days she had off coming up. Unsure what exactly she could end up doing, she just wrote HAVE FUN.

Having fun, it turned out, was easier said than done. She got home two hours past her seven PM clock out time after her last shift of four, showered, ate, and promptly fell asleep in front of the TV.

The next morning, she vowed to spend the day doing something new. She dug her old running shoes out of the closet, threw on a sports bra, and headed out for a run. It was slow, and she could feel, rather than hear, the creak of her underused joints as she made awkward, unpracticed strides. She ended up spending more time walking than running. That would have been fine, except it started drizzling fifteen minutes in, and by the time she reached home it was pouring.

Well, the rain had always been a calming sound to her, and with the help of it, and a boring book, she spent most of the day napping.

The morning after that, she spent three hours decluttering her closet. Most of the junk stuffed in there was old, clothes she thought were cute in college but never wore, and now, didn’t fit. By the time she returned from the Goodwill drop off, it was startlingly bare but for drawer upon drawer of scrubs, and her tried and true sweats and hoodies.

Before she could doom shop on her laptop, a call came in from Dana that Mel had called in sick and they were in desperate need of a resident, and would she please come in?

Figuring the day was a dead end anyway, she pulled on a pair of said scrubs and headed into work.

She was certainly more down than usual, though she was especially down a lot these days. Maybe it was becoming less and less unusual as time went on. She was so caught up in her own dreariness that she didn’t notice you until you were pushing a tablet under her nose.

“Labs came back for the back pain,” you said, and she took it absently. “Looks like it was just gallstones after all. You wanna talk to him, or should I?”

She scrolled through the numbers, unsmiling.

“I can, he’s my patient,” she said. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” you said, watching her closely. “You okay?”

She sighed. Of course you would ask that. You, so annoyingly in tune with everyone around you, and so willing to help.

“Fine,” she said, a little snappier than intended. “See you later.”

Samira turned and retreated to curtain three without another glance in your direction. She was in such a foul mood she was sure one look at your open, kind face would push her over the edge. She certainly wasn’t going to be setting any records in the patient satisfaction score game, anyhow.

By the end of the day, you weren’t the only one eyeing her sideways. Dr. Al-Hashimi had already reprimanded her once for spacing out, and Dana, Whitaker, and Jesse had all inquired about her mood.

Samira packed her bag with ferocity, hardly returning Jack’s nod of acknowledgement as he passed her on the way out as he made his way in. She was almost to the edge of the parking lot when she heard your voice.

“Samira!” you called, and she turned. “Wait up!”

She waited impatiently for you to catch up with her, your keys jingling merrily on your bag as you jogged.

“What’s up,” she asked, using all her energy to keep the frustration from her voice.

“I just wondered if you needed a ride home,” you said easily. “I noticed you didn’t drive in today.”

Brushing past the momentary shock that you’d noticed something so small and insignificant about her, she shrugged.

“I’m fine, I took the bus.”

“Right,” you said, infuriatingly immune to her less-than-friendly attitude. “It’s just, it’s supposed to rain. Wanted to give you the option.”

As you spoke, Samira felt a cold drop land on the top of her head. Looking up, she got another one right in the eye. “Son of a bitch!” she swore, rubbing it furiously. “Great! Perfect!”

Your eyebrow lifted just a centimeter in surprise, as Samira wasn’t normally a cusser, but fuck if she hadn’t had a long day. You pointed over your shoulder behind you. “I’d love to give you a lift,” was all you said. Not “you sure about the bus?” or “bet a warm car sounds pretty good right now, huh?” Just “I’d love to.”

So she conceded defeat and followed you back to your Subaru. She didn’t say a word until you were pulling out of hospital property with her address plugged into your phone.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” she asked, unsure if she meant it to be snarky or not.

“Where would I have to be?” you asked, turning down the radio.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “’M just surprised you don’t have plans. It seems like you’re always out doing one thing or another.”

You smiled.

“Actually, I’m having some old high school friends over for a movie and wine night,” you said, and for some reason, that sank her mood a little deeper. She was about to say something mean, or condescending, but then you spoke again. “You’re welcome to join us. If you want.”

And there it was. Your proof to Samira that she’s just a dick to be mad at you, who had done nothing wrong. It seemed you couldn’t even let one moment slide by. She rolled her eyes.

“I’m fine,” she said stiffly, looking determinedly out the window.

“That’s the second time you’ve said that to me today,” you said thoughtfully. “I believe this one even less.”

“Well, you should,” she said, crossing her arms. “Because I’m really fine. I mean, we’re not even friends. How would you know?”

“Because you’re a bad liar,” you said. “And even if I don’t know you that well personally, I can spot a bad liar a mile away. It’s why I’m such a good poker player.”

She shook her head. It was true. She didn’t have much cause to lie, she didn’t really see the point of it. It made her feel dirty, to lie for no good reason. And really, she admitted, she had no good reason to lie to you now. Why not?

“I don’t have any friends,” she said suddenly. “All I care about is work, which was fine, I thought, but now I’m looking up after all these years and realize I’m wasting away my youth. The last time I left my apartment for some reason other than work, doctors appointments, or groceries, was my mom’s birthday seven months ago. Not even a friend’s! My mom’s. I haven’t had a boyfriend since high school, haven’t even been on a date since undergrad, and I’m probably gonna die alone! My life has no purpose!”

There was a ringing silence as she finished her rant, still refusing to look at you. She didn’t want to see pity in your eyes. After a minute, you responded.

“You have an overwhelming amount of purpose,” you said simply.

“How would you know,” she scoffed, “we’re not even —”

“Friends, I know,” you said. “But not for nothing, I have worked with you almost every day for several years. I see the way you light up when your patients ease up. How much it means to you when they trust you, and how good you are at earning it. I see the passion that has driven you to some of the most impressive and spectacular saves I’ve ever seen. Your patients are your purpose. Do you know how rare it is for a person to find purpose in something that has nothing to do with them?”

Samira was stunned into silence. She had absolutely no idea you paid that much attention to her, or any at all, really. Her face was feeling hot.

“I have no work life balance,” she said weakly. “None of my patients are going to hang out with me, or fall in love with me, or see me as anything other than a doctor. It’s not the same.”

“Of course, it’s not,” you said. “You’ve put everything you have into them, and we rarely get the recognition we deserve in this field. But that doesn’t mean you’ve wasted any time. Your career is not a waste. It just seems like your priorities might be starting to shift. That’s all.”

“I’m almost thirty,” she said.

“Uh huh,” you said.

“I should have this figured out by now,” she sighed tiredly. “I’m gonna be forty by the time I’m married.”

You let out a loud laugh that surprised her.

“Dude, no one, and I mean no one, has this shit figured out by the time they’re thirty!” you said.

“You do,” she said grumpily.

“The fuck I do!” you said. “I often let socializing get in the way of work. And I worry about the future, and how much farther along I might be if I had been more like you. I can’t maintain relationships because I prioritize friendships over girlfriends, and let’s be honest, no one wants to hear about open fractures over dinner.”

Samira laughed despite herself, and your smile widened.

“As for the friend thing,” you said, turning onto her street. “I think they’re closer than you think. You’re easy to like, I promise. Just agree to drinks every once and while, and you’ll be a hit!”

She picked at a hangnail, unsure.

“I’m not the best with crowds,” she admitted. “I tend to stay quiet, and fade into the background if I’m around too many people.”

You pulled in front of her apartment, yanking the parking brake.

“You should ask Mel sometime,” you said. “I think a night out would do her some good, too.”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Samira.

She liked Mel, really. But they were a little too similar. It would be easy to talk the blonde into spending a quiet night in with a movie, which was hardly different from all her nights off. She turned to you, nervous.

“Hey,” she said. “Do you think, maybe, if you’re free, you could… we could go out? I mean, you could show me around.”

“Sure,” you said happily. “Where do you like to go?”

Samira thought hard. She had lived in the same city for years, and she couldn’t come up with a single location. Sensing her difficulty, you helped her out.

“Why don’t I pick a place?” you asked. “Something busy, but lowkey. Ever been to the Cellar, on Main?” She shook her head. “It’s great, you’ll love it. Text me when you’re free. I’ll pick you up.”

Well, that was easy, she thought as you exchanged numbers and bid each other good night. Perhaps she should have approached you earlier. What did she think you would do, laugh in her face? It wasn’t quite your style.

Samira was more than nervous as she walked into the low lit bar next Saturday, in one of her three nice outfits with you by her side. You were cool as a cucumber, looking nice but relaxed, with just a smidge of makeup and simple jewelry.

You quickly found a table.

“I’ll go get drinks,” you said, waving away her hands as they reached for her purse. “My treat. What do you drink?”

“Uh,” she faltered. The last time she’d ordered a drink at a bar she was twenty-one and broke, with a taste for whatever was cheapest. You smiled again.

“I’ll surprise you,” you said, and you disappeared.

Samira glanced around suspiciously. You were right, this bar did seem her speed. Certainly more so than the loud, sweaty places she pictured group hangouts at. There was a small dance floor where the odd drunk solo dancer wiggled, and a few couples and groups of friends swayed softly. There was an old juke box in the corner, and lamps on the tables. Instead of a din of plastered partiers she was surrounded by a low hum of talk and laughter. She tried to loosen her shoulders.

“Try this,” you said, placing a tall glass topped with a slice of lemon and cherry in front of her.

She took a tentative sip. It was fizzy and light, with a zip of lemon. She hummed appreciatively.

“Like it?” you asked, taking a sip from your own copper cup. She nodded. “Tom Collins. One of my favorites.”

“It’s amazing,” she said, taking another, larger sip. “What did you get?”

“Moscow Mule,” you said. “Wanna try?”

You swapped drinks. The Mule was tasty too, she thought. She hadn’t realized how wonderful cocktails could be, having barely drunk a warm beer since the days alcohol was purchased at Trader Joes. Sitting in a quiet bar, floor not sticky, she felt very grown up.

“So,” you said, returning her glass. “Are we gonna be friends?”

She smiled shyly.

“If you want to be,” she said. “I’d like that.”

“Of course I want to be,” you said, laughing like she was ridiculous. “You’re one of my favorite coworkers. Easily top five.”

“Really?” she questioned. “Well, can I ask you a question? Since we’re friends, and all.”

“Shoot.”

Samira rotated her glass, feeling a bit anxious now. But, you’d said you wanted to be her friend.

“How come I never got a nickname?” she asked.

Your face remained passive.

“I didn’t know you wanted one,” you said.

