eliza

but ellie rode the rapids far too long. she went with the same flow as many others—not her own, only because she didn't quite understand what she needed. and it was detrimental to her after long.

perhaps she swam too far and ended up in the wrong river mouth. perhaps she trapped herself, followed others down a different path than what was meant for her.

the lake she had found herself in was shallow. it lacked room for growth. she couldn't swim like that. she could only dream of finding something bigger.

she didn't realise until it was too late, but this lake, in which she was trapped inside with a brain-eating amoeba, had corroded her.

it was when she was about to propose. no amount of thought she had over her future with cat could kill the growing doubt in her gut. see, ellie had done exactly what she thought she was supposed to.

she was close to finishing her bachelor's degree. she lived with her long-term girlfriend, she had a ring set aside. all she needed was to pop that question and her life would be picture perfect.

she'd be married, and starting law school—a family and a career on the horizon.

that is the way life flows.

freedom was very important to ellie. it always had been, but now? she's rusted. set in her ways and as rigid as they come—and she honestly thinks it is better.

if before, she had been stuck in a shallow lake, now, she's in a stagnant little bubble.

and when she dares to think that maybe she is missing something, she finds it easy to stop it by reminding herself what once weighed her down.

she isn't in denial. she isn't pessimistic, nihilistic, or whatever else people say when they try to 'save' her. she's realistic.

the seeds were sown when she was very young.

if love was real, maybe ellie would have known her biological parents. her birth had been the end of her mother, and her father was nowhere to be found. why wasn't he there? did he know that he had a child in the first place? and why not?

if love was real, maybe sarah's mother would still be in the picture. she and joel were left in the dark when she was small, and when ellie came along, they seemed to have been over it for a long time.

because people are selfish. they do things to get things to benefit themselves. casual sex, ghosting, and all sorts; in the end, it comes down to the need to be free.

ellie never found herself understanding until she had been dating cat for a few months. but she was selfish. she wanted touch. she wanted belonging.

she doesn't know what cat wanted out of her her.

but she doesn't care what cat got from her.

what ellie got was a lesson. a long, drawn-out lesson that had grey hairs sprouting from the root at the ripe age of twenty, but it was a lesson, nonetheless.

they were doomed from the beginning.

ellie can admit she wasn't thinking when she asked cat to be her girlfriend. it started with a camping trip in which they ended up sleeping beside each other, and it should have ended there.

but it was too convenient.

in days she had asked cat on several dates. she was pretty, they had fun that night in her tent, and cat was clearly interested as well. to ellie, it was a no-brainer. a girl in her circle of friends was into her, so she took the opportunity as it arose.

and soon days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and incompatibility had began wearing their relationship. one by one, friends began to disappear from their increasingly busy lives, and ellie was stuck.

fight after fight, breakup after make up, the excitement of a relationship died.

but a relationship needs to leap over the occasional hurdle to work. nothing is without its hiccups. that's what she was told.

ellie could predict when something was going to cause a problem. she spent time away from home on those days. that time away caused many more a problem.

"where the hell were you all day?" cat asked. it was more of a demand, her chest heaving. her brows were pulled taut, lips shrivelled.

"it's finals week. i was studying." ellie shilled the same excuses every time. studying, spending time with family, yada yada—except, truthfully, it was always the former. the times she had seen joel or sarah were few and far between at the time.

"you can't have been studying all fucking day!" cat yelled. ellie sighed and looked down at the table. here we go again. she'd think to the ring hiding in the closet upstairs like a ball and chain. "you've gotta be cheating! who are you seeing?"

she tried to keep cat happy. it seemed a truly impossible feat.

the ring? yeah, it wasn't expensive enough.

the wedding? well, when it was over, she complained that it wasn't grand enough. they slept in separate beds that night.

she remembers thinking about what joel had said to her before cat walked down the aisle.

"are you sure you wanna do this, kiddo? there's still time to—"

"i know what i'm doing, yeah."

"alright. the ball and chain it is."

that day set a precedent for the marriage as a whole. ellie would spend more nights in the guest bed than her own. she'd lie awake and think of her father's words. he wasn't overly cautious. he was just seeing it for what it was.

a failure.

she'd been up all night searching for lawyers for weeks, musing over the process. she wasn't far from finishing law school herself by the time she'd began thinking of divorce.

ellie thought she had done everything that she was supposed to do. she sought love, and it backfired.

that led her to jesse's office.

jesse was the final push that she needed.

not only a great network for her going into her last year of school, but a new friend. someone humble, easygoing.

ellie left home without a trace but the papers and proceeded to go drinking with jesse that very night. come midnight, she had fallen on the couch at joel's place and slept lifelessly until noon the next day.

jesse received countless calls and emails from cat once informed that all communication was to go through him first. they were ignored. letters sent were chuckled at before being put through the shredder, every drunken 'you can't leave me!' like proof that ellie was making the right decision.

life had somewhat of a flow again.

somewhat.

ellie felt stuck after it all—she still feels stuck. something is in the way, she can barely move forward. the gears are locked in place beneath a layer of rust, unable to turn. 

she still finds that the character she played in her youth is missing or tarnished. she can't bring it back; it doesn't feel authentic. but what ellie has learned since being an idiotic teenager seems to only hold her back.

"you okay kiddo?"

"huh, yeah." ellie raises her chin, eyes tearing from the ground and to joel. "fine. why?"

with nothing to do on weekends these days, ellie spends hours inside joel's workshop, where he busies himself on his carpentry. she studies him, and flinches when he bangs his hammer against the side of his project.

the older man stops, a slow and inconspicuous look forming as he turns to ellie—though it's nothing like he intended. that obvious, quirked up eyebrow is something she'd laugh at normally, but now it isn't funny. it never is funny when he's onto her.

"well, you know your old man's here to talk when you've got a problem." because joel knows ellie. and he knows that no amount of pressing will make her talk.

ellie huffs through her nose and crosses her arms over her chest, forcing the corner of her lips up. she leans against a workbench, shaking her head. "neh, it's okay. just a difficult case at work on my mind. what're you working on?"

joel stands up straighter, hands on his hips. his back cracks and he grunts lowly. "mr and mrs parks needin' a table for their grandson. it's a wedding present, or somethin'."

ellie gives a nod in response, eyes trailing away for something to see that isn't joel's surveyance. he knows, just like she does, that what's on her mind isn't work.

because god, no, it isn't work. that one ridiculous word—wedding—it makes her heart murmur. her mind flashes with glimpses of your curious gaze on friday night, your blissed out smiles, and then your quivering lips when leaving yesterday afternoon.

it's you. every waking moment, her mind whispers your name like a prayer, or a punishment, she isn't so sure. she'd like to forget. it's given her a headache of the worst kind, one connected to her heart. every beat, every thump, so heavy it makes her head pound.

it's been long since anything really affected her like that.

"here." joel pushes a sanding block into ellie's palms and guides her to part of the project. "make yourself useful for me. off your ass."

ellie bites the inside of her cheek and nods quickly, taking the work as told and beginning to sand down some wood. she rolls her sleeves up and the workshop is briefly quiet.

"the parks are good people," joel comments. "i ain't ever seen two oldies as spritely as them. i ask 'em what's the secret, you know i'm gettin' up there myself, and—"

"tsk, you're not that old," ellie says, looking up. "they're old. they were already old even when we first fuckin' moved here. and it's been years."

"now, now, you ain't heard me getting out of bed in the mornings these days," joel says, chuckling. "that's old. you'll understand one day."

"whatever, old man."

"they always say the secret to their kinda happiness is each other."

ellie scoffs. "sure. that's cheesy."

"they seem to be just about the only people on this earth i think are really in love," joel says offhandedly. "you know the story with them, don't you?"

"do i care what the story is with them?" she retorts. her hand slips, scrapes against a hard edge and she huffs, blowing some of the dust away from the wood. joel watches, more awake to ellie's fumbling and grumbling. "love doesn't exist," she mutters.

joel hesitates before giving a small shrug. "if that's what you think then so be it."

"if you saw the kinda shit i'm seeing at work all the time, you'd definitely understand."

because there is no greater job for someone like ellie than that of handling divorce proceedings. tending to arguably the most severe and tiresome kind of heartbreak, working out the worst of the wrinkles in every scorned page in a love story. the negotiation of assets, the battle for custody.

"alright." joel looks ellie up and down, the cold frown on her face contrasting the trouble in her nonverbal language. the rigid movement, hunched posture, and flickering gaze all point to some other kind of turmoil—whatever it is, it's something that provokes nervousness in ellie. "is this really about something at work?"

ellie sighs, quickly holding a hand up to halt the conversation. "it's fine."

if she ignores it, it will go away. simple as that.

"okay." joel pipes down, but he keeps an eye on her for the rest of the hour. and it passes by in a blur.

the seconds fly by and soon enough ellie's running out the door after remembering she had planned lunch with jesse—now she's thirty-five minutes late.

a sorry look crosses over her face when she speeds into the lounge, the man sitting comfortably with his phone pressed to his ear. ellie pulls out her chair to catch his attention. "hey, fuck man, sorry—joel— you know. he needed some help at the shop."

jesse looks up, chuckling as he puts his phone down on the table again and runs a hand through his ebony hair. ellie mirrors the action herself, trying to focus less on the way the world spins around her like she's on a merry-go-round in hell.

"not a problem," he replies, "but i've gotta go pick up little spud for the afternoon. you're welcome to join us for ice cream."

"oh. oh, yeah, sure," ellie says. this day—no, no, this weekend has been the most exhausting of her life. it's all a great mess, and spending all of yesterday pretending that she wasn't hot and sick for you has burned her out. but she presses on, following jesse out of the lounge, his pace unusually too fast for ellie to keep up with. maybe, she's just unusually slow right now. "from dina's place?"

"from her shop," jesse corrects.

but that stops her in her tracks. ellie shakes her head quickly, "no, no, i can't go there. ha..."

jesse turns slowly, head tilting to the side to observe ellie's stature. she's hunching again. for such an uptight prick, she's being rather awkward today. "why's that?"

"just can't."

"what, because of one bad date?" he laughs. "y/n isn't going to be there. she doesn't work weekends. usually."

"well, it's— it's got a little more complicated than that now, you know, awkward situation, a hookup, you know— you know? i'd like to avoid her where possible." ellie's hand reaches too naturally for the pack of smokes in her back pocket now, slipping one between her fingers.

"how in the hell did she let you— okay." jesse sighs, but the thing about jesse that ellie is often grateful for is that he seldom cares about these things. he lets things rest. "she won't be in the office at this time. office ladies are out on the weekends. trust me. come see my kid. he likes you."

already lit up, ellie takes a puff of her cigarette before nodding. "fine."

the rest of the walk down the street is silent, her muscles loosening and face warming.

even approaching the business feels wrong. pristine white walls and large french doors, the charming little sign over the entrance. enchantment everlasting. everything dainty and pretty and professional and ellie feels like a whore in a church.

the bell over the door chimes to announce their arrival, the heavy scent of flowers hitting their noses, and little jj wastes no time in running to his father while chanting his name. but once he sees ellie, he skips right past jesse and to her.