“Oh, come on,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Everyone got one. I don’t think you asked Robby if he wanted to be called Bob. Or that you cared if Shen wanted to be named Sir Dunksalot.”

You snorted a little. You raised your hands as though admitting defeat.

“Alright,” you said. “Okay. I never gave you a nickname because I… respected you too much.”

Now it was Samira’s turn to snort.

“Bull,” she said, crunching on a bit of ice.

You laughed.

“It’s true!” you said. “But there is a second part.”

All of a sudden, you seemed like a hesitant one. Odd, seeing as Samira couldn’t recall a single instance you’d hesitated before. Not with a treatment, not with your friends, never. She leaned forward, intrigued.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Promise you’ll listen to my explanation?” you said seriously, and she nodded. “I was the one who came up with ‘SloMo’.”

The straw slipped from Samira’s lips. You? Sure, you teased people, but she’d never known you to be meanhearted. It stung a little, remembering those first months at PTMC, and the imposter syndrome that that title did little to help with. But she promised to hear you out. She motioned for you to go on.

You watched her with apprehensive eyes.

“It was, I don’t know, not even the first month of being an intern,” you said, regret lacing your tone already. “We’d been working there for a week, maybe two. I didn’t really know you yet, you know? We hadn’t figured out our rhythm, and I hadn’t seen you at work.”

You placed your hands around your drink to stop yourself picking at your nails. A habit you and Samira had in common, she realized.

“All I really knew about you was that you were nice, pretty, and — well, and the stuff I heard about you from other people,” you explained. “I was assisting Robby with a trauma, and he made some jab about you needing to pick up the pace. I was nervous, and I wanted to make a good impression, and it just slipped out. I thought it was clever. But then I started to get to know you, and realized how stupid Robby is, and… I never expected it to stick the way it did. I’m really, really sorry.”

Samira didn’t know what to say, so she just sucked on her straw for a while, until an obnoxious slurping sound made the table next to yours send irritated looks. She pushed the empty glass away from her.

It was weird, knowing the origin story of the joke that haunted her for so much of her intern year. Maybe she would have felt resentful towards you then, but it felt so far in the past now. She smiled.

“It was kind of clever,” she said. “To be fair. Slo, Mo. Slow Mohan. You’ve got a knack for nicknames.”

You shook your head.

“No, it wasn’t,” you said. “You’re an amazing doctor. I didn’t want to pull attention from your potential with a stupid joke. It wasn’t cool.”

“It wasn’t cool,” she agreed. “And it used to hurt my feelings, but I can’t fault you. I know you didn’t mean any harm by it. It’s ancient history.”

You grinned at her.

“So, what do you want your nickname to be, now that we’re really friends, and neither of us have our heads up our asses anymore?”

“I get to choose?” she asked.

“I’ll make an exception for you,” you said.

“Give me some options,” said Samira, settling her chin in her hand.

“Okay,” you said thoughtfully. “Um, Sam. Sami. Mira. Mimi. Miri. Mo. Momo. Mimo. Siso.”

“Okay, now you’re just making up sounds!” she giggled.

“Everything is made up sounds!” you said.

“Okay, okay,” she said, thinking it over. “Um… how about…” she drummed her fingers against her lips. “Miri.”

“Miri it is,” you said with a smile. “Can I get you a refill, Miri?”

“Only because you came up with SloMo,” she said cheekily.

You laughed, taking her cup and your own back to the bar. Samira felt a little giddy, from the alcohol, and the nickname. Her whole chest felt very warm. Not the panicky, tight heat that plagued her over the summer, but fuzzy and familiar. Good.

You spent the rest of the night talking, learning about each other. You both already knew more than Samira had realized, having spent so many hours together saving lives, or charting. But there was still more to learn.

She told you about her mother, and New Jersey, and the job offer she had yet to take. You told her about where you grew up, your siblings, and about the EMS fellowship you were doing next year. You were to be trained to manage both on site and emergency department traumas, and regulate safety protocols and standards of care.

You worked through enough drinks to get to the dance floor, laughing at each other as you tripped over air and missed the beat of the music. By the time you dropped her back at her place, Samira felt lighter than she had in months, maybe years.

You were a presence, a light in the room. You brought her to life in a way she didn’t know was possible. She had a hard time believing you had been right in front of her face for years and she hadn’t thought to explore you.

She wanted to collapse into bed, but stumbled to the bathroom to wash up only because you reminded her. Something about keeping her gorgeous skin as perfect as it was that made the warm in her chest pulse like a living breathing thing. She could hardly stop smiling long enough to remove her lip gloss.

Over the next few months, you’d text Samira every week or so with a new activity planned. You took her everywhere. Restaurants, more bars, sports games, your favorite brunch spots. The two of you visited art galleries and pretended to know what you were talking about, you made sushi at culinary class, you painted pottery. Even something boring, like an afternoon spent perusing the shelves at the library, was made fun by your presence.

You had an infectious laugh. Your lips pulled to expose all your teeth, and you threw your head back, letting the angelic noise fill the air. There was no hand over your mouth, or stifled giggles. You were completely unabashed in your joy.

Samira liked to think that she was learning from you. You were spreading your happiness, your unbridled appreciation for life, to her each second you spent together. Thanks to you, she was getting much better at stopping to smell the roses, so to speak. She could look over a seemingly mundane scene and find good, if only to think how she wished you could see it. And when you did, she’d point, and relish in the smile that would spread over your face.

With you, she wasn't Dr. Mohan. She was just Miri.

But she taught you things, too. You liked it when she talked through her thought process with difficult patients. You begged her to teach you her mom’s masala vada recipe, something she hadn’t made in years, but found that she enjoyed spending time in the kitchen. And you certainly thought her painting skills were far superior to yours.

“How did you get them so evenly spaced?” you asked, examining the blueberry patterned mug she just got back from the pottery place. “Mine looks like a six year old made it.”

“No,” she said kindly, taking your butter dish from your hand. “It’s… really good.”

You guffawed.

“You’re too sweet for your own good, Miri,” you laughed, poking her dimple. “But whatever. It’ll keep butter just the same as any other dish.”

She smiled as you popped to the kitchen to find a place for the thing, feeling warm. She rubbed her cheeks and placed her dishes carefully back into their wrappings. It had been such a joy having you around so much. It was almost November, although it felt like less time.

It wasn't just how you were when you were around, either. When you weren't, Samira found herself missing you. Desperately. She spent more time thinking about you than she would admit, to you, to herself, to anyone. And if your familiar touches, the pokes, the caresses, the hugs, set a fire burning in her belly, who cared? As far as Samira was concerned, that was no one's business, not even hers. Least of all yours.

Your near constant presence also helped her ignore the reality barreling towards her, that she would soon no longer be a resident, and that the job offer still sat in her inbox, no closer to being decided on. She tried to rid herself of such thoughts as you came back into the living room.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” you said, flopping beside her on the couch.

“What’s up?”

“So, Whitaker and Santos are having a little get together on Halloween,” you said. “For those of us lucky enough to not have to work the Halloween night shift. I was gonna go, and I know you prefer keeping things small, but I was wondering if you’d go with me?”

Samira chewed her lip. A Halloween party. She hadn’t been to one of those since high school, and she hadn’t enjoyed it much. She generally preferred to hand out candy to the kids in the neighborhood, then turn in with a scary movie or a good book, even when she was a teenager. The past few years she’d been picking up night shifts for parents who wanted to take their own kids trick or treating. But you loved Halloween, and if you were together, how bad could it be?

“Okay,” she said. “Okay?” you asked. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel obligated just because I’m going. In fact, I could join your quiet night if you wanted company.”

“You’re too sweet for your own good,” she parroted. “Seriously. I think it’ll be fun.”

You beamed.

“Awesome!” you squealed, pulling your phone out and scooching right next to her. “This is what I was thinking for my costume, I’ve already started putting it together. What about you?”

Samira was embarrassingly blank minded, so you spent the last week of the month helping her pick out something she liked. When she realized you were going as a honey bee, she timidly suggested she just continue the theme, and you jumped at the idea.

So, on October 31, the two of you walked into Trinity’s apartment as a bee and a ladybug. The only light source was from the plastic pumpkins and ghosts strung haphazardly all over the living room and kitchen area, and everything seemed to be covered in a layer of fake cobwebs. The music was pretty loud, and the apartment already full.

“You okay?” you whispered to her, hand finding hers in the dark.

“Fine,” she said, honestly.

“Let’s go find the hosts,” you said.

You didn’t let go of her hand as you led her through the crowd, something she appreciated. Suddenly, she hoped her palms didn’t get sweaty like they sometimes did in uncomfortable situations.

“Look at you two!” said the voice of Santos from behind them, and they turned.

She was dressed as Coraline and carrying a plate of jello shots. You still didn’t let Samira’s hand go as you greeted her.

“You look great!” you said, taking in the outfit. “Let me guess — Whitaker is your Wybie?”

“Guilty,” she said. “The idiot’s around here somewhere. But enough about me, what about you two! Matchy, matchy.”

Samira was used to Santos’s teasing at this point, but her cheeks still heated. She reminded herself that the R2 just admitted to matching with Whitaker. Her male roommate. Besides, there was no inherent link between a bee and a lady bug, they just both were insects with wings.

Still, she slipped her definitely slick hand out of yours and crossed her arms over her chest self consciously. As though you noticed, you took up the question.

“It was a little last minute,” you excused, grabbing a jello shot. “Want one?”

Samira nodded, and you handed it to her, then grabbed another for yourself.

“Well, you go find Wybie,” you said to Santos, motioning for Samira to follow you. “We’re gonna go mingle.”

The shots seemed to be 80% alcohol, 20% jello. If it hadn’t been for the red color, Samira wasn’t sure she’d have been able to discern the slight strawberry flavor. You pinched your face too as you slurped it down.

“Eugh,” you said, taking her empty cup and throwing both away. “I don’t even really like jello in the first place.”

Samira laughed, trying to relax. Nobody at this party would stop to think twice about your outfits. If they were partaking in the jello shots, they probably would even notice. 

You spent the rest of the night dancing, snacking, and occasionally drinking. Samira was rattled by the panic that had overtaken her at Trinity’s most likely benign comment. So what if she thought you were dating? The idea sent a tingle through her stomach she was reluctant to describe.

She’d had crushes in her life before, though mostly on celebrities or TV characters. She’d hung One Direction posters in her room, and cried when she found out Brad Pitt was married. She even flushed each time Josh Matthews met her eye in junior year calculus class. But she didn’t feel like that with girls.