"hey spud," she coos, crouching down.

jesse huffs, giving dina a shrug. "i'm not the coolest person in his life anymore, i guess."

"hey you," dina says after laughing quietly. she meets eyes with ellie, and her demeanour moves into something else. something lacking interest. "hi."

ellie clears her throat and nods. "hey."

while jesse and dina catch up, she busies herself with checking out the array of flowers and pre-made bouquets, until she finds herself wondering if you had a hand in the production of these, or if you have a favourite kind of arrangement. then, it becomes too much to handle.

dina knows everything. there's no way she wouldn't. ellie gets that. but fuck, if it doesn't feel a little mortifying...

"thought we'd take jj to get some ice cream," jesse says. of course, this throws the toddler into an excitable rager in which he runs circles around the flower shop as fast as those small legs will take him. "we'll have him back by dinner. and yes, we'll watch his sugar intake. so on and so forth."

dina nods squarely, already beginning to prepare jj's pack for his outing. "alright. back before closing, please. i'm not having him late to bed again this week."

"yes ma'am," jesse says before nodding to ellie. "promise. i'm with grumpy, she likes to be home early too. 'alone time' and all that."

"oh, i'm sure she does," dina retorts with a blank expression.

and just like that, there's a bold shift in the environment. ellie's eyes flit from dina to jesse and his sharp brows, then to jj who has also picked up on the sudden awkwardness and scrambled off to his playpen.

"alright, you guys need to tell me what i'm missing here." jesse leans his side against a table, clasping his hands together. "what happened?"

"uh, seriously, nothing," ellie mutters in a disgruntled fashion, looking down and scratching the side of her neck. but when she dares to look up again, dina gives her this look—the 'if you don't spill, i will' kind. so she looks down again. "dude."

"tell him."

ellie exhales deeply. hands wringing together, those two fingers she always fiddles with catching in her other hand. "sure, so... i hooked up with y/n twice this weekend. kicked her out of my house both times after, and, she's upset."

"and she is upset because..?" dina prompts.

"because— can you stop? i'm not a child."

"ellie. own up to your mistakes."

"what else did i even do?" ellie asks, shoulders tensing and voice biting.

"'do not get attached to me'," dina quotes. and she's holding back seething words, if only because her son is in the room. "and when she tried to leave, you somehow slithered your way back into her pants, huh? sleazy."

"okay, i'm not sleazy, don't say that," ellie mumbles. "everythin' else, yeah, alright, that's true..."

jesse's silent for some moments before speaking up, "i hate to say it, but that's really douchey."

she refrains from rolling her eyes, looking up to the ceiling. "yeah, i know. i feel bad. obviously."

"do you? i couldn't tell," dina replies.

"yes," ellie huffs. here comes that funny feeling again, teeth gnawing at the inside of her cheek as she averts eye contact with the two judging her. it hits, this time.

dina's pissed.

how terribly did it hurt you, what she did to you yesterday? if dina's this irate, you can't be in a good state right now. it's like confirmation to ellie, the ghostly visions in her head of your teary eyes are something to worry over.

"i made a couple of mistakes," ellie says, hand rubbing along the side of a table. "i shouldn't have let it go far at all. i shouldn't have taken her home on friday. i just shouldn't have talked to her at all. i don't know why i did. i'm not interested in this stuff."

"come on. ellie, your biggest mistake is and has always been refusing to let love into your life." jesse watches dina begin working around the shop again, clearing a workbench of its mess from prior arrangements in the day. "how many times do i need to tell you that you should try putting yourself out there more?"

"you've told me too many times," ellie says, shifting from foot to foot. she's never felt so cornered before. "i tried. i was fuckin' married once, is that not enough putting myself out there? and look how it ended. love is fake."

dina watches, eyes leering over the stacked boxes in her arms as jesse pinches the spot between his brows.

"you ended up with cat because you didn't even try."

"i— can you—" ellie stammers, knuckles whiting from her grip on the table. she looks down, chest heaving. "jesse. she was my high school— thing. high school sweetheart or whatever they call it."

"cat was your 'convenient option', or whatever you called it," jesse shoots back. "how about you put some effort into someone, yeah? and i think the best option is the woman whose name won't stay out of your mouth at work. that means something, doesn't it?"

she blinks owlishly, focusing on the wall art behind jesse's head.

perhaps, ellie's latest inside joke at the firm being 'take that, y/n' every time she works on a new teeth-grinding divorce has some deeper thought behind it. it started after the blind date and has gotten worse ever since, evolving into her grumbling and mumbling about your 'stupid, overly whimsy, princess fantasies' and 'you think i don't know love is a scam'. coworkers have started telling her to shut up, point blank.

ellie swallows hard, shrugging her shoulders. "okay, well, how do i fix it? i can't go on like this. everything reminds me of her. i fucking hate it."

"that's a good sign," jesse comments. "already doing good. you found someone you actually like. now all you have to do is try. put some effort in. woo her."

ellie's a bundle of conflicting energies at this point, shaking like trees in a rainstorm, but shifting her feet as nonchalantly as she can, and swearing to keep her expression as neutral as possible too.

"i don't wanna hurt her again."

"good. come here." dina somehow materialises behind ellie and begins pushing her to the open workspace, an apron folded on the bench and a variety of wrapping papers and tools set out. "we're going to make her something."

"oh, hey, no no, i don't know anything about this," ellie quickly mutters, shaking her head down at the equipment. "it's going to look like shit. i wanna give her something nice."

"apron on." dina takes none of ellie's protests, instead dumping a bucket in front of her and gesturing to the flowers around the shop. "she likes roses—pink ones—so that'll be our base."

"fuck me," ellie says under her breath.

coffee warms your throat, burying the stinging residue of your tearful weekend. with a steaming to-go cup in hand, you slip through the doors of enchantment everlasting, brows furrowing at the lights already being on. you peek into the next room over, searching for any sign of dina. "dee?"

the absence of dina and your receptionist, mabel, offers a pleasant silence.

until you finally hear dina calling back, appearing behind you with jj's hand in hers. "hey babe! you're early."

"i'm on time, actually..? you're early." you laugh dryly, tilting your head to look over your shoulder as you approach your office. "what are you two up to?"

"oh, nothing." dina sends jj off to play, following you into the doorway.

as you flick the light switch in your office, you spot a large, elegant arrangement of flowers sitting on the centre of your desk. the way that you freeze in places makes dina chuckle softly.

"what's this..?" you question, picking up the note left next to the bouquet. the white card dons the most perfectly imperfect handwriting, broad print all slightly smudged at the edges.

"uh, that would be twelve pink roses, each one opened up by hand, peonies, and baby's breath in cellophane all tied together with a big silk bow. all the work of an exhausted ellie williams, who really hopes you like it."

"ellie did this?" you ask, hesitant to speak or to smile, but dina catches the sound of your voice. you soak in pure giddiness. "she even opened up the roses for me?"

"oh yeah, i had to make her suffer a little bit," dina says with a shrug. "i told her you like the look. it was her that decided to go ahead with it."

"oh..." you whisper, picking up the bouquet now and taking a delicate sniff. "it's gorgeous."

each rose is unique, every layer pulled back and neatly set, the blushing peonies nestled sparsely between them and clusters of baby's breath.

next you take a full gander at the note, scanning each word and letting out a quiet giggle.

'what do you call an apology written in dots and lines? ...a re-morse code. i'm sorry for the way i've been acting. no excuses. i'll do better. are you free this week? i can make it up to you angel.'

"oh my god," you murmur, looking back at dina. she's grinning at you, and you grin back all the same, tapping your feet against the tiles. "she likes me!"

"she does—but babe, listen to me: be careful still, okay?" she meets your gaze seriously now. "what i said before. let her grovel. make sure she really fucking fixes herself. don't make it easy."

"of course," you hum, lifting your phone to snap a picture with the flowers.

dina already knows her warnings go in through one ear and out the other with you. to get you walking the world with an appropriate level of self esteem is about as easy as walking a tightrope. so she sighs, but can't help the pleasantness that comes with a very happy best friend.

"can't do, i've got another wedding that day as well."

"fucking hell, how many you got?" ellie asks in exasperation, voice peaking down the phone.

"spring weddings are really popular!" you whine. "it's not my fault. these things are booked months in advance, you know."

"yeah, by any chance, have you ever heard of this little thing called a work-life balance?" ellie laughs softly.

"...yes. shut up. mine is fine. okay, let's just do sunday night, i can make that." if this were a landline, you'd be twirling the cord around your finger. instead, you're kicking your feet back and forth in bed and giggling about. ellie's done nothing but humour you throughout this call.

"okay, sure," ellie says, a barely restrained glee in her voice. "can i tell you another joke?"

"yes if it's a good one, no if it's a bad one."

"they're all good, you shut up." ellie pouts, rolling over in her bed. you can hear the rustling of sheets, her quietly sniffling. "what did one plate say to the other?"

you pretend to think, letting out a heavy, inquisitive sigh. "i don't know. what?"

"'dinner's on me!'" ellie cracks up on the other side and you can only let out an aggressive snort. "i mean that, by the way. i'm paying."

"oh, that was terrible, and no you aren't," you say through a gentle yawn. and you have never heard her voice sound quite so plush until she speaks next.

"you should go to bed, it's gettin' late." ellie sighs, and you hear a bit more movement. "and yeah, i am paying. don't say no."

"mm, okay." you smile, eyes already half-shut and burning, but your heart beating too fast thinking about letting her go. "i don't want to sleep."

"you've got a big day coming up," ellie coaxes, "go to sleep, angel. i will talk to you tomorrow."

"you better."

"i will." she sounds almost irritated by the idea of failing to. and that fills you with delight. "goodnight."

"night night, ellie," you whisper.

sunday night came fast.

the rest of the week, you were swept up in extravagant celebration, handling four weddings without fear. maybe your best week in a long time, with not a single piece out of place. even your period couldn't give you any grief this week—it's like the world was in total balance.

and now you're with ellie. it's your second try at dinner, but within minutes she has done better this time than the last.

"after you," she says, holding the door open. once you're through, she places a hand on the small of your back, quietly leading you after the hostess towards your reservation.

and the chivalry doesn't stop with the opening of doors or her insistence at picking you up and driving you here. ellie pulls a chair out for you, fingers gliding casually across your collarbone and petting your shoulder when you sit.

with goosebumps left in the wake of her fleeting touch, you practically buzz, hoping that is the precedent for the night. the little things are what make you feel the greatest. it's the desperation behind them, how she could not help but touch you; she matches your neediness.

the restaurant sings with positive energy, the clanging of utensils on plates and the constant hum of chattering patrons over the smooth jazz in the speakers. a flickering candle on the table provides a glow that cascades over ellie's and your faces, and all ellie can do is be mesmerised at the shimmer of your highlighter and the curve of your cupid's bow.

"you look really beautiful, have i told you that tonight?" ellie says, the glare of a sniper piercing into you. it's dark and almost lascivious, her eyes falling to the neckline of your dress. "you always look nice, though."

warmth spreads into your face and a candid smile graces your lips. "thank you." she leans over and passes you a menu, but before ellie can open her mouth, you speak up with a cheeky smile. "are you gonna do the risotto again, this time?"

a quiet sense of alarm takes hold of ellie, her hand held in the air on pause, and a blush begins to blossom into her face. dear, she was a mess last time she had dinner with you. "uh, no. might do something else this time."

"right, right, i thought you said it was good though?" you ask.

"everything's good here," ellie murmurs, rubbing the back of her neck and chuckling awkwardly. everything is good—the risotto is good—but it wasn't that great to eat all by herself a couple of weeks back. "don't make fun of me."

you snort and shrug your shoulders, opening up your menu as you reply, "maybe i should get the risotto this time. that would be fun."

"babe, stop— i—" ellie cuts herself off with a heavy sigh before deciding to leave this conversation topic behind. "i am thinking alfredo."

"oh, yum. looking forward to trying some."

"who said i'm letting you have a bite?" ellie questions, a smirk growing. "greedy."

something really irks you suddenly, your smile falters, but you put a brave face on.

get a grip, you think. she didn't mean it like that.

"i'll let you steal some of mine," you reply. your voice carries more defeat than you wanted, but it comes across like nothing more than a pout to ellie, who chuckles.

"alright. deal." ellie begins to shrug her jacket off, giving a nod to your tight grip on the menu. "any idea what you want, yet? anything. don't look at the cost."

"ah... i should probably read the menu first, huh?" you laugh softly at yourself, and ellie rolls her eyes a little.

"what? i know i'm irresistible, but yes, you should probably read the menu," she says with a snort.

"oh, sure," you murmur, kicking ellie's foot under the table. she laughs, kicking you back.

"playing footsies with me now, babe?"

it definitely feels like some kind of game going on here, you're sure. there is some kind of invisible ball you keep kicking to each other throughout this date, wit battling each other's and humours matching. you have the upper hand one moment, and it's gone the next—whoever is in possession of the ball will flash a charming smile, the other with a hot face and mumbling about it.

"shut up and let me focus."

you keep your eyes down and you still can't silence the little voice whining in your head enough for you to be able to read. you can still hear her, always her and never yourself. i'm just looking out for you. you know that, right? you could never forget cat's voice. not even this many years on.

you're aware of a waitress appearing at the side of the table to get you some drinks, and ellie handles it before you can look up, ordering for you and herself.

the waitress leaves and soon ellie's looking at you, head tilted down to catch your face, partially hidden by the menu in your hands. she fidgets with the cuff on her sleeve momentarily, then holds her hand out to grab yours. "are you okay?"

"of course," you reply. your hand slides into hers, the feeling of it toasty enough that you could melt. "always."

it's safe, an unspoken intimacy in the way her rough fingers wrap around yours. she squeezes in reassurance, satisfied by the smile that's creeping back into your expression.

you meet ellie's eyes almost timidly, lifting the back of her hand to your lips. the residue of your kiss, a dusky rose, remains on her skin, and in her gaze you spot sunrise.

"mmh, what are you doing to me?" ellie asks in a feathery voice. "that was cute..." and left unspoken is the acceptance of the romantic gesture; she likes it.

"well, i am kinda the lover of love, so... i can be pretty romantic at times," you reply, shrugging one shoulder.

a wine glass is sat before you when the waitress comes back, pulling you out of your lovestruck staring contest. by instinct, your hand twitches away, but ellie keeps her grip tight so that you cannot escape.

"can i get you ladies an entrée or any mains?" the waitress asks, looking between you both.

"'course, yeah, i'll have the chicken alfredo, and she'll have..?"

"um— the steak salad for me, please," you speak up.

"alright, both great choices—can i get you anything else?" she jots down the orders with haste, flicking her eyes up every so often.

"no, thanks," ellie replies.

"awesome, your food will be out soon," the girl says sweetly, nodding, before disappearing again.

silence takes the table again. you could stay here quite comfortably for a very long time, ellie's thumb rubbing over your knuckles as you observe each other, taking the occasional sip of your beverages.

"did you pick up that comic you were after the other day?" you ask, resuming an old conversation that was had over the phone.

"yeah, i did. you know what i don't think i told you?" while you could always hear the smile in her voice when talking all things nerdy over the phone, it doesn't quite compare to this. ellie, who's grown up, smooth, and too terribly tantalising for your health. this ellie, with a big, cheesy grin, talking about geek shit. just like she did in high school. "they're making another savage starlight movie. got announced just last week."

"oh, yeah? you're really pumped?" you giggle. "and you're going to go see it in the theatre when it comes out?"

"okay, what makes you think you're getting out of coming with me to see it?" ellie asks.

"oh." you giggle a bit more, heart skipping a beat. "but i don't know it. i'm not up to date with it all."

"well it looks like i'm gonna have to update you on it then, doesn't it?" ellie starts to laugh as well, squishing your hand again, fingertips caressing your skin. "i have two copies of every volume of the comics—which are better, obviously—and we can watch all the movies."

"can we, now?" you muse, raising your brows at the sudden insistence. she's rattling your ear off about it now, as if the urge to share it has been lying dormant for years.

it probably has.

you remember the way that you would ramble to dina when you first met her. 'sorry, am i talking too much?' always, the answer was 'just enough.'

because cat could never listen when it came to another's interests.

"yes, we can," ellie says firmly. "we will. i promise you, you'll get it once you start reading."

having your lower lip caught between your teeth doesn't minimise the smile on them even a little bit, because the ellie that you knew was in there all along? she's in there.

"oh yeah? how many are there?"

"there's ten volumes," ellie answers quickly, "with, like, the sickest action scenes and plot twists you'll ever see. and a great art style."

"okay," you say, nodding and laughing quietly. "all i remember is that daniela star is hot."

"shut the fuck up," ellie mumbles. "do you remember my halloween costume in—"

"yes, i do, and i thought it was cute," you cut in. her reddening face, lips sealed tightly closed and narrowing eyes give you such a giggle.

before ellie can say anything else, the waitress from earlier approaches with two plates, handing them to you politely. she darts off, almost like the sight of ellie's whitening knuckles on your hand and deep blush scared her off.

"okay, you weren't lying, it looks pretty good," you say, quite reserved while looking over the food.

and like every time you eat, you think about how good it looks; how you should be salivating at the sight of it, but you aren't.

your own bowl, filled by leafy greens with croutons, tomatoes, and cucumber, mixed in with thinly-sliced pieces of steaks and drizzled in olive oil and balsamic. it's probably going to be excellent.

ellie's, a steaming hot pile of fettucine alfredo with a large piece of crumbed chicken resting along the side of the china. it should be making you jealous.

you don't feel that enthusiastic at all.

"try some before i devour it all," ellie murmurs. she cuts a piece of chicken, fork rolling a bit of the pasta up to ensure you a big mouthful of all the dish has to offer. "here."

her index and thumb catch your chin, holding you in place as she feeds you what's on the fork. you think she can now feel how hot your face is, the kind of heat that radiates the sun coming off your skin now. and despite yourself, and your grievances with the food, you giggle a bit.

"nearly missed me," you say after swallowing, "i would not be happy if you messed up my makeup with alfredo sauce."

"aw, shut up darlin'. you like it?"

"it's good," you answer, washing the taste down with some rosé. "want some of mine?"

"of course, i made a deal with you." ellie chuckles, tapping your foot below the table with her shoe, just like earlier. "i don't give a fuck about the salad, just the steak."

"no, you need a proper bite of everything." you laugh a little too loudly, trying to load up every possible piece of the salad onto your measly fork. it's just impossible.

"oh, i'm not allowed to mess you up but you get to do whatever you want with me, huh?"

"precisely, do you know how much effort it takes to be this pretty? you'd probably still look gorgeous even with dressing on your lips and lettuce on your shirt."

"don't be humble," ellie says lowly. "you even look pretty when you cry. that's effortless beauty to another level. my knees shake when you look at me, you know."

you scoff quietly, jabbing your fork in her direction with a frazzled grin, as though trying to shut her up. "eat."

"well, yes ma'am." ellie rolls her eyes, stretching her lips around the bite you've prepared on the fork, the damn thing loaded up with so much it might as well be its own mini-meal. "fuck."

you both laugh now, ellie snorting and huffing as she attempts to keep everything in and not look disgusting. it takes a solid minute to get the whole thing down.

"you're a menace to society," she mutters, reaching for her drink immediately.

you chuckle softly, glancing from your food up to ellie. "i thought i was an angel."

"you are." delicate, and gentle, ellie's voice is.

and that voice eases silence upon you both as you begin to eat, the occasional chatter sparking here and there in the midst of your dinner, because looking at each other is thought-provoking. you can't get away, neither can ellie.

she makes a lovely distraction from the flavours of your salad, something to gaze upon that isn't how big of a bite you're having, or how much you're eating.

and when finished, an hour passes, another passing just as quickly, because you're swept up by cozy conversation, the undying candle in the table feeling like a representation of your own flickering interest in each other.

you make slow progress from the restaurant to ellie's car, and then finally to your front doorstep, which she insists upon walking you to.

"was that better, you liked it?" ellie asks, helping you up the steps to your porch. "i'm a little rusty with all this dating stuff."

it's the first action towards her gaining some sort of worthy love life. she's tried her best, and made the first move towards heaven.

ellie's stupidly giddy.

"i had so much fun," you say, unable to diffuse some of the joy in your words. it comes out all over the place, bubbly but demure. "do you want to do this again?"

"of course," ellie replies. she watches you fiddle with your keys, then her attention is drawn back up; she finds your lips, takes a little step forward. "c'mere."

home for ellie's hands just happens to be your hips, their favourite place to rest without her interference at all, and when she kisses you, they squeeze. you sigh into her mouth, arms wrapping around her shoulders, seeking the little tufts of hair at the back of her neck to caress.

and ellie tries to pull away quite shortly, but you don't want to. you don't let her. your love of ellie's lips means you would drown in the taste quite comfortably, and she seems to find that endearing herself. she's teasing you with sloppy movements, your lower lip being sucked in between hers slowly and without escape.

and just as the moment started to get good—her fingers sliding across your rear and digging into your dress, making you gasp—she pulls away. you're left fighting for dignity after whining too pathetically.

"i would love to continue this, but... i have work tomorrow," ellie murmurs, looking at her feet like you're kryptonite. she pushes her hair back and sighs. "and so do you."

"yeah... yeah... we should not have picked a sunday," you mutter, a crooked smile on your face. "okay... well... let me know if you got home alright."