When she saw a pretty girl, she admired her. She studied her. She liked being around beautiful women, just like people liked to fill their homes with gorgeous art. It made you feel good to look at something pleasing to the eyes. It was human nature. The flutters she got in her stomach when first came across her screen in a rerun of Fools Rush In was jealousy.

That was what she always told herself. And living in the little bubble with you for the past two months hadn’t done anything to refute that. To force her to examine your relationship in a different way. But when Trinity could look at the two of you and raise a brow, what did that mean?

So, like a real grownup, each time your smile or gentle touch sent butterflies around her midsection, she took a swig of her drink. And by one o’clock in the morning, she was drunker than she had been in a decade.

“There you go,” you said, depositing her carefully onto your bed. “Nice and easy.”

Samira groaned, feeling disoriented. She hardly remembered the cab ride over, or recognized that the sheets she was burrowing into were not her own.

Your lithe fingers made quick work of her shoes, and you disappeared and reappeared from your bathroom holding a bottle of liquid and some cotton pads. Samira’s face scrunched in displeasure as you began working the makeup off of her face.

“I know,” you said quietly. “Trust me, you’ll be grateful in the morning. Promise.”

She opened her eyes a sliver to see your face, twisted in concentration as you worked. Your own makeup was beginning to smudge and had been rubbed off in places. She tried to reach a hand up and swipe away a bit of glitter from your chin, but her arm felt heavy and she missed by a mile. You just laughed.

“I’m just going to grab you a cup of water,” you said when you were done. “Be right back.”

But by the time you returned with a glass, some Tylenol, and an empty trashcan to put beside the bed, Samira was out cold.

When she woke, she was in almost exactly the same position, and a pool of drool made the corner of her mouth sticky. She opened her eyes and immediately regretted the action. Her head was pounding.

Wiping her face, she turned away from the window to the bed side table. There lay the meds, water, and a clock that told her it was almost noon.

It took her about ten minutes to gulp down some pills and stand up.

“I’m never drinking again,” she muttered to herself as she padded out through the hallway.

Familiar as she was with your apartment at this point, she made for the kitchen, expecting you to be up making breakfast. But when she reached the common area, it was to find it deserted and the remnants of a makeshift bed on the sofa. Clearly you had slept out there, but where were you now?

Not in the apartment, she confirmed with a quick search. When the grumbling in her stomach took charge, she finally noticed the note on the fridge telling her you’d been called into work and wouldn’t be back until late, but she should make herself at home.

Jesus, you had been on call? And you were running on, what, four, maybe five hours of sleep? At least you hadn’t drunk as much as Samira.

She was about to toss the note aside when she noticed a PS.

P.S. stopped by buns & co :) coffee in the fridge!!! <3

She smiled giddily. Then she frowned. No boyfriend, however few and far between they were, had done something like this for her. Buns & Co, her favorite cafe, was way out of the way, and she felt sure she hadn’t mentioned it more than once. And you remembered.

The butterflies were back, with a vengeance. You were a good friend, the only one she had gotten close to in Pittsburgh. Three months ago, she was fine. Now, a simple gesture was enough to send her spiraling. How had this happened?

Suddenly she felt very trapped in your apartment. Grabbing the coffee and bag of pastries, ignoring the protesting ache in her skull, she slipped into her shoes and ran. Upon returning home, she beelined straight for her laptop, pulled up her email, and accepted the job offer in Jersey. And immediately regretted it.

For the rest of the day, she went back and forth. One second she was in shambles, drafting an email taking it back, the next she was mentally packing up her things. Meanwhile, the coffee grew cold and forgotten on her kitchen counter.

You also texted her several times throughout the day, mostly when you finally got off work. You asked if she was okay. If you had gotten the right pastries. If she wanted to see a new movie next week.

She didn’t answer a single one. Not until nearly midnight.

Got home fine, just been napping all day.

It was simple, and short, and she knew you’d see right through it. Still, she turned her phone back off until her next shift. As she predicted, you sought her out almost immediately. You proposed lunch, and she accepted.

You were halfway through recounting your pediatric patient from earlier in the morning when she cut you off.

“I’ve been thinking more about the job offer,” she said. “The one in Jersey.”

You swallowed your bite of sandwich.

“Me too!” you said. To her confusion, you pulled out your laptop. “I know there are a lot of pros about that hospital, but as it turns out, there’s a position at Presby that’s almost twice as good. Emergency Med, but they offer dual training in public health. Awesome, right? I know you might not want to apply to something this late in the game, but the deadline isn’t until December!”

As you rambled on, Samira thought perhaps the room was running out of air. How much time had you wasted putting together options? Options, she couldn’t help but notice, that all involved her staying in Pittsburgh. The wavering back and forth on her acceptance was gone. The feeling pouring over her like a heavy rain now was all, 100%, unmistakable guilt. “I appreciate it,” she said when you were done. “But… I was gonna tell you… I already accepted the offer. I’m moving back to New Jersey.”

She snapped her gaze quickly down to her salad so she didn’t have to see the way your face fell. Even still, it was all she could picture. The downturned lips, the droop of your eyes, clear as day in her mind’s eye.

“Oh,” you said. “You’re not staying?”

“Well, I’m not leaving until June,” she said.

“Right,” you said sadly, then, “right, yeah! We’ve got plenty of time to plan your going away party! Congrats!”

But with as much time she had spent memorizing your smile, Samira could tell this one wasn’t full. You made a good show though, patting her on the back, praising her abilities.

She got a lot of that, from you and others, over the next week. It was a security many people would have loved, and she used to dream about it. But now, all she could think about was not seeing you every day. She sat at home, turning down your requests to hang out, hearing your glum voice on a loop. You didn’t seem to act any different afterwards, because you would never try to rain on someone’s parade. If this was what Samira wanted, you would do everything you could to support it.

If only you knew that it wasn’t what she wanted. Not really. Maybe she wasn’t sure before, but when you had to spend hours convincing yourself something was right, maybe it wasn’t really right.

At least, that’s what Jack told her when she confided in him.

“But how could I change my mind?” she asked him. “I’m not wishy washy. I’m a planner. I make a plan, and I stick to it.”

Jack smiled.

“Kid, coming from a former military man, who used to think plans were a good idea too,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder, “something will get in the way. Always. And more often than not, that something will be feelings.”

She crossed her arms.

“I don’t know what my feelings are,” she said. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Because I’ve been noticing one name in particular popping up a whole lot in a discussion about your career.”

She flushed.

“That — that doesn’t even matter,” she said. “It’s been months. And even — even if… I don’t even know how she feels.”

“I do,” he said simply, matching her defiant posture. “She’s been putting on a brave face, but she hasn’t been her usual sunshine and rainbows. She’s practically sulking, by her standards. And I think you have something to do with it.”

That thought stayed with Samira for the rest of the shift. Were you upset? Maybe. The idea made her heart clench, but she didn’t realize how much it was weighing on her until she left for the day and walked straight past her bus stop in the direction of your apartment.

What am I doing? she thought as she stood in front of your door. Seriously, what am I doing? as she raised her hand and knocked.

You answered the door in your pajamas, and looked shocked to see her standing there.

“Hey, Miri,” you said. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” she said. “Didn’t know if you’d be home. No plans?”

You looked down at your cereal brand pajama pants and smiled.

“Nope, just me, some sushi, and love island,” you said. “Wanna… come in?”

You stood aside as she shuffled in, entirely unsure if being in your house was a good idea.

“How was work?” you asked, shutting the door behind you.

“Good,” she said. “Fine. It’s just…” she sighed. “I don’t want to go to New Jersey.”

Your head cocked to the side like a puppy.

“No?”

“No,” she said, laughing at the relief of that sentence coming off her chest. “Not at all. I hate it there. I hate the people, the roads. I hate my mom’s new boyfriend. Everything.”

You shook your head, confused.

“Then why did you accept a job offer there?”

She sighed.

“I thought it would be a good idea,” she said. “I could be closer to my mom, and get a change of pace.”

“But now…?”

“But now,” she said nervously. “But now… I’m realizing Pittsburgh is where I belong. It has a much better food scene, and better hospitals, and my mom doesn’t live here. I won’t be running into any old high school acquaintances. And, it has… you.”

Your lips tilted upwards, just slightly, hopefully.

“Yeah,” you said, stepping closer. “So stay.”

Samira didn’t know what came over her, only that one second you were standing in front of her, looking adorable as ever in your lounge clothes, asking her to stay, and the next, you were wrapped in each other. Your lips were as soft as she imagined, and your body as warm. You snaked your arms around her waist, pulling her ever closer.

It was the best kiss she’d ever had. When she reluctantly pulled away, out of necessity only, she stayed just as close, hands in your hair, cradling your face. You smiled, widely.

“Jersey definitely doesn’t have this,” you breathed.

She laughed breathlessly.

“Apparently not.” 

“Is that all you came over here for?” you ask, turning again. “Are you that concerned about my bedside manner, Dr Al-Hashimi?” 

She steps closer to you, leaning down to place one arm on the back of your chair and the other on the table as if she’s looking at something on the computer. But all of her focus is on you, every bit of it, and there’s a raspiness to her voice that you’re able to understand the cause and implications of. 

“Are you free tonight?” she asks. 

You swallow hard, looking down at your hands on the keyboard. You itch to reach one over and take hers on the table, but you’re still at work, and you’re not sure if that amount of softness would be welcome in the first place. 

You give a quick nod. “Sure, but can we go to yours?” 

“Why?” 

Because her home is everything yours is not. It is big and cozy and it smells like the rosewater candles she lights. Her bed is giant, the pillows are soft, and you have become attached to the crochet blanket at the foot of the bed. 

“It’s closer,” you say, “and closer is more convenient.” 

Baran is quiet for a second, as if she might have preferred the answer you kept to yourself. But eventually she hums in agreement, gives your shoulder a squeeze, and walks off. 

— 

“What’s going on with you and Al-Hashimi?” Trinity asks, nudging you with an elbow as the two of you change clothes in the locker room. “You two are always talking, always taking cases together… I saw you leave in her car the other night, you know.” 

You shake your head, zipping up the bag you keep your belongings in and slinging it over your shoulder. “I was having car trouble, that’s all.” 

“Oh yeah? That’s it?” 

You sigh, running a hand over your face. You’re tired and you wish you were with Baran already. “It’s nothing, Trinity, really. It’s so casual that it’s not even worth talking about, and I don’t want it to become work gossip. We keep things professional when we’re here.” 