"i will." ellie watches you, focusing on your fidgeting hands again. she can't resist grabbing it and pressing a small kiss along the back, her voice falling into a whisper, "see you, angel."

it was all ups and downs. mainly ups, of course, but now...

you sit. you stare at the wall. a framed painting of two lovers on your living room wall is what you see, the women entangled in a kiss that closely resembles the feeling ellie's lips left on you tonight.

your home is silent. it feels like the aftermath of a party, when the speakers cut and it's almost deafening. ears ringing, head spinning.

mind racing.

you clutch your phone with a hand of steel, watching the numbers on the lock screen change. 10:36. 10:37. 10:38.

you unlock your phone. your text stares back at you. you read over it again.

you: thank you for dinner tonight, i really enjoyed it. i felt very special. did i do alright?

delivered thirty minutes ago. maybe ellie's stuck in traffic—but what traffic exists in jackson at ten o'clock at night? maybe she went straight to bed after getting home?

you start to think about texting again. it's this little itch in the side of your brain. i must have done something wrong. would texting another time do anything to fix whatever you did? or would it turn ellie off the same way it did abby, and clara, and chloe, and all the others? it's the first date and you're acting this clingy.

but what did i do? is this going to be another ghost without explanation?

so your fingers fly across the screen again. it's long, written sporadically and with tipsy pain poured into each word. you barely process any of it before you hear the woosh of it sending.

you: did i do anything off putting? is this overwhelming? i don't mean to bombard you or anything right now i just feel curious you know lol!! am i too much, should i tone it down? i definitely can if you want me to. i hope i didn't come on too strong. i can fix it i promise.

not even a minute passes and you're refreshing the app on repeat like it will do anything. it's so hot, your skin beginning to shine with sweat the longer this goes on, and your heart—your heart, palpitating like an animal out of control.

"i think i fucked up," you whisper to nobody, a broken gasp following the words. you've shot yourself in the foot.

maybe it isn't you. maybe you aren't the problem? you can't think of anything you did incorrectly. maybe it's ellie. maybe her motives are in the wrong place. does she see the past in you?

are you just a trip down memory lane?

you want to trust ellie.

you: i won't be offended if you tell me what i did wrong! it's good to know, ykwim ♡

now you feel your body seizing up, shaking and fidgeting, getting swept up in fear like a leaf down a river with a strong current.

after idling for so long, your phone slips into sleep. the black screen startles you with your own reflection; blurred irises, wide and rocky, with puffy cheeks and just a single tear trickling its way down.

and then your phone lights up.

ellie: hey angel. no. you did nothing wrong, you were perfect. i had a great time. time for you to get some sleep though yeah?

you tense up while scanning every word, waiting for the plot twist that never comes.

so anticlimactic.

so relieving.

you rise to your feet and through your home, up the stairs and to your room all while fussing over a response. you're calmer as you climb into bed now, lips curled upwards.

you: you're totally right, i should sleep! i am exhausted hehe

ellie: mhm :] sweet dreams. everything is going to be ok.

you: yes. sweet dreams baby ♡♡

scared of posting again. i wish that i could have got this out earlier, but i'm having it rough at the moment. sorry babies :(

2 in 3 survey respondents (67%) reported having been physically assaulted while practicing EMS.

Nearly all (91%) respondents reported having been verbally assaulted while practicing EMS.

Studies indicate that approximately 10–15% of EMS personnel exhibit symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), significantly higher than the general population.

Verbal attacks, including graphic threats, racial slurs, and other language aimed to frighten or offend, are a regular occurrence in the field for EMS workers

‘show me where it hurts the most so i know where to love you the softest’

You watched her more times than you ever let yourself admit.

Different days blurred into each other—morning, night, pre-dawn greys—and still there she was; tens of patients slipped through her hands like fleeting shadows. Unless her fingers were curled around a half-crushed cigarette or a bitter hospital coffee cup stained the colour of dried blood. Sometimes both. Always both.

She left you standing there in the dim blue, the smell of wet asphalt curling around your ankles, wondering how many wounds those hands had closed—and how many remained open inside her own chest—as she disappeared into the siren-lit dark on her next call.

Your gaze lingered on her longer than it should.

The same ambulance every time, that battered box of rushing lights; the same crew—their driver’s laughter ricocheting off emergency bay walls loud enough to drown out her voice. And her—with that auburn hair twisted into a hasty half-bun, stray strands escaping from under her bandana. Some days it was navy blue, other days black with scattered stars. But you loved it most when she wore the graphite-grey one with small white moths drifting across the fabric like quiet thoughts she’d never say out loud.

Her uniform almost always blended into the dawn—that deep paramedic blue merging with the roads and gloom, leaving only the thin silver stripes of her reflective bands to catch your gaze as she moved. Sometimes, when calls ran late into the warm breath of morning, she’d shed the heavy jumpsuit and stand there in just a dark t-shirt, unfazed by the cold. That’s when you’d catch a glimpse of the ink coiling around her forearm, dark against pale skin—but never close enough to see what it was. Just another part of her you were never meant to read.

Her face at the end of a shift carved your chest open: something about the way she looked smoking alone in the shadowed break zone, eyes somewhere far beyond the fading streetlights, her shoulders lowered; something about her made the cigarette between your own fingers burn down to a silent column of ash, untouched.

It made you want to step closer. To inhale her exhaled smoke like oxygen. To taste the bitter brand of her cigarettes on your tongue. To rest your palm on the fragile cage of her ribs and count her pulse—measure her existence in quiet systoles and diastoles, one by one. To know, for a moment, that she was still there—when she looked like she wasn’t at all.

There was never enough time to say anything real. When you stepped outside for a quick respite between patients, she was already gone—flashlights fading into the damp dark. Circles of red, white, and blue. Blood, your med gown, and her uniform. Or she’d arrive just as you exhaled that last breath of smoke, pushing through the ambulance bay doors with someone clinging to life under her hands.

Your shifts never lined up the way you wished they would. Different clocks. Different doors. The most you could do was catch her shape in passing: the chestnut shade over the blue, elusive figure, the hasty gait of someone used to counting seconds of delay slipping into your memory like an impulse you couldn’t let go of. You didn’t know her, not really. But your eyes kept finding her all the same—like they owed her that small, quiet insistence of being seen.

She moved through your world like a passing siren—urgent, loud in her silence, and gone before you could even think of something to say. There was never space for words. Not when she was carrying someone’s life. Not when your pager screamed in your pocket, dragging you back to your own drowning patient.

That’s the thing about working in emergency. You’re always tending to the dying or running from them. There’s no pause for introductions. No quiet corners for first names or favourite songs. Just a glimpse of her, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, gloves pulled tight over long fingers, jaw set with that fierce, fragile concentration—and then she’s gone, swallowed by the next call, the next street, the next heartbeat that needed hers more than you did.

Habits, once carved deep into your bones by duty and routine, rarely changed. They hadn't changed. But sometimes, by some mercy of rosters and schedules, the world—St. Mary’s endless glass and steel corridors—gives you five minutes. Not a golden hour. Just a sliver of time sharp enough to split your morning in half.

It doesn’t even feel real. It feels like a cliché—the tired kind they romanticize in Grey’s Anatomy. You’ve never actually watched it, but somehow still hate it. You’re standing here now, leaning back against a concrete column outside the emergency bay, thumb bruising the empty plastic of a disposable lighter, flicking again and again with no spark. The filter of the cigarette clenched between your lips, the taste of stale paper and nicotine ghosting your tongue.

Then there is a spark.

“Hey, doc. Need some fire?”

Her voice comes from your left. She’s stepped up beside you, leaning with one shoulder against the wall like it’s the easiest thing, lazy and loose. From a distance, anyone would think she looks relaxed, almost careless—but now you’re close enough to see the grey shadow of exhaustion hollowed beneath her eyes, etched deep into the soft skin there, like bruises that no amount of sleep could heal.

It comes hoarse from the cold or the last call she took—you can’t tell. She holds out a lighter—metal, heavy, engraved with something you can’t read. For a second the world narrows to nothing but the flick of her thumb and the quiet hiss of flame.

You read her name stitched above her chest pocket—just ‘Ellie’. No surname. No hint at anything more. It tastes bittersweet, fitting her perfectly.

Her fingers smell of mint antiseptic, yours of lemon foam soap. You hate lemon. But you think you could get used to mint.

You cup your hands around hers to shield the flame from the restless wind, bending forward until the warmth of the fire kisses your cigarette. Ellie’s hands are coarse from gloves and cold air, fingertips split with small healing cracks. You know yours feel the same—dry, raw, the skin punished by constant scrubbing. The price of lives saved. The small one at this point, right?

“Thanks,” you murmur, exhaling smoke between words.

She flips the lighter closed with a soft metallic click. “No problem.”

Ellie shifts her weight against the column and adds, almost like an afterthought, her eyes still on the empty parking lot—yours on her.

“Tough night?”

You huff a quiet laugh, smoke curling past your lips. “Aren’t they all?”

She gives a small shrug, eyes flicking to yours briefly before returning to the street. Then she offers you a tiny smile in the corner of her mouth, the one that makes something in your chest ache.

“Damn, you’re right.”

One of her boots taps lightly against the concrete, a restless rhythm you can almost hear, or maybe it’s the subtle drumming of her fingers against the side of her thigh, marking out a beat only she knows.

You steal a glance at Ellie—a real glance, now that she’s close enough for the thin light to slip across her features. Freckles. Dozens of them, scattered rust-brown over pale skin like copper splinters against snow. It’s too cold for freckles to exist, with too little sun for them to burn so bright, but there they are—stubborn, vivid, almost defiant.

She’s shorter than you thought. Somehow, in your mind, she’d always loomed taller—maybe it was the way she carried herself, heavy with silent purpose. Her voice surprises you too. Softer than you imagined. Not rough or low or cutting like her jawline might suggest. Almost gentle. Almost boyish.

It’s hard to tell the color of her eyes. They’re narrowed against the dim dawn light, lashes casting shadows that break her gaze into fragments. Brown, maybe. Green. Hazel. You can’t tell, and somehow that feels right—like even her eyes refuse to give everything away.

Today she’s wearing a new bandana. Red—but not the red of ambulance lights or fresh arterial blood. It’s warmer and softer, like a cowboy’s neckerchief in an old western film, muted and worn by years of sun and grit. You know you’ll think of that red next time you peel off blood-soaked gloves in trauma bay three.

There’s a small silver stud piercing her brow, nestled into an old scar that cuts through it at an angle. Another mark of what she’s survived. Her forearm is inked with dark leaves and wings—you see it now, as clear as you see your own palms—curling over the ridge of another healed scar, half-hidden by her rolled-up uniform sleeve. She’s draped in fabric, metal, ink, and old wounds—all those layers wrapped tight around whatever truth lives underneath.

For the briefest, most fragile moment, you want to be someone allowed to touch what’s beneath all that steel.

Ellie moves beside you, pulling her lighter back into her pocket, and tugs at the thin wire disappearing under red fabric. You realize she’s wearing cheap wired earbuds, the kind you can buy for five bucks at a gas station, one dangling loose against her chest.

“Hey,” she says. “Want an ear?”

You blink at her. “What?”

She pulls out the free bud and offers it to you between calloused fingers. Up close, you hear the faint bleed of music from the bud—soft guitar and a woman’s voice, low and smoky, carrying something tired and tender in every note. It feels… intimate. Unexpectedly so. It’s like Ellie’s offering you a pulse from her own chest.

“You don’t have to,” she shrugs, almost embarrassed now. “Just… figured you might wanna hear something that isn’t alarms or screaming for a sec.”

You hesitate only for one blink before you take the earbud from her hand. Your fingers brush, bare skin against bare skin, and you move in closer to place it into your ear. Closer than you meant to. Closer than you’ve ever been. You can’t tell if it’s her quiet breath ghosting over the hollow of your throat or just the breeze slipping beneath the V-neck of your scrub top.

The music spills into you instantly—quiet guitar, a woman’s voice soft and hushed, singing words that make your chest tighten until it’s hard to breathe. Like she’s singing straight into your bones, to all the silent parts of you that never learned how to speak.

You’re staring at the ground, at the faded bloodstains on your clogs, at the faint reflection of ambulance lights in the rain-slick concrete. You don’t see that Ellie’s not looking at the parking lot anymore. She’s looking at you.

One of your eyes is always half-shut

Somethin' happened when you were a kid

I didn't know you then and I'll never understand

Why it feels like I did

You swallow around the sudden ache in your throat, pulse fluttering against the collar of your scrubs. The song feels too raw, too knowing. Like it’s been waiting there all along for this moment, for you to hear it beside her, breathing in the same bitter air.

You

You must've been lookin' for me

Sendin' smoke signals

Your eyes go wide. The smoke catches in your throat, sudden and thick, and you almost cough on it. It makes you wonder if Ellie hears it the same way. Wonder if that’s why she offered the earbud in the first place.

Her eyes catch yours—sharp, a little sly beneath those fiery lashes that flicker like embers. She hears it the same—it’s clear. Her thumb skims the edge of the lighter in her pocket, metal on metal. The frayed dirty-white wire between you isn’t the red string, of course. It’s more practical—more real. Like surgical suture, thin and strong enough to hold flesh together.

It hasn’t stitched you to her yet. But it’s tangled you both in the same knot, with the song that’s meant for this exact moment, for this exact pair of strangers.

Ellie’s lips curve into a small, knowing smile.

“Smoke signals, huh?” she says under her breath, almost teasing. “Fitting.”

Her gaze holds yours for a heartbeat longer—unspoken, but charged—before she finally looks away, leaving the space humming with what’s left unsaid. No explanation. No follow-up. Just a word left hanging between you.

It almost feels like there’s a world beyond the bay doors—a world where people touch each other softly, where music plays for no reason other than it existing, where your lungs don’t taste like smoke and antiseptic and grief.

But then the real doors hiss open again, snapping the illusion in two like a sterile package.

The pause, the one stretched thin between smoke and melody, burns down to the filter. The shared wire goes slack.

Somewhere behind Ellie, someone whistles—a sharp sound that slices through the air. You follow her gaze. There’s a woman with amazing hair and a man whose voice carries even across the parking lot. They’re waving. At her, of course. But maybe… at you too.

You raise a lazy salute back. Smile, almost despite yourself.

She doesn’t say goodbye. Neither do you. But something about the way she steps back, facing you the whole time—a little slower than necessary, the way her eyes stay locked on yours—makes it feel like a promise anyway. There’s a glint in her brow, a little silver catching the light, just like her smile does.

“You’re good company,” Ellie says, almost offhand, and you know you’ll hold onto it longer than you mean to.

Then she turns, and the two of them catch up to her. One throws an arm around her shoulder, says something with a grin. Ellie laughs. Bats him off. Teases back.

She doesn’t look back. But you’re certain—she knows you’re still watching.

Her eyes are green, you realize it now.

The day moves slowly.

Your shift unfolds in muted tones: a kitchen burn, a twisted ankle, a boy with a Lego up his nose who leaves beaming, popsicle in hand. It’s the kind of rhythm you almost wish for—not quiet, but manageable. Nothing unfixable. You move like clockwork through the familiar steps, write notes, change gloves, smile where it’s needed. Your feet ache, but your brain hums in a low, steady gear.

But then—like a power line vibrating, the air begins to buzz.

The stillness isn’t still anymore. It’s waiting.

You feel it in the way the nurses fall quieter, how the charge tech stays half-turned toward the radio. You feel it in your pulse, syncing to something unspoken. Like the hospital has shrunk—no more cafeteria chatter, no distant footsteps down sterile hallways. Just this room and the voice.

“Fourteen-year-old female, restrained passenger, T-bone collision, high impact. Stable airway. BP ninety over sixty. GCS fourteen. Tachycardic, signs of internal bleeding. ETA three minutes.”

The pre-arrival report hits hard.

Fourteen.

You flex your fingers, once, twice—the motion is meant to loosen the stiffness, but it doesn’t do much. Your gloves are still on the tray. You reach for them without thinking. Somewhere in the distance, monitors chirp their sterile rhythm. Closer, someone mutters a code to the charge nurse. You stand by the trauma bay doors, waiting. It’s not your first call, not your first child. But it hits every time like the first one.

“Page surgery. Tell them we’ve got a possible internal bleed with unstable vitals. I want that OR hot and ready by the time she rolls in.”

You give the order to the guy by the phone—he dials the number and relays the message to the OR, as if handing over the key to a life saved.

The voice is Ellie’s, you notice belatedly, like a side thought. Her low, focused register. The clarity behind every syllable. She’s already in the thick of it. And as you pull on your gloves, count your breaths, you brace to meet her there.

You don’t need the rest of the dispatch to know what’s arriving. Something heavy. Something that drips dread from the soles of its boots. There’s a patient in that rig whose life is unspooling thread by thread—and Ellie is threading the needle, racing to hold it together.

The hospital bends in unknowable ways.

Corridors twist like veins—some clogged, some bleeding, some lit in soft gold like redemption. You’ve walked them long enough to know: the cycle loops here. Life and death curl through the same doors, ride the same stretchers, sometimes held in the same hands.

Within this endless turning, your path and Ellie’s are destined to cross at moments that matter most.

After the chaos, after the desperate fight for breath and heartbeats, you picture a quiet moment shared between you: two silhouettes leaning against the cold counter, the tension melting away in a lull carried by another song you’d offer. You would ask her when she gets her day off, and she would shrug with that indifferent charm, like time is a stranger you both barely recognize. Maybe she’d smile, just a little, and stay a moment longer in the calm before the storm.

But both of you walked away from peace a long time ago—willingly. The double doors crash open like the inhale before panic, and the world narrows to red.

They wheel her in fast. Everything spins fast now on your fingertips, holds its breath, counts seconds. Face as pale as printer paper, streaked with dried blood. A cervical collar holds her neck in place, chest rising unevenly beneath a too-large hoodie. She’s small—smaller than you imagined when Ellie called her ‘passenger.’

There’s a vivid slash of red bisecting her cheek where the glass bit. A faint, blooming bruise crawls up from beneath the collarbone, the unmistakable signature of a seatbelt. Life-saving. Life-threatening.

You glimpse the numbers on the monitor: HR one-forty. She’s shocked. Breathing fast. Still conscious. Still here.

And holding the stretcher at her side, pressing one steady hand to a blood-soaked bandage over the girl’s abdomen, is Ellie. She comes in like a stormlight.

She doesn’t look up right away—too focused. A second medic holds the opposite rail. You catch the glint of golden hoops under her curls. Dina. Ellie’s glove squeaks as she adjusts pressure, her mouth a tight line.

“She was belted,” Dina reports, clenching the rails. “Passenger side. Car ran a red and hit them at sixty. She was awake on scene. Responsive. We’ve got suspected pelvic fracture, open radius on the right. GCS fourteen when we loaded, twelve now.”

“Two lines in, oxygen running, BP still dropping,” Ellie adds quickly.

The voice now has a face again. Eyes sharp, barely blinking under the harsh lights.

You nod once, already checking the monitor. “Let’s cross-match. I want type O standing by.”

The girl shifts and whimpers.

“Hurts.”

“I know, kiddo,” Ellie murmurs, barely above a breath. “You’re doing good. Almost there.”

Her voice trembles just a little at the edges. You see it in her eyes when she looks down at the girl: a kind of fierce, quiet urgency, as if this child’s breath is tethered to something inside her too.

Like she needs this girl to make it just to keep something intact within herself. There’s no hesitation in her, only that steadfast will you’ve seen before in people who’ve already lost too much. She holds on like she’s holding herself together.

You move in with your team. The tempo accelerates—vitals shouted, IVs opened, blood drawn. Ellie doesn’t leave; another pair of knowing hands never hurts.

The girl’s eyes flutter open again. She stares at Ellie.

“I like your bandana,” she whispers. Graphit grey. Moths.

Ellie huffs something like a laugh, but it’s hollow.

“I’ll get you one.”

You feel it—the whole room balancing on the edge of something fragile. As if one wrong word could tip it all. You’re already moving.

There’s a rhythm to this place when it matters most. The space itself understands what’s required. No one raises their voice. There’s only movement, deliberate and fast, as though all of you share one breath, one pulse. An invisible thread connects hands to tools, eyes to monitors, minds to the patient on the stretcher.

Her pupils react, but sluggishly. Eyes close one more time. Her pulse weakens by the second. Her skin is too pale now. The monitor flattens and then kicks back up again—a warning. You feel Ellie hovering close. But she doesn’t interfere. She knows and seems like she trusts.

“BP’s dropping—seventy over forty.”

Someone to your right is already hooking her to the monitor.

“Pulse thready. 140 and climbing.”

“She’s guarding. Belly’s rigid,” you say. “Intra-abdominal bleed.”

You don’t need a scan to know it. Her body is telling you everything.

You gesture sharply toward the nurse nearest you.

“Two large-bore IVs. Wide open. Start crystalloids.”

Then to respiratory:

“Bag her. Get me a 7.0 tube and a blade.”

There’s a murmur behind you: “Portable ultrasound’s on its way—”

“No time,” you cut in. “Tell them to hold the OR—we’re not making it unless she stabilizes.”

You slide closer, fingers pressing gently, assessing. Skin cold. Cap refill delayed.

“She’s decompensating,” someone mutters. You already know.

“Epi. 1 milligram. IV push.”

You slip into that practiced mode—not detachment, no, never that, but something honed and trained. Gloved hands apply pressure; direct orders flow from your lips. The team responds like muscle memory. Tubes in, fluids running. Your own heartbeat becomes background noise.

The monitor begins to slow. Then the line goes flat. It screams what her body no longer can.

“Starting compressions,” you say, already leaning in.

You move with certainty, the weight of every training session, every case before this one, packed into motion. One-two-three-four. You count out loud.

Your palms press down rhythmically, precisely—the heel of each hand digging into the girl’s narrow chest, the fragile rise of ribs beneath the skin yielding just slightly, like the surface of something meant to break. You can feel the sternum shift under pressure, then not.

“Bag every thirty. Let’s go.”

You switch. Resume compressions. Another round. Another minute. No response.