Trinity crosses her arms. Her hair is loose, she looks more at ease than she does on the clock. “So there is something.” 

“It’s not serious.” 

“The way you look at her seems pretty serious.” 

You frown at that, stepping away toward the door. “That doesn’t matter.” 

“She looks at you, too.” 

“Yeah, everyone is fucking looking at everyone else all the time, Trinity. We work in an emergency department.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” Trinity says. She shakes her head. “Listen, I don’t know your situation, but from an outsider’s perspective… it sure looks like a little more than what I have with Yolanda. That is casual.” 

You walk the rest of the way out the door and try not to let that fully sink in. 

— 

“Are you okay?” Baran asks. You sit at a red light close to the street her house is on, with a takeout box in your lap that’s still hot. “You’ve been quiet.” 

“It’s been a long day,” you say. “I’m tired, that’s all.” 

She nods, sitting with that for a moment before replying. “Do you want me to drop you off at your place?” 

Immediately, you decline. You don’t want to be alone tonight after the day you’ve had, and you think it would do you good to have a distraction. All you want is to be with her, to feel the soft warmth of her skin against yours and the steadiness of her hands on you, grounding you to reality. 

“No,” you say, offering her a smile as reassurance. “I’m fine, really. It’s okay.” 

Baran reaches across the center console for your hand and gives it a squeeze. She runs her thumb over your knuckles soothingly. “Okay.” 

The light turns green and Baran’s hand slips out of yours, going back to the steering wheel. You can’t help the feeling of emptiness that comes over you with the absence of her hand in yours. 

“Baran,” you say quietly, glancing at her briefly as she drives. “What would you think if someone from work found out about us?” 

She tenses visibly. “Why? Has someone found out?” 

“I don’t know,” you lie. “I was just wondering what you would think about it if they did.” 

She pulls onto her street, then into her driveway, and she takes the time to park the car before answering. 

“That depends,” she says. “If we were serious, I wouldn’t mind. I would like people to know. But this, right now… it’s not serious, is it?” 

You look down at the takeout box in your lap. You think that no, your relationship is not serious, but it feels like it when you know her favorite order from her favorite restaurant and pay for it every time even when she sternly tells you not to. It feels serious when you ride home together with hands joined at stoplights, and it feels serious when compared with Trinity and Yolanda’s relationship the way it was earlier. 

Baran places a hand on your shoulder, swiping a thumb over it through your shirt. “Look at me.” 

You don’t want to, because you think every single thought you’re having about the state of your relationship could be read in your eyes right now. 

You look at her anyway. You meet her eyes because they are so beautiful and warm, studying you as if you are the only person she has any interest in looking at for the rest of her life. 

“What’s going on with you?” Baran asks. Her tone isn’t sharp or accusing, just curious. “Talk to me.” 

Your heart hammers in your chest as you raise a hand up and sweep some of her hair from her face, her curls soft beneath your fingertips. Then you trail it over her face, letting your knuckles brush over her cheekbone, then down to cup her jaw. 

You lean over the center console and lean in, meeting her in a kiss that is meant and taken as a distraction. 

“I don’t want to talk,” you murmur against her lips, and then lean in again to close the space. 

Baran pulls you closer, snaking a hand around to the back of your head. She makes a low, needy sound against your lips, tired but wanting, and for a second both of you forget what you had been talking about beforehand. 

The takeout box nearly falls out of your lap, but you pull out of the kiss and catch it. 

“Sorry,” you say quietly, smiling. “Come on, it’ll get cold, and if we have to cook a frozen pizza—” 

Baran pulls you in one more time, rougher than before, tongue slipping into your mouth and swiping against yours. You feel a fuller hunger from her now, a hunger that is more demanding, and it makes your head spin. 

“Backseat,” she says firmly. 

“We’re literally in your driveway, Baran. Let’s go inside.” 

“Get in the backseat,” she insists. “Balance the food on the dash, we’ll be quick.” 

You don’t put up any more of a fight. You would do anything for her if she asked, anything at all, so you balance the box of food on the dashboard and crawl into the backseat. 

Baran joins you, climbing into the backseat before lying down across the seats and pulling you down on top of her. It’s not the first time you’ve found yourselves here like this, Baran kicking off her pants beneath you on the leather seats while you make quick work of your top and bra. 

“Come here,” Baran reaches out for you, pulling you between her legs before leaning up a little to meet you in a kiss. One of her hands guides one of yours to her thigh, and you drag it teasingly upwards. 

You slip your other hand beneath her burgundy tank top, feeling her shiver when you cup one of her breasts, and she inches closer to you on the seats. 

“Fuck, I needed this,” she says shakily. “After dealing with those fuckers from surgery all afternoon…” 

“And banana peel guy,” you smile, leaning to press kisses down the column of her throat. 

“And you,” Baran adds. “You and those looks you gave me all day, you little shit… I noticed, you know.”  

You roll your eyes, if not at her accusation then at the amount of swearing. She almost never swears while on the clock, and sometimes it feels as though she tries to make up for it after work. It’s so very millennial of her, but she never likes it when you say that. 

“Let me make it up to you,” you say, and when she nods you slide your hand the rest of the way up to feel the wetness gathered between her thighs. It makes your breath hitch, the sheer amount of it, and it convinces you that she really was as affected by you today as she said. 

“Look at this,” you say, dragging it up to her clit. You rub tight circles against it, relishing the low groan she gives you. “All for me?” 

“Who else?” Baran asks. She sounds breathless, she sounds like she’s yours. 

“I don’t know. Like you said, this is just casual.” 

“Oh, fuck off.” 

“Don’t make me stop.” 

She reaches down to hold your wrist in place, as if believing for a moment that you really would. “Don’t stop,” she pleads. “It feels so good, don’t stop.” 

You slip two fingers into her easily, feeling the way her walls stretch around you and watching the way her back arches off the leather seats. She gasps, grip on your wrist tightening for a second before releasing entirely. 

“Relax,” you murmur. “Let me take care of you.” 

She nods, hips jerking up, and gasps when you hit especially deep. She pulls you closer to her like she needs your stability, needs you to be grounded so that she can let herself submit to the ecstasy, and you lean down to press a kiss to her shoulder as if to reassure her that you’re not going anywhere. 

Baran pulls your head up so you’ll look at her, and when you meet her eyes you can see just how far gone she is. 

“You’re mine,” she says, voice strained. “You know that, don’t you?” 

Instead of answering you lean down to kiss her, and when your lips meet hers you feel her tense around your fingers and she moans into the kiss, thighs clamping down on your wrist, and she tips her head back as she rides out her orgasm. 

The car goes quiet afterwards, the silence broken only by the sound of her ragged breathing and the creaking of the seats as she shifts to sit up a little. 

You pull her into you, letting her lean against you and nuzzle her head into the crook of your neck. You run a hand up and down her back as her breathing levels out, leaning down once to press a kiss to the top of her head, and let her rest. 

“We should go inside,” Baran says eventually, but she doesn’t move to get up. “Think the food will still be warm?” 

“I’m sure it’s fine,” you say. With one hand you tilt her chin up and lean down to kiss her, and then you part from her and study her as if committing this image of her to memory. “You are so fucking beautiful.” 

She leans back down to let her head retake its place, and closes her eyes. 

You hold her as long as she lets you. 

— 

Baran’s home is comfortable in a way that is distinctly different from the sterility of the emergency department and the persona Baran puts on while there. It is a place of warm lighting, table lamps and rosewater candles, and family pictures on every available surface. 

You asked her once why she still keeps pictures displayed that have her ex-husband in them. You know it’s not due to a lack of pictures without him in them, because you’ve seen her family photo collection personally, but there’s a presence of him in the decor around her house that you find surprising considering their divorce. 

‘They remind me of the good times,’ Baran explained when you asked. ‘Kaveh’s father isn’t a bad man, we simply weren’t right for one another.’ 

‘Why not?’

She shrugged, sipped her mug of tea. ‘Time changes people. It hardens some, softens others. He hardened.’

‘You didn’t.’ 

She followed your gaze to a picture on an end table by the couch of her and her son in the park, Baran tending to Kaveh’s scraped knee while he sat on a swing. 

‘No,’ she said, ‘I didn’t.’ 

Now, you sit on the couch and look at that same picture. 

“Car sex, takeout, and you still look tense,” Baran says, sitting down next to you. “Is it time for round two, or are you finally ready to talk?” 

You sit back against the couch cushion, letting it bear your weight. “Trinity got in my head today.” 

“About what?” 

“Us,” you say. Then you fabricate a bit of the story, because you don’t want to tell Baran that Trinity knows about the two of you. “She was talking about her relationship with Yolanda, and what they have seems so much more strained than what we have. For them it’s just sex.” 

Baran crosses one leg over the other and looks down into her lap, anything to avoid looking at you. “What do you think we are?” 

“Not that.” 

“No?” 

You shrug and look up at the picture on the end table again. “How can you do casual relationships? Why do you want it that way?” 

Her tone is defensive. “I’ve already gone through one divorce, I don’t need to experience another. I’ve had my fill.” 

“Not every relationship is destined to fail.” 

“No,” she agrees, “but many do. And I like you, I really do, but if you’re having second thoughts about this…” 

“No,” you say quickly. “No, it’s fine. I was just wondering what casual actually entails, since we never really discussed it.” 

“We discussed that what happens between us is meant to be a way to decompress,” she says. “That’s all it was ever supposed to be. We were very clear about that in the beginning.” 

“But is that still what this is?” 

Baran still hasn’t looked at you. She suspects just like you do that what you have now is very much not a casual arrangement, but the thought of that scares her. After her divorce, she shut the door on the idea of any other long-term relationships. 

Then you came into her life. You with your softness and your care, you with your way of pulling at her heartstrings, you who she can secretly see herself growing old with — not that she plans on admitting it. 

“I’m not him,” you say quietly, and then she tenses and you know you’ve gone too far. You keep pushing anyway. “I’m not your ex—” 

“I’m not doing this with you,” she snaps, standing up and rounding the couch. “This isn’t a conversation we need to have.” 

“How is it not?” 

Baran shakes her head, unable to come up with a good answer but still not wanting to let you win. “It just isn’t. We aren’t anything worth talking about.” 

“Are you sure?” 

No, not in the slightest. “Yes.” 

“Do you want me to leave?” 

She doesn’t respond. 