 The girl’s lips part, but no life comes through. For one impossible second, it feels like something flickers under your fingers—not a pulse, not quite, but the echo of one. As if life were a string just barely within reach, and all you have to do is grab it, hold tight. You keep pressing. Keep reaching. The ribcage creaks. There’s blood at the IV site now, a smear blooming against pale skin, and time is spilling just as fast.

You pause, glancing at the screen.

“Give another epi. Start a second line. Keep fluids running.”

Ellie hasn’t moved. She’s behind the chaos, but her presence feels close, like something gravitational. Her eyes are locked on the girl, and something in them sharpens, hardens—the kind of need that demands the world to listen.

You try again. Another rhythm of compressions. This time slower. Focused. Your voice starts to falter in your own head, but you keep going until the monitor answers you with silence. Not even a flicker.

You straighten slowly. Gloves hang heavy from your fingers, like they belong to someone else.

“Time of death…” someone says.

The words float past you.

A nurse moves behind you, pulling the curtain half-shut, maybe as a kindness. The room drains around you like the sea pulling back after impact; a wave receding, leaving wreckage in its wake. Footsteps scatter. Clipboards reappear, charts begin to fill. Death, it turns out, demands a surprising amount of paperwork.

You hear the soft rustle first. A shift of weight. Ellie is lowering herself to the floor, her back hitting the wall like she can’t stand upright another second. She’s collapsing more than sitting, legs stretched out, head tipped back. One hand limp at her side, the other curled slightly like it’s still pressing into a wound that’s no longer bleeding.

You follow and sit beside her in silence, your back hits the cold tile. Your breath is still coming short, hands aching from the compressions. They tremble against your thighs, and you clench them, useless. Something inside you scrapes raw.

The curtain ripples faintly behind you. Voices fade. For now, it’s just the two of you in the aftermath.

Ellie doesn’t speak. There’s no expression on her face, no face at all, only void. Not the absence of feeling, but the presence of something worse. She isn’t a person in that moment—she’s grief, made flesh.

A hollow shaped like a human. A silence you could fall into and never find the bottom.

Slowly, she pulls the bandana from her head. It’s damp with sweat. She wipes her face with it, slow, methodical—eyes still unfocused. Then stares at the cloth in her hands, like she doesn’t recognize it.

And then it hits her, you can see it. In that look is everything unspoken: failure. Fury. Regret that doesn’t know where to land.

Ellie finally pulls her gloves off, slowly, like it hurts to let go.

“I hate when they’re that small,” she mutters, not looking at you.

You say nothing. There’s nothing to say.

She draws her knees up, elbows balanced loosely on them. The crease between her brows is permanent. The burden on her shoulders too.

“Her dad died on impact,” she says after a beat.

You look at her. She doesn’t meet your eyes, maybe she can’t. Her voice doesn’t shake. If anything, it’s too even.

“She kept asking. I didn’t know what to say.”

You nod slowly, and there’s a flicker of something sharp under your ribs.

“She never knew.”

“Maybe that’s mercy,” you suggest.

“Maybe,” she agrees without believing.

You reach into your pocket, thumb brushing the edge of a crumpled pack of cigarettes. You don’t light one. Just hold it, pressing the soft cardboard flat, like you could crush the craving.

“Other driver?”

Ellie twists the fabric tighter. You hear the cotton strain.

“Broken clavicle. Couple ribs. Walked away.”

You blink and shake your head. Of course he did.

“They died,” you murmur, “and he’ll get a sling and a scar.”

Ellie exhales a sound that isn’t quite a laugh.

“The universe flips a coin,” she says. “And it lands wrong side up. Every time.”

You exhale, shaky, staring at the empty space in front of you for a moment. Your clogs are dirty.

"Is that mercy too?" you ask, not quite sure who you’re asking—the world, her, yourself.

"If that’s mercy, then I don’t want it."

The apple slices are cold.

You packed them from home that morning—sealed in a zippered pouch, soft with cinnamon, too dry to be fresh but familiar enough to finish.

The sweetness lingers as you chew, slow, distracted, seated on the edge of a vinyl couch in the staff lounge, shoes unlaced. The lights overhead buzz faintly, the kind of fluorescent hum you stop noticing after your second month in the ER.

The clock ticks toward midnight, the quiet is generous. A rare lull between traumas.

Ellie had been here not an hour ago.

She leaned against the wall like she owned the gravity in the room, one boot crossed over the other, arms folded, the navy of her uniform dusted with road salt and coffee stains and the tiredness that doesn’t wash off.

Her sleeves were shoved up to the elbows, exposing the scar on her right forearm—a thin, pale crescent that caught the light every time she moved. The wings covering it froze too. She didn’t sit. She never did when she didn’t have to. Said her legs didn’t know how to rest.

You were still chewing your first slice when she reached over and stole one from the pack, not breaking eye contact. She bit into it with all the entitlement of someone who’s done this a hundred times before—and knew she’d get away with it a hundred more.

“Was that the last cinnamon one?”

You asked, more out of routine than protest.

She just smirked, that half-lidded look that made her eyes shine darker.

“Didn’t check,” she said with her mouth full.

Then rolled her eyes when you stared her down, like the crime was yours for expecting decency.

The radio crackled before you could answer: a sharp, sputtering burst that sliced the air in two. Ellie froze mid-bite. Not startled, just… listening. Her head tilted slightly, like a wolf catching something just beyond the tree line.

“Unit Three, call in. Code response, address incoming.”

She chewed the rest in silence, tossing the stem of the apple slice back into the bag with a soft flack.

“Better be quick,” she muttered, grabbing her jacket off the back of the chair.

“You owe me coffee,” you said, without looking up.

“Save me the bottom of the thermos,” she called back, halfway through the door.

“You always say that.”

“And you never do.”

And then she was gone. Boots squeaking faintly down the corridor, the door swinging closed behind her like the last breath of a promise. Her absence didn’t feel like silence—it felt like pressure in your chest.

You don’t track hours anymore. Time passes in the number of patients patched, bled, sutured. It’s not Wednesday or Thursday. It’s two overdoses and a seizure, three stitches, and a stillbirth. It’s the count of how many made it through your hands without slipping.

You’re peeling the last slice of apple from its waxy bag when the radio speaks again.

“Female, late twenties, stab wound to the upper arm. Medic down. ETA four minutes.”

You freeze.

Not because it’s unusual—you’ve seen worse. But because you know who was on shift in Unit Three tonight.

The apple falls from your hand.

There are people who should never end up behind your trauma bay doors. Ellie became one of them so fast. But now they’re bringing her in. Nothing about the night feels still anymore.

You rush into the trauma intake area, your steps quick and measured.

The door creaks open. She’s there.

For a moment, you’re not sure what exactly you’re seeing—mostly blood. A torn sleeve. Her left hand clenched into a fist.

“I’m fine,” she says, before you even ask.

She’s not.

Ellie doesn’t wait for a stretcher. She walks in on her own, rigid and persistent. You see the disdain flicker across her face as she sidesteps the gurneys that she has carted through too many nights, too many battles. Dina walks beside her, silent and steady. She doesn’t reach out, because Ellie would reject that touch, that sign of vulnerability. She’s the one who always holds firm, who lets anyone lean on her, but not vice versa.

Ellie hates this wound, the blood smeared on her torn jacket, the way this night shreds the illusion of control she so fiercely clings to. She’s not herself—or rather, she’s not who she pretends to be.

Your gaze flickers past them to the figure trailing behind—Jesse. You’ve never seen him in the hospital before. He’s taut, wary. Just like Dina, just like Ellie. They’ve seen too much. They’ve been through hell, and still, they’re just people.

Around you, nurses shout back and forth: talk of police arriving, locked wards for patients under supervision. You catch the strained urgency in their voices, the fragile order trying to hold in place as chaos swirls outside.

You’re supposed to calm them down. This is what attending physicians do. But when it comes to Ellie, you realize you’re just human too. You’re gripping the edge of the counter, knuckles pale.

You’d seen Ellie hurt before—scraped and bruised. She always laughed it off. Always moved like she had somewhere else to be. But this is different. The way she holds her arm close to her side. The set of her jaw.

It takes a second longer than it should, but then it clicks back into place.

You lift your head.

Not calm—never that. But function.

“Someone get a trauma bay ready,” you call out, voice sharp, too clear. “Page Ortho for standby. And I want imaging ready for secondary survey. Just in case.”

Almost makes you believe you’re not falling apart inside. Then Ellie speaks.

“I’m not staying,” Ellie grits out. “It’s a fucking scratch.”

There’s blood staining the gauze like rust. She’s favoring her arm, barely disguising the tension in her shoulders. Her whole body’s coiled like she’s waiting to bolt.

“I can walk this off. Just clean it up and I’ll go.”

Your mouth opens—to do what, you’re not sure. Argue? Beg? But Dina cuts in without ceremony.

“Ellie. Shut the fuck up.”

Her voice is flat. Not cruel, but tired in a way that says we’ve already done this. She stands at Ellie’s side like a wall—shoulders squared, eyes unreadable.

“You’re not walking anywhere,” Dina continues. “You’re getting stitched. Properly. By someone who actually knows what they’re doing. So sit the hell down and let her help you.”

She points at you, and you feel…blessed? Ellie doesn’t look at you. She looks at the floor, then at the blood on her hands. Her jaw works silently for a beat. But she doesn’t argue again.

Jesse approaches, pale and silent, eyes flicking from you to Ellie and back. You catch the tremor in his hands before he shoves them into his jacket pockets.

“Call came in as a seizure in a parking garage. Seemed routine, but Ellie—she clocked something was off. The guy wasn’t postictal, just… too calm.”

Dina swallows hard, arms still crossed tight. “Before I could even get the bag open, he pulled a knife. Grabbed me—wanted the narcs. Morphine, fentanyl, whatever we had stocked.”

“She didn’t even blink,” Jesse adds, eyes flicking to Ellie again. “Stood between him and the kit. Told him to go ahead and try.”

You click your tongue, glancing at her for a second.

Dina exhales shakily, somewhere between pride and fear. “He slashed her. She still wouldn’t let him near the meds.”

“Can we not do the memorial service while I’m still bleeding?” she mutters. “I’m literally right here. And not dead.”

Her tone is dry, biting—but thinly veils the exhaustion underneath. Ellie may be all cracked edges right now, but she’s still the one dragging the spotlight off herself, even when the floor’s slick with her blood. Dina snorts quietly but doesn’t argue. Neither do you.

You scan the floor—too many eyes, too much noise. The nurses are doing what they always do: triaging, organizing, controlling the chaos. But Ellie doesn’t need chaos.

She needs space.

“I’ll take her,” you say, more to the room than to anyone in particular. “Treatment Four. Alone.”

You meet Ellie’s eyes for the first time since she walked in. She doesn’t protest. You move out of the brightness, down the corridor where the fluorescent hum is softer, the doors closed, the world waiting just beyond.

Stepping into the treatment room, you switch on the surgical lamp and let the harsh overheads stay off. Let the night be gentle, if nowhere else, then here. It smells like absence—of anything human.

Ellie follows later, her boots dragging just slightly—a sound she wouldn’t let slip on any other night. You point to the exam table without a word, and she climbs onto it like she’s done a hundred times before—with patients. Not like this. Never like this.

The stainless tray is already waiting—cold, clean, clinical. Syringe. Gauze. Forceps. Suture. A language of silence and habit. No poetry here, just function.

You press the pump beside the sink. Lemon-scented soap spills into your palm. The same one you always hated. But tonight, you don’t mind. You scrub fast, focused, as if time were something that could slip through your fingers. Ellie’s blood already has.

You snap on gloves. Tear the paper pouch of suture material open—with your teeth. It's rushed, clumsy, but it works. You’re past elegance now.

You ease the jacket off her shoulders, careful not to brush the wound. She’s silent, watching you with something unreadable, while you peel the sleeve back to reveal the wound: a deep, angry gash along her upper arm, just shy of needing surgical closure. It’s clean enough. Contained. But she’ll scar. You wonder if she’ll mind.

“I’ll numb it,” you say quietly, already drawing up lidocaine into the syringe. The metal tray clinks softly as you set it down beside.

Ellie scoffs under her breath. “Why bother?”

You pause for a moment. “Stop asking stupid questions.”

“Okay, doc.” she grins crookedly.

You inject the anesthetic slowly, watching her jaw clench, but she doesn’t flinch. She never flinches.

The exam table groans as Ellie shifts, bracing her uninjured hand against the edge of the table.

“He wanted the box. Got pissed when we didn’t hand it over.”

She says it like it's nothing. Like she's describing the weather.

Your heart skips; no, folds. A sharp, invisible inward motion, like the body trying to shield something soft. You imagine it: Ellie between the seats, between decision and reaction. Dina too close to the blade. Jessie slamming into reverse. The box—the one they guard like a life raft. Painkillers, sedatives, vials sealed in glass. Ellie wouldn’t give it up. Of course she wouldn’t.

There’s a type of ruin no one sees. The kind that doesn’t show up on x-rays or ultrasound. And it’s not her arm, or the torn fabric, or the way she won’t meet your eyes now. It’s the fracture underneath.

She’s so quietly wrecked that something in you breaks with her. No noise, no drama. Just a thread snapping, pulled too tight. Your fingers tremble once before you hide it. You reach for the next tool with precision that feels like a lie.

“He knew we were coming.”

Her fingers curl around the edge of the table.

“Didn’t hesitate. Like it was the plan all along.”

Each thing she says is like a fresh cut. Words are shrapnel. You pick up the needle, it’s curved. A sliver of cold steel glinting under the sterile light. Her next words hit you worse than a gunshot.

“He said hospitals are for the rich. Said the rest get the knife.”

She finally looks at you. And you wish she hadn’t.

Her lips parted. There is war in her eyes, which are rimmed with dark circles, and her freckles are faded and pale under the harsh hospital lighting. She’s drained from blood loss and sleepless nights. You can see it all—beneath the defiance, past the smirk she’s too tired to wear. The fear. The shame. The bitterness of being saved when she’s spent her life doing the saving.

“Hospitals are for the ones who need help. For broken. Wounded. Lost.”

Ellie’s voice is quieter and smaller. She doesn’t look away.

“Then maybe I’m in the right place. For once.”

Instead, she leans in—barely, but enough. Her shadow stretches closer to yours. The thin streaks of dust smudged across her cheekbones, caught in the dried sheen of sweat. A faint trace of dirt under her jaw. Proof she went down. That she hit the ground hard and didn’t care enough to wipe it away.

Something aches in you.

You want to reach out. Thumb the dust from her face, let your palm cradle the weight of her jaw. Let her rest her temple against your shoulder, even just for a minute. Just until the air in her lungs stops shaking. But your hands are full.

With gloved fingers, you lift the black nylon suture. It’s damp with antiseptic. You’ve done this before. Muscle memory guides your hands. But your heart doesn’t follow.

You lean closer, bringing the needle to her skin—and freeze.

Ellie doesn’t smell like metal. Not like hospitals. Not even like smoke anymore. She smells like cinnamon. Like apples warmed by breath. And something darker, bitter, grounding—coffee, maybe.

You hate how steady your hands need to be. You hate that they almost aren't. You inhale and pierce. The point slips beneath the surface, you watch it travel through, curve up on the other side, and catch it. The first knot is done. As if it could hold more than just torn flesh. As if it could hold her.

You’ve always been good at this. Your instructors used to call your sutures textbook-perfect—you never thought much of it. Only now, with Ellie do you realize what it means to offer your hands in the shape of care.

You wish you could touch her slumped shoulders with bare hands. Wish you could smooth every bruise the world left on her. But all you do is pierce her skin again. Add another mark to the map she never asked for. All you leave is another scar.

“Why do you do it?”

You try to make it sound casual, to fill the silence.

Ellie’s breath hitches—barely—but you hear it. The echo of it travels through the room, mixing with the low hum of ventilation.

“Do what? The job?”

“The ambulance.”

“Stop asking stupid questions,” she hits back without a blink. You pull the stitch through, shifting on your chair, and continue your reasoning unbothered.

“First aid’s everything. Surgeries, diagnoses—all that’s important. But the first five or ten minutes? They decide everything. Whether someone makes it to the OR… or doesn’t.” you pause to hold the nylon in your fingers in a different way. Then you go on.

“Most people don’t stick with it. It’s dirty. Dangerous. People die in your hands, in your arms. Then you do it again the next day.”

You look at her in an endless try to understand.

“So why did you stay?” your whisper caresses across her cheek.

“I don’t have some grand story for you.” her response curls around your lips.

You reach for the metal tray, taking a fresh gauze pad. Your eyes linger on her skin for a moment—torn, red, angry. The suture is almost finished.

“Everyone’s got one. Oncologists lose someone. Surgeons want to fix what couldn’t be fixed before. There’s always a story.”

“What’s yours?” Ellie raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t change the subject.” you smile, but it’s faint. She doesn't.

The needle breaks the quiet. She watches your hands, not your face. Ellie sighs sharply, runs her palm over her face.

“I lived. Others didn’t,” she says at last. There’s something hollow in the way the words come out. Like it’s been rehearsed, over and over in her head, but never out loud. “You said—five-ten minutes decide everything. Well, they decided.”

You crashed ninety-nine times before. She’s your hundred. She says it like dying is just one of the possible outcomes of being alive. Like she's already built a home inside that guilt and calls it survival.

You pause to tie another knot.

You want to say something like: You don’t owe the world your suffering. Or: You were just a kid. Or even: You made it out. I’m glad you did. But none of it feels right. None of it feels enough.

So you lean in just slightly, close enough for her to feel it even if you never touch her. And your voice is a whisper that brushes her shoulder, that doesn't try to fix her. Would it heal her if you’d kiss the freckle on her shoulder?

“They decided wrong.”

Your final stitch is tight and clean. Unshakable. It won’t make the scar disappear, but it will smooth it, maybe. Neat. Almost invisible in the right light.

For one heartbeat, you’re not a doctor.

You’re just someone sewing the person they love back into herself. One thread at a time.

Subject: Paperwork Criteria Comment

Good morning,

I had some time to look over your submitted paperwork. Unfortunately, I do not think it meets company criteria. See my notes, and we will re-evaluate. 

Regards, Caitlyn Kiramman

Fuck Caitlyn Kiramman. You had spent all night making sure that paperwork was up to par – see her notes? God, how the fuck did she have time to do her own paperwork, and then find time to nitpick your paperwork. You had not had enough coffee to deal with the heir of the Kiramman business.

Caitlyn had joined the company a couple months ago, some bullshit about working her way up from the bottom as if her last name was not plastered on the side of the building. Though, you did feel for the girl. She was trying, at least. The emails made the empathy harder. And they were, for some reason, only directed at you.

Subject: Re: Paperwork Criteria Comment

Dear Caitlyn Kiramman,

Fuck you. Literally and Figuratively.

Warm Regards.

You had meant to backspace. Instead, you're met with the ever-familiar whoosh! sound of an email sending. Fuck. 3 googles searches later, and you learn that emails cannot be deleted. And you probably were going to be fired for your email cursing at the boss's daughter. 

Which is how you find yourself, at Caitlyn’s desk, praying she had not opened her email yet. While you wait, you wonder if you should have brought something for her; maybe she liked cupcakes? All you had to offer was the granola bar, ungraciously squished in the bottom of your bag. Fuck.

Heels click against the floor, and the clouds around your head seem to disappear as your eyes meet hers. Her eyebrow raises slightly, before she speaks, “What’re you doing here?” she asks, and she sounds confused; which makes sense, it's not as though people were lining up to talk to the boss’s daughter. Actually, nobody had lined up.

“Hi Caitlyn,” you greet, and then wince at your inability to be nonchalant. “I don’t know if we’ve met before, I’m–,” you start, and she cuts you off. Okay, Great. 

“I know who you are,” she says, before realizing that she had cut you off, murmuring a quick, “Sorry for interrupting. I’ve seen you around,” she says, as if she hasn’t been sending you nitpicky emails spanning over the last couple months. 

“Oh.” you falter, before nodding, trying not to get deterred. “Oh, okay well I was wondering if you had a chance to check your email because I sent you something by accident and it looks really bad, but I swear that's not what I meant–,” you ramble, as she takes out her phone and opens her email. Fuck. Maybe she would get really chill for the first time ever. 

Her lips quirk up at the email. Maybe she thought it was funny. You hoped so. The job market was brutal. “So you don’t want to fuck me literally or figuratively?” she asks, and your face turns to one of mortification fairly quickly. And she laughs– Actually full-on laughs. You had emailed her a bunch of curse words, and here she was, laughing. 

You look, somehow, even more appalled, as manicured nails reach for the water on her desk, taking a sip after her laughter quells. “I’m sorry– it’s not funny.” she murmurs, and somehow the way her accent wraps around the words make the crudeness of your email sound polished. “It’s alright. I’m sure the emails must be irritating, in their own capacity. I’m sorry,” she apologies, and you blink at her; was this a dream? The Caitlyn Kiramman, apologizing to you? You tried not to pay attention to the lilt of her voice, and the way her accent curled around her words. God, she was so posh.

“No! It’s okay– they aren’t that bad. Just frustrating sometimes,” you admit, and the way she looks at you doesn’t seem judgemental or angry – she seems to revel in your presence. You realize, with a slight pang in your heart, guilt maybe, this was probably the most Caitlyn had actually spoken with a co-worker in the year and a half she’d been working here. “Uh– where’d you go for lunch? I’ve been looking for new places,” you throw out, and the smile that she tries to push down is unmistakable. God, she was cute. 

Which is how you find yourself, slowly becoming friends with Caitlyn. The shift is gradual, of course, granted your email, but she seemed to find you amusing. And you enjoyed the reserved smiles that seemed to become a commonality in your presence. First she takes you out to some cafe; hidden away in the bustling street, and the servers seem to know (and adore) her. It was scrappy, but the food was some of the best you’d ever had, and the company might have been better. 