“I can leave,” you say more firmly. “Say the word and I’ll go.” 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

Because I care about you, she wants to say, but she doesn’t. It would feel like letting you win, and by extension it would let in a little of the love for you that she’s been trying so hard to suppress. 

“It’s late,” she says simply. “I won’t make you leave, but I’m going to bed. You can sleep here.” 

“On the couch? Like we’re an old fucking married couple, and I’ve been banished to the couch for the night?” 

Shit. 

“That’s not what I was implying,” Baran tries, “but where the fuck else are you going to go tonight? I drove us here, your car is still at work, and I’m not letting you call an Uber this late. Sleep on the couch, sleep on the floor, sleep on the fucking roof!” 

You scoff. “Like Santa Claus?” 

“Santa Claus doesn’t sleep on the roof,” she deadpans. “He just parks his sleigh there.” 

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter.” 

She shakes her head, giving you one last assessing look before walking off. 

—

The drive to work the next morning is tense, quiet, and long. You don’t speak much and neither does she, both of you still being on edge about the night before, and once you get to the hospital you part ways quickly. 

It’s mid-morning when Dana finds Baran in the break room between patients, sipping coffee from a paper cup and trying desperately to keep her head above water. 

Dana doesn’t waste time with formalities. “So, what’s up with your girlfriend this morning?” 

Baran pauses for a moment, then lowers the cup down onto the table she sits at. “She’s not my girlfriend, Dana, and this is unprofessional.” 

“If she’s not your girlfriend,” Dana says, “then how did you know who I was talking about?” 

She doesn’t have a good answer to that. 

“She’s not acting like herself this morning,” Dana continues, then shrugs. “Thought I’d ask if you knew what was up with her.” 

“Her business is her business. I’m out of the picture.” 

Dana doesn’t believe that for a second. She’s seen the way you and Baran are together, the lingering touches and long glances, the way you’re the one person in this ED who can make Baran’s stern front falter. She keeps you steady and you keep her from driving herself into the ground, and that’s the way it has always been. 

It’s more than a relationship between colleagues, and it’s more than what exists between people who aren’t dating. 

“We get drinks after shifts sometimes,” Baran says. 

“No, I don’t buy that. I know you don’t drink.” 

For once, she wishes Dana was less perceptive. It would make this whole thing a lot easier. 

“We’re friends.” 

“Try again.” 

“It’s a way to take the edge off after long shifts,” Baran finally admits. “I take her to my place, she takes me to hers, we have dinner, we…” she trails off. “Really, it’s no one’s business.” 

Dana comes and sits down across from Baran, reaching a hand out to squeeze one of hers. “Listen, babe. Like it or not, you two are kinda the office romance around here. And you might not know that, but there are whispers, and all of us here… Well, to put it frankly, we see something I think you don’t want to.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Baran asks, but she knows exactly what it means. 

“It means you should go talk to her. I wouldn’t overstep like this, but she’s unfocused. She could hurt somebody.” 

“Then I’ll send her home early.” 

“Yeah? What about tomorrow, gonna tell her to stay home?” 

Baran hadn’t thought about that. 

“You pack each other’s lunches on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” Dana accuses. “Don’t think for a second that I don’t notice the matching pink containers in the fridge.” 

“I’ll talk to her.” 

“You better.” 

“I will,” Baran says, and tips back the rest of her coffee. 

— 

“Are you free tonight?” 

You sigh, sitting back in your chair. This is exactly how it started last night, how it always starts before Baran is about to invite you over. 

“No,” you say simply, without looking at her. You try to focus on the computer, the chart you’re finishing up. 

“Are you angry at me?” 

“No,” you say again, and it’s not really a lie. If anything, you’re angry at yourself. 

“Are you sure?” Baran asks. She steps closer to you, then taps your shoulder as if that might convince you to turn around. 

Unfortunately, the gesture is so childish that it makes you smile. You have to try extremely hard to keep beneath your cloud of doom and despair. 

“Why are you smiling?” 

“You’re funny,” you murmur, “that’s all.” 

She frowns. “How am I funny? I’m trying to talk to you.” 

You stand, stepping away from your chair. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

“I want you to come over,” Baran says. “I want to talk to you about last night.” 

“What is there to say? I fucked up, I shouldn’t have implied—” 

“Let’s not point fingers,” she interrupts. “You were pushy and you apparently don’t know anything about Santa Claus, but I can look past that. We need to talk, and I’m taking you home with me to do so. There’s only one hour left in the shift.” 

“My car is going to get stolen if I keep leaving it here overnight.” 

“Good,” she says. “I’m happy to keep driving you.” 

“Are you flirting with me right now? I thought we were fighting.” 

“We’re not fighting. We’re confused.” 

“I’m not confused,” you say. You step closer to her, keeping your voice low enough that only she can hear. “I know exactly what I want.” 

She takes in a breath as if to respond, but before she can a new patient is being rushed into the ED and she’s being called over to help. 

All she can do before leaving is reach out, give your shoulder a quick squeeze, and nod to the clock on the wall before rushing away. 

One hour, her look seems to say. 

—

“Trinity,” you say, “where’s your pet country bumpkin?” 

Trinity looks up from her charts. “Huckleberry? He’s off today. Went farming. Why?” 

“I’ve been calling him and he hasn’t picked up. I was gonna make him run an errand for me,” you tell her. “He seems like the kind of guy I could make do my bidding if I promised him a croissant.” 

“A croissant?” 

You nod, leaning back against the counter of the nurses’ station. “Baran and I are going to have a talk tonight. Her favorite cafe is close to your apartment, and I thought maybe I could start things off on the right foot if I met her in the parking garage with tea and a scone.” 

“And you wanted Huckleberry to go get them for you.” 

“Exactly.” 

Trinity shakes her head. “You’re fucked, aren’t you?” 

You scoff. “Me?” 

“You’re in love, you’re in love, you’re—” 

“Don’t you dare say it again,” you warn. 

“But it’s true.” 

You look down at the floor, sighing. You don’t understand why everything has to be so complicated. “Maybe.” 

Trinity rolls her eyes. “Don’t maybe me. You’re in love with your boss, and everyone can tell. You’re the office romance.” 

While you don’t admit it out loud, you know as well as she does that it’s true. 

— 

You meet Baran at her car. You get into the passenger seat and she takes the driver’s side, and you sit in silence for a while as you both come down from the day. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” you ask. “We’re both tired, and I don’t want this to end in an argument.” 

Baran reaches across the center console for your hand, entwining your fingers. She squeezes lightly. “This is a conversation we need to have.” 

“You didn’t think so last night.” 

“I’ve changed my mind,” she replies. There’s an edge to her voice. “Are you going to listen to me or not?” 

“Sure,” you nod. “Sorry, I’m a little…” 

“I know,” she says, and you believe her. “I understand.” 

You look down at your joined hands. You don’t know what to say, so you wait for her to take the lead. 

“I don’t want to love someone again,” she tells you. She sounds tired, defeated, like love is something she has been fighting back for a long time. “Like I said last night, I’ve already been through one divorce. That relationship was meant to last forever, and it didn’t.” 

You’re silent, giving her the time to form her admission piece by piece. 

“I don’t want to shake the life I’ve built for anyone,” Baran says. “I refuse to risk it for anyone.” 

You understand now. This is a breakup (if you can call it that) and you have ruined everything. You try to pull your hand from hers, but she holds on tight. 

“Anyone but you,” she finishes. She tips her head back and rests it against the seat, letting her eyes fall closed. “And I can’t believe I’m admitting to that, but I think we both know that what we have is hardly casual anymore.” 

You take a moment to let that sink in, releasing a breath. You are so relieved but at the same time still so nervous, still guilty for pushing and hoping she’s not jumping through hoops just because you want her to. 

“Are you sure about this?” you ask. “I don’t want to push you into anything you don’t want, or that you’re not ready for.” 

“I’m ready.” 

“You don’t have to be.” 

“I’m in love with you,” Baran blurts out, opening her eyes. Her voice is level, professional, as if she’s diagnosing an illness. “It’s not a feeling I’ve been open to embracing, but not letting it in seems to have worse consequences.” 

It’s all such a contrast to last night. You remember how lonely you felt lying there on the couch, wishing you were in bed with her, imagining her uttering the words she is now. 

“One of those consequences is hurting you,” she continues, “and that’s the last thing that I want, besides losing you.” 

She looks at you and you see the anxiety in her eyes that she’s trying so hard to disguise. You wonder if her heart is beating frantically in her chest like yours is, if she’s trying to keep her palms from sweating like you are, if she is stunned by the words coming out of her own mouth. 

“Do you have anything to say about that?” Baran asks. 

It comes to you like a reflex. “I love you, too.” 

She sits with that, you sit with it, the moment is soft and yours. 

“Good,” she nods. Her voice shakes and her hand still squeezes yours. “I’m glad we settled that.” 

“Look at me, Baran.” 

She does, and her eyes glisten. She allows you to reach a hand out just like you did last night to run the same path from her cheekbone down to her jaw, and just like last night she allows you to lean in and kiss her. 

“I want to see where this goes,” she murmurs against your lips afterward, then leans forward to rest her forehead against yours. “I want quiet nights in. I want to be able to sleep next to you through the night just for the sake of it. I want to introduce you to my son.” 

It sounds so beautiful. You cling to the vision of it, let her set the scene. There’s nothing else you could want more. 

“I want that, too.” 

Baran leans back in her seat and a small smile ghosts over her lips, wry and remembering. “Backseat?” 

You laugh at that, sitting back. It cuts through the tension. “Not here. We’ll get caught.” 

“Isn’t that half the fun?” 

“Can’t you wait fifteen minutes until we get to your place?” 

“Fifteen minutes,” she shakes her head. “More like thirty, forty, an hour if traffic is bad...” 

“I think you can make it.” 

Though she wants to argue some more, she doesn’t. She has all the time in the world with you now, and she intends to enjoy every second of it. 

— 

Stepping into her house after work again feels right. It feels like a natural progression, a step toward more, even though it’s only the second day in a row that you’ve come home with her. It’s undeniable that a different feeling has been attributed to what you have with her now. 

She sits down on the couch and releases a sigh, letting the day seep out of her. She holds onto so much when she’s at work, you can see it when you’re with her at the ED, the tension she carries constantly. 

“We should’ve picked up food again,” she says, and it concerns you a little because Baran Al-Hashimi is not a woman who surrenders to takeout two nights in a row. “The last thing I’m interested in doing right now is getting up to cook.” 

You slip onto the armrest beside her. You expect her to push you off, maybe make a comment about preserving the structural integrity of her furniture, but she doesn’t. “Let me cook for you.” 

Baran raises a brow. You’ve cooked for her before, simple meals after sex where the two of you make the most out of what she has in her fridge, but this is different. This is a more intimate form of care. 

“Stay here,” you tell her. “I’ll cook us something.” 

You start to move off the armrest but she pulls you back, wrestling maneuvering you into her lap. 

“Baran…” 

“In a second,” she says. “I’ll let you up in a second. Right now I want you here.” 

There’s softness in her voice that makes you stay right where you are. You wouldn’t move for anything, not unless she asked you to, and it doesn’t seem like she’s planning on that. 

Baran presses a kiss to the side of your neck, then leans up to press another to your jaw. She holds you close enough that you can feel the steady rise and fall of her chest against your body, and you let her guide your breathing into a similar rhythm. 

“I love you,” she says, because she can say it now. She has allowed herself to. 

You knew you had locked the door behind you when you left this morning. You even double checked it before walking off. Now hours later, you stared at the unlocked wooden door, anxiety creeping up your spine and filling out your chest. Possibility after possibility ran through your mind. Had you been robbed? Was someone lying in wait for you? One possibility lingered in the forefront of your thoughts- that it was her.

You took in a deep breath pushing the door open slowly. There was a light on. A light you distinctly remembered never turning on. You crossed into the space carefully, seeking for anything out of place. Nothing you noticed, except for a pair of boots neatly tucked against the wall. Her boots.

When you finally rounded the corner of the front foyer, there she was.

Natasha was seated at the empty table.

You stared at each other for moment of uncomfortable silence, varying emotions rushed through you all at once. Anger, frustration, longing, sadness… relief.

“What are you doing here?” You finally asked, voice quiet.

You thought your anger towards her had long dissipated. You hadn’t seen her for months. You had spent nearly every waking hour worrying about her whereabouts. Weeks over analyzing your entire relationship, wondering why you weren’t good enough for her to stay or reach out. Missing her presence while wondering if she was even alive.

“No hello?” She asked with soft laugh. She almost sounded nervous.

“There was no goodbye.” You crossed your arms across your chest. The self soothing tactic did little to nothing to calm your nerves. As angry as you were, you missed her so much the feeling left a near permanent ache in your chest.

Natasha took in a deep breath.

“Why are you here?” You asked her once more.

“You know why I’m here.”

You let out a hum of indifference.

“No, I don’t.” You still kept your voice calm.

You had eventually made peace with her disappearance. She’d been a fugitive. Leaving you with no warning, not even goodbye text at least.

“I’m-”

“Don’t.” You didn’t let her finish. You didn’t want to hear any apologies. She waited a moment before she spoke again and way she said your name almost cut through your resolve.

“Stop.” You shook your head. “Natasha, you need to leave.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” She confirmed.

“I’m not leaving, until we figure this out.”

“There is no we!” You explained. “There hasn’t been a we in months.”

“Please-”

“No.” Your eyes squeezed. “Get out. Please.”

“Detka…”

You breathed in through your nose, eyes starting to sting with tears.

“I need you to leave.” You continued to plead.

“But you don’t want me to.”

“Don’t twist my words, you know what I mean.”

“I won’t leave.” She shook her head.

“Well, you had no problem doing it before.” You shrugged.

The sarcasm was harsh and you hoped it cut deep. You watched the hand that rested on the table clench tightly into a fist, her chest expanding in a controlled breath.

“I had to go. It wasn’t safe.”

You felt your anger spike.

“Gee, thanks for leaving me where it was so unsafe.”

You crossed to the kitchen, defeated in the attempt to get her to leave. If she wanted to talk you would be honest.

“No.” She groaned in frustration, the fist was now pinching at her forehead. “I was on the run. It was unsafe for you to be around me. I only left to protect you.”

This time you did laugh. You could tell by the look on her face that Natasha was not amused. In fact her expression darkened as you laughed at her.

“I don’t care about whatever excuse you want to give me. It doesn’t change what happened.”

She bit down on her lips, looking like she was trying to control her emotions. You were so used to her concrete poker face, this was new.

“Please.” She begged.

“I can’t live without you.” Tears were gathering in her eyes. You shook your head, your own lips sealed tightly. If you even let your expression crack, you know that you would break down.

“You have been.” Your arms tightened across your chest.

Natasha huffed out a sharp laugh this time. She had not been living. Instead she spent months in isolation looking over her shoulder. Moving from place to place. Navigating multiple fake identities. Most of the time she found her thoughts on you- knowing you were safe in the space you both had once shared as a home. Each day away from you pulled more air from her lungs and crushed her heart.

“I was running!” She snapped. “But I was not running from you.”

“You could’ve fooled me.”

“Bullshit. You know me better than that.”

“Nat, you left!” You nearly shouted. “You left me. You abandoned me here all alone with no warning! Never returned my calls- or texts! You couldn’t even care enough to send a fucking post card from wherever the fuck you were!”

You breathed in a few heavy gulps of air.

“So don’t you come back here with that “I can’t live without you” bullshit, because we both know that’s a lie.”

Natasha was out of her seat, pulling a handgun from the back of her waistband.

“What are you-”

“You think I’m lying?”

You stepped back a hair, lower back making contact with the counter behind you. You didn’t think your words were that harsh. Certainly not harsh enough to warrant a weapon. Except she didn’t raise it to you like you outlandishly thought. She clicked off the safety, loading the chamber and to your absolute horror- Natasha placed the barrel of the gun to her right temple.

“Natasha…” you said carefully, voice shaky with panic breaths.

“If you really think that…”

“Natasha, put that down.” You begged.

“I’ll pull the trigger right now.”

Her voice didn’t waiver. This finally cracked the dam of emotions you had been holding back. Tears sprang up into your eyes, breath hitching nervously.

“Stop it!”

“You think I can live without you, right?” Her voice raised. “You think I won’t do it?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, maybe to try and see if you could wipe the situation out of existence. When you opened them again there was no change. She was still there holding the gun.

“No!” You shook out your head. “No! Stop it!”

Natasha lowered the weapon and you finally took a breath of relief. The restitution was short lived.

You watched in distress as she crossed into the kitchen. You stayed in place as she approached, still backed up against the counter. She’d reach you no matter what way you turned to.

Natasha was fast to reach you, soon standing toe to toe. Before you could react she was shoving the gun into your hands and wrapping hers around your own. You felt your body recoil as she was pushing your finger to the trigger. You tried to fight off her hold while pulling your arm back, but the counter only restricted your movement. Her hand was securely gripped around yours, preventing you from letting go. The other hand placed itself on top of the barrel, steadying the weapon in place from your shaking hand.

She placed the barrel of the gun directly over her heart. The weapon shook rapidly in your shared grip from your nerves, which only made you more nervous in turn. By now you were fully crying, ugly sobs bubbling up out of your throat.

“Do it.” She urged.

You didn’t utter a word, only your ragged breathing was audible. It fanned across Natasha’s face, mingling with her own disturbingly calm paced breaths. Her face showed no inkling of deceit, expression collected and serious. The only hint of emotion came from the glassiness of her eyes. She called your name again.

“Pull. The fucking. Trigger.”

“No.” You sniffled, biting down on your wobbling lip.

“Why not?” She asked.

You let out a strangled laugh of frustration.

“I can’t!” You shouted.

“Yes you can.” She urged. “You wanted me gone.”

“Fuck! Natasha this is fucking crazy!” You tried to pry your hand out from under hers, but she was stronger.

“You need to- please- you’re being crazy!”

“Am I?”

Her placid demeanor only made you more upset. How could she be? With a loaded gun pressed to her chest and your shaking finger fighting hers to lift off the trigger. She was so calm, while you were barely able to keep yourself standing on your shaking knees.

“Yes! Yes!” You cried, tears still rolling down your cheeks. She shrugged a little, expression painted with a disbelieving nonchalant look.

“And I thought you didn’t want me here?”

You shook your head.

“I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t live without me?”

You nodded before your head lolled forward in defeat, shoulders still shaking with each sob that ripped from your chest.

“I know.” Her voice was full of sympathy. “It’s okay, I know.”

Her hard grip on your hand loosened, immediately you were pulling your hand back and off the gun. Natasha’s hand on top of the weapon held it stable, while her other hand secured it and placed it on the counter behind you. With the offending object now gone from your sight, your body finally gave up. Your unstable stance crumbled, knees buckling and arms still trembling. Natasha was fast to embrace you, arms looping around you tucking your head into her shoulder. You wrapped your arms around her tightly, fearing that if you let go she may disappear on you again.

You cried into her arms, emotions you had bottled up for months finally breaking through. You missed her more than you wanted yourself to admit. You missed her presence. You missed her touch. You missed her smell. You missed her.

Your fingers gripped tighter onto her jacket as your thoughts tried to sort themselves out. You knew you didn’t want to continue to live without her. You couldn’t do it. It caused you more pain and confusion that it took a gun to her head to realize how much she still meant to you.

Natasha’s hand soothed over your back as you cried while hushing you softly.

“Hey,” she cooed, a pleased smile gracing her features. “It’s all over now. I’m not going anywhere. I’m never going to leave you ever again.”

I wanted to post more this month but never finished any drafts to completion… yikes anyways.

mowalsh - maggots for brains

“Sam? Sam, what’s wrong?”

Samira jolts with the sound of the bathroom door clanking loudly shut behind her, the bolt going across the lock.

She hadn’t expected Emery to follow her out of the movie, let alone follow her into the theatre bathroom. It usually took entire worlds shifting to distract Emery from a film, especially in a movie theatre, but here she was, stood in the bathroom with her hands on her hips and her eyes full of concern.

“Samira?”

“I don’t…I don’t…” Samira kept her face turned away, dragging her hoodie sleeve across her eyes. “I’m…I’m sorry-, this is your day, I don’t…”

She was so bad with words when she was upset.

She always hated crying in front of Emery, always felt so embarrassed at herself for acting like such a child. It felt like being in middle school again, the little cry-baby seventh-grader who needed her hand held on her first day at a new school. It wasn’t okay, she was bigger now, older.

She knew better than to cry in the middle of a public bathroom like this.

Emery stepped forward and just like the first day they’d met, took her hand and spoke to her kindly.

“What’s the matter?”

It’s the gentleness in her tone that makes her break and brings on the waterworks. Samira turns and immediately crumples, letting her best friend wrap her arms around her and rub a soothing hand up and down her back as she sobs.

“Sam, you’re trembling.”

“I don’t…I don’t like it, I’m sorry! It-it’s too scary, I don’t like it. I don’t want to keep watching.”

Emery’s hand slows but doesn’t stop soothing. “The film? You don’t like it?”

“No, I don’t, I’m sorry. I-I…I know it’s your day and everything but it’s just too-…it’s too scary, Em, I hate it.”

She expects Emery to laugh at her. She wouldn’t blame her if she did, the whole situation was pretty ridiculous.

They’d watched the previous five Saw films together, Emery being obsessed with them for reasons beyond Samira’s comprehension, and Samira hadn’t had any trouble getting through them before.

Maybe it had been the comfort of Emery’s bedroom when they’d watched it at her house, the soft strength of Emery’s arms wrapped around her frame when she’d buried her fears into her rainbow-coloured hoodie, maybe that had taken away the real fear, calmed her nerves before they could even bubble beneath the surface.

Here, she didn’t have that.

Here she had sheer darkness and the tickets Emery’s brother had scored for them wrapped tightly in her clenched fists as she flinched away at the blood and guts.

Emery doesn’t laugh at her.

She stands back and smiles, not with cruel humour but with a soft, tender kindness that she seems to use only for Samira. It’s uncharacteristic, even for a sixteen-year-old on her birthday, and unique, only for her. Samira worries she doesn’t deserve it.

Emery reaches up and wipes away the tears slipping down Samira’s cheeks with her thumb. “I’m sorry.” She says sincerely. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Samira shakes her head. “No, no, it’s not your fault. I’m just…I wanted to be brave for your birthday so you could enjoy it and I-I…I know you wanted to see this and I…I’m sorry, Em. I can go home or-“

Emery pulls her into another hug. “Don’t be silly. We can blow this place.”

“What about your movie?”

“Pfft, I can get Warren to get me a copy when it comes out properly, alright? I don’t care.”

“Emery-“

“I don’t want a birthday where you’re upset, okay?”

Samira hates that Emery is so kind to her. She’s tried to push her away before, tried to make Emery leave her alone at school so she can fit in better with the popular kids, but Emery just won’t have it. She likes Samira, she says, the others aren’t worth a damn.

“Do you want to do something else?”

Samira sniffs. “What?”

Emery lets her go and grins. “We’ve got the whole day. What do you want to do?”

She lets out a damp huff. “Emery, it’s your birthday. We should be doing something you like.”

Emery just shrugs. “I like doing whatever you like. We could…go bowling…or swimming…or we could go home and watch another movie, a nicer one…uh…we could-“

“-get ice cream?”

The suggestion feels a little juvenile, like they’re thirteen again not fifteen and sixteen, but Emery’s eyes crinkle and she smiles, big and wide like Christmas has just come early and Samira feels a little less guilty for ruining her birthday.

“Or get ice cream.” She agrees. “Rusty’s?”

Samira nods and wipes at her face again. “Sorry.” She repeats, small and soft, like she’s expecting a slap.

Emery simply shakes her head and intertwines their fingers together, smiling at her with her face far too close for friends as platonic as they are. She squeezes her hand.

you adjust the baseball cap on your head, your eyes scanning the lot in front or you. you shrink down in the driver seat of your car—your stolen car—or rather “borrowed” since natasha allowed you to take it for the little game you were playing.

your girlfriend was many things. a hunter, you didn’t believe was one of them, but she seemed eager to prove you wrong when you proposed a game of chase.

did she have certain skills given her line of work? yes. that, and a lot of money, but you refused to think she was capable of finding you in a city as busy and crowded as this one.

here were the ground rules: you had a 30 minute head start, you had to stay within a 20 mile radius, send “check-in” texts every hour, and she had 24 hours to find you. simple enough.

to make things fair, she disabled the tracker on the borrowed car you were driving and you turned off your phone location. you didn’t dare say this to her face before the game began, but you highly doubted her ability to find you.

peering at the dashboard clock, the numbers flashed 2:07pm. you left the house at 9am. five hours without so much as a glimpse of her car within your general vicinity had you feeling a little cocky.

you continue sipping on your red bull, scanning the grocery store parking lot for any signs of natasha. it felt silly because despite feeling confident in your ability to evade her, you still found yourself paranoid anytime you were stationary or got out of the car. there was something so thrilling about it though. for the first couple of hours, you played it safe and stayed within the confines of your vehicle.

now though, you didn’t stay in one spot for more than 20 minutes. you drove to several spots in town, parking close to the front and walking through stores, boutiques and shops. your heart pounded in your chest every time. your eyes would scan the crowds for red hair, your stomach turning inside out whenever you saw a flash of red but then having it turn out to not be her.

your phone buzzes in the cup holder. you pick it up without a second thought.

You’re getting comfortable.

your heart skips a beat, breath hitching as you reread those 3 simple words. you look up again, scanning the lot—nothing. not her. not her car. you relax only slightly.

i’ve been comfortable this whole time.

you send the text, not wanting to appear phased. you look up again, skimming through the small groups of people exiting and entering the store. no red hair and no otherwise obvious evidence that she was here. your phone buzzes again.

Is that right?

you scoff at her arrogance. you could practically hear the text as you read it. you don’t reply, not wanting to engage when the stakes suddenly felt a little higher.

the text was pretty generic. she could have sent that from anywhere without actually having eyes on you. at least that’s what you told yourself.

you take the last gulp of your red bull, crumpling the can in your hand. with a renewed sense of determination, you decide to head to your next spot. as you pull out of the lot, you swear you see her. for a second, you’re sure. the angle of the car, the way it’s parked. watching. before you can zero in on the sight to be certain, a blur of cars driving in both directions blocks your view—and then it’s gone.

3 more hours pass. the clock now reads 5:30pm. your stomach grumbles, protesting the fact that all you had emptied into it today was a red bull and decaf coffee. you were so on edge for most of the day, you couldn’t bring yourself to eat. just when you would finally relax into your seat, you thought you saw a glimpse of her, or her car or she sent a text. it was a constant panic loop you couldn’t pull yourself out of.

your car passes several restaurants, your stomach growling once again at the prospect of being ignored any longer. you sigh, turning right into a small strip mall near the edge of your 20 mile radius.

you pull into the drive thru of a fast food place, barely glancing at the menu as you order whatever was listed towards the top.

you park at the very end of the strip mall, backing into your spot. this way, you had the whole view of the parking lot. the nice part about this time of year was that the sun didn’t set until 7pm, not fully disappearing until nearly 8. good lighting was useful.

you crack open your chicken nuggets, biting into it without dipping it into any sauce. you didn’t want to open one in case you had to make a mad dash out of the lot. you were sure natasha would not be happy if you spilled sweet and sour sauce all over her console.

Mcdonalds? We haven’t had that in awhile.

you stop chewing your bite. your eyes zero in on your phone screen before it times out and turns black. she had been playing with you like this all day.

lucky guess.

you manage to type out after a couple of minutes. you knew she was onto you.

I hope you’re not making a mess. Third nugget and no sauce? Disappointing.

you grumble. if she was really here, why doesn’t she just end it now? the fact that she was toying with you was equally as frustrating as it was arousing.

where are you? you send with a huff.

you wait five minutes for a response before you realize she’s not going to answer.

the sun was gone now, replaced by a crescent moon and stars. when you looked at your phone before exiting the car, the numbers read 9:17pm.

you had been driving aimlessly for the last few hours, unsure where to park or where to go. you had half a mind of returning back home. you figured natasha wouldn’t expect you to go there, but that felt too much like giving up, and you refused to quit. what made this even more maddening was the fact that she had been completely silent for the last 4 hours. she said nothing to your hourly check-in texts. no taunting, no teasing, and certainly no surrender. it was because of that, you decided to brave the wild and step out of the car for the first time that evening.

you’re now walking through a mall. even though it was a little late, it was still pretty crowded given that it was a saturday. you hoped that would work in your favor if she did find you here.

you shop in a few stores, perusing the racks and politely declining when the employees ask to start a changing room for you. you even stop by a little store where they sell puppies. they were so stinking cute, all sleepy and snuggly after a long day of having people come look at them. you wished you could take all of them home with you.

a smell catches your attention. a sweet, mouth watering smell that could only belong to…

wetzels pretzels. your favorite.

you grin to yourself, picking up the pace as you walk to the end of the line of stores.

“hi, what can i get for you today?” the employee behind the counter asks. you already knew exactly what you wanted.

“can i get an order of the cinnamon sugar pretzels bites?” you pull out your wallet from your bag, sure to grab your own credit card instead of the one natasha gave you. you wouldn’t be so stupid as to pay for something on her account when she was probably monitoring for any purchases you made.

you thank the employee and grab your pretzel bites, turning to continue walking aimlessly around the mall. at least now you had a yummy snack.

your phone buzzes. you pull it out of your pocket and read the incoming text.

Second floor.

Just passed H&M.

you pause, stopping in your tracks. you stare at the words for several more seconds before slowly turning to confirm you did indeed just pass H&M. she was here.

you swallow thickly, the pretzel sliding down your now dry throat. you turn around, expecting to see her standing off the distance. you see a flicker of red, but then it’s gone. your eyes dart around anywhere you can see—over the balcony, across the way, to the right, to the left. you focus in on a eyeglass store downstairs across from you. peering over the railing, you see a woman with red hair tied in a loose bun resting at the nape of her neck. her back is to you. you’re still not sure if it’s natasha.

your eyes drift to her hands as she runs a finger along the rows of glasses neatly hanging on the stand. your gaze lifts, settling on a small rectangular mirror.

you gasp.

green eyes pierce through tipped-down sunglasses.

it’s her.

she really is here.

you watch her lips curve into a smirk.

she’s not turning around. do you run?

your phone buzzes again.

Now run.

Don’t get lost.

you don’t let yourself think about it a second longer. you turn and walk as fast as you can to blend into a crowd of people, hoping you can lose her.

you take the nearest exit, high tailing it to your car. you glance behind several times, expecting to catch natasha off in the distance. you never do.

you fumble through your bag for the car keys. your hands are shaking, your heart pounding. you drop them twice before managing to press the unlock button.

you make quick work of starting the car and pulling out of your parking spot. now where to go?

you drive around aimlessly for what felt like the 100th time that day. where would natasha think you wouldn’t go? what’s the last place she’d expect to find you?

the abandoned parking garage off of 7th and north point.

it was enclosed and had multiple exits. you figured it’d be a lot harder for her to remain incognito if she found you there—and if she did, you had many ways to escape.

you do a u-turn, heading towards the garage. when you get there, you notice a few cars sprinkled throughout the first floor. you weren’t surprised as it was a common make-out spot for teenagers.

you drive up the ramp to the top floor and park close to one of the exits. thick concrete columns break up the space, blocking clean sightlines. still…you’d see her if she came up here.

right?

you check your phone. no texts.

it was now just past 10pm.

13 hours.

you should feel proud for making it this far. halfway.

you don’t.

your skin hasn’t stopped prickling all day. your stomach’s been in knots for hours.

and now, something shifts.

it’s subtle. barely there.

but it’s enough.

goosebumps rise along your arms. your heart stutters.

you close your eyes and take a couple of steadying breaths.

she’s not here. you’re safe.

you repeat it in your head three times. it doesn’t stick.

you need air.

you glance at the clock one more time before killing the engine and stepping out.

the garage is quiet.

your footsteps echo as you move toward the far edge where there are some stairs and the open cut in concrete so you can overlook the levels below.

you exhale through puffed out cheeks, trying to shake off your paranoia.

it clings.

you walk a few more steps and then stop.

…..

was that another set of footsteps?

you turn quickly, scanning the empty rows.

nothing. no movement. no cars. no one.

something shifts behind you. small, but loud enough to capture your attention.

you turn.

red hair.

you see it.

you take two more steps forward, natasha coming fully into view.

leaning against a concrete column. composed. controlled.

“y’know… an abandoned garage is no place for a little girl like you to be.”

you freeze, only half believing she was really here in front of you.

“i’m a little disappointed.” she pushes off the column, stalking towards you. “you’ve been so predictable.”

“what?” you manage, your voice thinner than you intended. your brain running on adrenaline all day now feels slow—heavy.

she stops right in front of you. close. her hands stay at her sides as her gaze drags slowly over you.

“i wanted more of a challenge.” her full lips turn into a small pout—completely out of place for her.

“what?” you echo, incredulous now. “it’s been all day.”

natasha’s eyes darken. her expression shifts to something more sharp—cold, even.

“oh, sweetheart…you don’t really think i didn’t know where you were all this time?”

you shudder—just slightly.

she notices. she notices everything.

she chuckles, low and quiet. your heart kicks back into a sprint.

she reaches out slowly.

that’s when you run.

your footsteps pound against the concrete, echoing too loud in the empty space.

the car—

you reach it, fumbling for the handle, yanking the door open—

it stops.

her hand catches it.

she’s right behind you.

“this was your plan?”

her voice is right at your ear. close enough to make you shiver.

you suck in a breath, trying to twist away.

you don’t get far.

her hand slides to the edge of the door, pushing it shut with an easy, controlled motion.

the sound clicks louder than it should.

final.

your back hits the car before you even realize she’s moved you there.

one hand plants beside your head against the metal, the other settling at your waist. her touch is light but unyielding. not rough.

just…there. boxing you in.

you freeze.

she doesn’t.

she leans in slightly, close enough you can feel the heat of her, the steady rhythm of her breathing—calm. unchanged.

it was like she didn’t spend the last thirteen hours chasing you around the city.

like she knew exactly how this would end.

“thirteen hours.” she murmurs, sounding thoughtful.

she pauses.

“i was expecting more.”

her fingers shift just slightly at your waist, dipping underneath the hem of your shirt.

you know you’re not going anywhere now.

you don’t move. you don’t think you can.

her hand lingers there, warm against your skin—like she has all the time in the world.

like she always did.

her fingers begin to draw small, lazy lines along your hip.

“you really thought you were ahead.” she murmurs, quieter. closer.

“it’s almost…cute.” she adds. not quite mocking, but almost.

you can’t speak. no coherent thoughts are forming in your mind.

“i hope you had fun though..” she pauses. her nails scratch along your skin.

your pulse stutters.

“because it’s my turn now.” she says quietly.

you whimper, the sound coming out before you can stop it.

she leans in slowly, a smirk playing on her lips as her eyes glance at your parted ones.

you think she means to kiss you, but at the last second, she turns her head and presses her lips against your jaw.

her free hand travels up your body. she grabs your jaw, her grasp more firm than before as she tilts your head up. her lips make their way down to your throat.

your breathing is ragged, too loud in this big empty space.

she sinks her teeth into your neck.

you gasp, your knees buckling at the sensation. the hand on your hip holds you steady. you’re not going anywhere.

she soothes the sting with her hot tongue, only lingering there for a moment before pulling back just an inch.

she holds your chin between her thumb and pointer finger. her eyes burn into yours. there’s an intensity there, like something is about to come uncaged.

she slides a hand around you, opening the door to the backseat.

“watch your head.” she guides you to the opening, pushing you down into the car with a hand resting against the back of your head so you don’t bump it.

you follow her lead, too invested in the game now to protest.

you lay back across the seats. natasha’s movements are slow as she ducks her head under the hood and climbs into the car.

it’s a small, confined space but between the warmth of natasha’s body above you and the cushion of the seats beneath you, you were fine.

“did you do as i asked this morning?” she asks. you quickly run through your morning before you left to begin the chase.

what did she ask again?

it was…

oh—

“yes.” you nod your head, swallowing thickly. you feel heat pooling between your legs.

“so, when i take these off, i’m not going to see any panties—is that right?” she asks, her fingers skimming across the exposed skin of your stomach where your shirt had ridden up.

you shake your head, affirming her question.

without another word, her fingers hook into your waistband to pull your pants down over your hips. she adjusts her body so she’s half sitting the furthest away from your head, just by your feet.

she discards your pants to the side, exposing your dampening core.

you press your thighs together. you were embarrassed at the prospect of her discovering just how much you were enjoying this power dynamic.

“open your legs, let me see.” it wasn’t a question.

your legs part. cool air tickles your core and inner thighs. your cheeks burn at the exposure, but you still don’t protest.

natasha’s fingers tease along your leg. her journey is slow—unhurried. when she gets to your thigh, she lingers there, drawing invisible patterns on your sensitive skin.

she gives the same treatment to your other thigh. occasionally, she massages the fleshiest part, so close to your core but still too far away.

you exhale shakily, beginning to squirm. you can feel your arousal dripping down your slit.

natasha is silent this whole time, merely taking in your reactions with a smooth, almost thoughtful expression.

you were almost angry at the amount of control. almost.

her palm slides from hip to hip and then dips down, the heel of her palm just grazing your swollen clit.

you chase the sensation, your hips rising off the seats beneath you.

her hand retreats, going back to teasing your thighs.

you’re about to protest when her fingers begin to tease your lips. she uses her pointer and middle finger to trace down your vulva.

you feel her apply pressure, spreading your lips so she can now clearly see how wet you’ve become.

you glance at her face, desperately hoping for more. more touch, more of a reaction—anything.

she tilts her head to the side, her gaze never straying from what her hand was doing.

she runs the tip of her finger down your slit, gathering some wetness at your opening before sliding back up. she rubs a gentle circle around your clit, your breath hitching at the feeling.

she adjusts her hand. she holds your lips apart with her thumb and middle finger, her pointer swirling tiny little circles right over your most sensitive spot.

she stays quiet.

like she feels no need to fill the silence with words.

like there’s no need to continue to tell you how predictable you are—how well she knows you. your body. your mind. your habits.

she keeps up those steady circles, maintaining the same speed and pressure. that familiar feeling begins to bloom in your lower belly, a sign of impending release.

your body bucks into her hand, your breaths coming in little gasps.

you feel yourself getting closer and closer. your eyes drift closed as you feel the coil about to snap.

she stops.

you open your eyes. she cleans off her fingers with her mouth. you see a glimpse of her pink tongue darting out to taste your arousal.

you squirm at the sight.

she’s watching your expression now, no doubt wanting you to beg for her.

you pout, your hands reaching for her.

you’ll take anything, so long as she doesn’t stop.

“i know, baby.” she speaks for the first time in several minutes. it’s like she can read your mind.

“you wanna cum, don’t you?” she croons empathetically.

you nod your head, a pout still on your lips.

she starts to unzip her pants, pulling them down over her hips. a faux cock springs free, bobbing in the air just between you.

she grabs onto it, stroking it slowly as if the appendage were actually attached to her body.

you watch, mesmerized.

“you will.” she declares, lining herself up with your sopping entrance.

“i’ve been waiting for this all fucking day.”

she enters you in one swift motion. you gasp in surprise, your palms bracing against her hips. the stretch was bordering on unpleasant.

she doesn’t give you time to adjust, seeming to finally have had enough with patience.

“you can take it, baby. come on.” she grunts, thrusting into you.

she fucks you, slow and deep. each thrust moves not only your body, but also the car.

you moan with each move of her hips. you’re being loud, but neither of you really care.

every stroke felt more sensitive than the last. the ridges and veins in her cock rub so perfectly against every spot.

“no matter how far you run,” she pauses, grunting as she picks up the pace.

“you’ll always end up right here.”

thrust.

“beneath me.”

thrust.

“just like this.”

your hands desperately clammer up her body, seeking purchase anywhere you can grab. you’re so close, you just need a little bit more.

“i’ll always find you.” she growls, her grip tightening on your hips.

“always.”

her pace quickens again. your jaw goes slack as moans and obscenities fill the space of the car.

“say it.” she growls again, a hand coming up to wrap possessively around your throat.

“you’ll always find me!” you sob, your eyes wet with unshed tears of pleasure. your thighs begin to shake, your muscles tightening.

“that’s it.” she praises, her fingers reaching down to pinch your clit. it takes mere seconds before the coil finally snaps and you’re blinded with white hot pleasure.

your back arches, legs shaking as you cum—hard. she doesn’t stop fucking you until she follows suit, cumming with a whispered “fuck” right next to your ear.

she collapses on top of you.

well, not fully. still though, the weight of her is comforting as you both catch your breath.

your hands gently stroke along her arms and you reach a hand up to tuck some stray hair behind her ear.

natasha swipes some wayward hair out of your face as well. she strokes her thumb along your bottom lip.

“‘tasha?” you ask gently, your glassy eyes gazing into hers.

“hmm?” she replies.

“i love you.” you tell her. you really mean it.

“and…”

pause.

“i think we should do this again sometime.”

natasha chuckles at that. you were always so eager to play games with her.

“we can do it again. as long as you promise to do better next time.” she teases, though actually, you’re sure she means it.

“i will.” you mean that too.