The real Caitlyn was nothing close to what you imagined; she was witty and incredibly sharp, and her laughter was elegant, but she was also kind. The way she would look over your reports – the comments weren’t meant to be nitpicky, they were meant to help you grow. The way she would lend a hand to co-workers who were known for demeaning her position in the company – (nepotism, they called it. You knew better.) The way she seemed delighted to have a friend who was a co-worker; the coffees on your desk before an early meeting, lunches together. You had invited her out to a bar once, after work; she was thrilled, in her own unspoken way. You also learned that Caitlyn couldn’t handle her alcohol. She learned that you did not consider her emails thoughtful flirting. 

So she shifted her approach. The emails were consistent, but they were accompanied by invitations to get dinner together after work. Dinner at very exclusive hard-to-get-into places, which she had no problem getting either of you into. She didn’t correct the hostess when she referred to the two of you as “Mrs. & Mrs. Kiramman.” Neither did you.

Subject: Overtime Query 

Greetings, 

I noticed that you were planning to stay overtime to review your presentation. Coincidentally, as am I, and I was wondering if you’d like to get dinner together afterwards. I have a reservation at 7 o’ clock for 2. I look forward to seeing you. 

Warm Regards,

Caitlyn Kiramman

Dinner that had spiraled into her tongue on you, and somehow she had more skills past her flawless grammar and pristine work ethic. “I have no interest in casual. You’re mine. Obviously,” she had said, after the 4th or 5th time together. Which is how you found yourself arriving to work with Caitlyn. People had muttered, and started; you were sure your names had been thrown around by the watercooler. You couldn’t find it in yourself to care when her manicured hands had curled into yours as you walked to the parking lot.

Today had been a particularly trying day, long meetings and not enough sleep (Caitlyn had returned from a business trip of 3 days, and had taken it upon herself to prove how much she missed you. You already knew how much she missed you. She sent you 12 emails. You didn’t protest.) 

“Can you grab me some coffee too—” you begin, looking up as you hear the unmistakable sounds of her heels – Louboutins today – as she approaches your desk , and she cuts you off as she places the warm cup onto your desk.

 “Already did. Just the way you like it.” is all she mutters, and your lips quirk upwards at the way her ears redden.

“Careful Kiramman, I might think you like me,” you tease.

Subject: I know you didn’t eat lunch.

Meet in my office in 15? I brought food for you. 

Love,

Caitlyn Kiramman

It’s not that you don’t love each other. You love Ellie very much. But after days stuck in a cramped car, baking in the sweltering summer weather, with little to no distractions and someone's less-than-stellar navigation skills? Yeah, you’ve pissed each other off once. Or twice. Or more than a few times.

The stereo went kaput. I-Spy outlived its welcome. Every last surface inside the vehicle feels warm to the touch. It’s too hot—unbearably so. Even with the windows rolled down, you’re both sweating, forced to sit and endure the stifling heat of the car, the sun ablaze above. At least you’d both showered that morning at the last motel as one small mercy. The final saving grace now is that it’s late afternoon, the golden-hour glow softening the temperature just a little, casting the sky in gentler hues.

You’ve both stared ahead at the road in silence for fifteen tense minutes. It started right after you dropped the bombshell that you had, in fact, forgotten to warn Ellie about a turn an hour ago, therefore sending you on an unintended detour.

A few choice words were exchanged. After some apologetic, doe-eyed looks from you, Ellie somehow managed to rein in her patience like a saint, considering the only other option was to toss you out onto the dirt highway.

Actually, Ellie did something even more concerning.

She went silent.

She simply turned the car around, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes squinting at the road, saying absolutely nothing. Not a peep. And Ellie going mute after a fuck-up like this? Far more alarming than if she had just let loose on you.

You don’t want to poke the bear—it’s your mistake, after all. But the tension is insufferable, and the last thing you wish for is your perfect, soft, pretty, can-do-no-wrong and please-don’t-throw-me-out-on-the-side-of-the-road girlfriend to stay angry at you over your piss-poor sense of direction. She won’t even look at you. And while you’re trying to give her space, you can’t stand the silence anymore.

Luckily, the greatest conversation starter makes its appearance just then.

“Cows,” you point out, daintily tilting your fingers toward a herd off in the distance.

Ellie doesn’t bite. Damn, not even the cows could get her. You need to fix this and fast.

Ellie looks great, too great, even while overtly pissed at you. Her side profile is gorgeous: hair a burnished copper this season, soft nose, pillowy lips, agate-green gaze locked on the road ahead, colors as striking as ever. Her skin’s slightly reddened, kissed by the sun, constellations of freckles emerging boldly this time of year from all the exposure.

She’s in a loose, off-white tank top; it’s simply too hot for layers. You worry about her exposed skin, already a warm golden tan, quickly turning a sensitive pink since she burns easily, but she insists it’s fine. And she looks lovely, albeit tired and grumpy toward you. 

“Sunset’s pretty,” you murmur a few minutes later, your voice a little more unsteady than before.

She knows you feel bad—you know she knows—but you also understand why she’s ticked off. It’s just a matter of time and some persuasion.

Ellie merely grunts, flicking her gaze out the window for a brief glance. You consider it a success. Maybe the first verbal acknowledgment that you’re not completely dead to her since revealing your mistake.

“But you know what’s prettier?” you try, knowing full well that leading with such a corny line will either fail miserably or work spectacularly.

Ellie rolls her eyes, which means you’re getting somewhere. If she cares enough to roll her eyes, you can lure her into more reactions. You fight back the urge to look too pleased, shifting as much as the seatbelt will allow to face her more directly.

“You.”

“Okay, I don’t hate you—” Ellie cuts off your attempt at flirting with an exasperated sigh. “You’re just shit at reading a map. Have you checked again? If you tell me we missed something else, I’m leaving you at the next gas stop—”

“Ellie Williams,” you interrupt, shaking your head to confirm you haven’t missed another turn—after doing a quick double-check, just in case.

Your hand reaches over, lightly tracing her leg in a subtle, supportive gesture.

“Ellie, could we stop for a bit?”

“What, why?” Ellie asks, finally peering at you for a brief moment. You’re as awestruck as ever at how the golden-hour light reflects in her eyes, making them even more vibrant despite her lingering annoyance.

“I just… need a rest. We could use a rest. A moment to look at the sunset, maybe?” you try to play it smooth.

Ellie doesn’t fully understand, but she won’t complain about a break. Her head’s starting to spin from the relentless heat and the never-ending highway ahead.

Ellie pulls off to the side of the road. Not secluded, but after passing maybe two cars all afternoon, it’s about as isolated as you can get. She immediately stretches every part of her body, flexing and cracking stiff muscles and joints, sore from the long hours of driving and from sitting so tensely with frustration toward you. A relieved sigh escapes her before she slumps back into her seat. Closing her eyes, tilting her face toward the sun, soaking in the chance to breathe after an exhausting day of travel.

And forget trying to persuade her to let you take the wheel—Ellie’s far too stubborn to hand over driver duty. Though after today’s debacle, you might have a shot at convincing her by reminding her of your map-reading skills.

You let her rest for a few minutes, alternating between admiring her and rummaging in the backseat for the water bottles that had rolled out of reach while driving.

Nudging the cap of a drink against her lips, you silently prompt her to take it. She accepts it, swallowing a few gulps, cooling down.

And once again, you can’t help but look at her. Your girlfriend is nothing short of ethereal—there’s no other way to describe it. She never lets you dote on her as much as you’d like, but she can’t control your damn thoughts. To you, she’s the most beautiful thing in the world.

“I meant it,” you break the silence.

“Meant… wha?” Ellie asks, dazed.

“You,” you murmur, leaning in just enough to make her notice, your voice dipping into something saccharine, suggestive. “You are the prettiest girl in the world.”

Ellie’s pupils dilate the moment your words land. She swallows thickly, throat bobbing, the tension between you sharpening until it's suddenly thick enough to cut with a knife.

Your fingers trace slow, lazy circles against the warm skin of her thigh, the motion almost absentminded but surely deliberate. Ellie exhales through her nose, like she’s trying to steady herself, like she’s not about to let you get to her so easily.

“Yeah?” her voice comes out rough, a little uneven. “You think sweet talk is gonna save you,” she mutters, a weak layer of defense, trying to will herself to sound unaffected.

Your coyness isn’t lost on her. Not at all.

“Maybe not sweet talk…” your gaze drifts to Ellie’s neck. Licking your lips, eyes darkening, hungering for her. You lean in across the console, tucking your face into Ellie’s neck, pressing tender kisses on her salt-laced skin. You feel the faint pulse quicken beneath your lips, setting off a flutter of butterflies in your stomach that only urges you to take things further.

Ellie tenses, one hand shakily releasing the bottle to a cup holder, the other white-knuckling the steering wheel. She throws her head back, a deep sigh expelling the tension of the day and granting you better access. You can tell she still hasn’t fully let go yet, so you coax her between your kisses.

“C’mon Els… let me show you how sorry I am,” it turns into a plea, tinging higher as your kisses turn more fervent, the taste of her skin and your searing attraction bubbling over every passing second. Your hand on her leg starts an ascent upward to her more sensitive area, tugging at her shorts, occasionally dipping and squeezing her inner thigh.

“Let me make you feel good, please,” you ask again, and the dam breaks. Ellie’s stubborn composure shatters, her breaths grow wanton, shifting so her legs spread as far as the driver’s seat allows.

“Fuck, I’m still mad—aah,” Ellie whinges in a feigned last-ditch attempt, before your hands fully slip into her shorts, teasing her by rubbing the middle of her damp boxers. Finally tucking them inside, you can’t withhold your own gasp as you feel her wetness coat your fingers while trailing her soaked folds, causing Ellie’s ramble to abruptly catch in a choked gasp.

“So wet… Els, you’re so hot. Let me—”

“Fuck me, please,” Ellie seizes the moment with a rough whimper, giving you permission to indulge in her.

Your ravenous fingers start circling her clit, dipping ever so slightly inside her entrance while her hips buck, aching for more friction. All the while, your mouth stays latched to her neck and upper chest.

At an unfortunate moment, your elbow clangs the center dash, a sharp hiss escaping as your teeth graze Ellie’s neck.

“Ow, shit, can we move to the backseat?”

You and Ellie clamber to the back, klutzy in your thoughts, hazed twice over by desire and the day’s heat. Ellie impatiently attempts to crawl over the front seat and land in the back, kicking up her legs carelessly to get her shorts off as fast as possible. The sight springs a few giggles between you.

You dash out the side, opening the door and scattering your belongings to make way. Ellie lies back with her bottom half fully nude, her head resting against the car window, legs spread so far the stretch is making her thighs ache, inviting you in. You crawl in after her, nestling on your knees, splayed out to finger her and circle her cherry-red clit with your tongue in the same go.

“Aahh, ahh… so good…” Ellie’s voice cracks, brows knitted together and lips parted in a pornographic ‘O’ as you go down on her.

You’re both moaning, you into her cunt, Ellie making music up to the car’s ceiling. She tries to mouth a semblance of words but only babbles, no thoughts, head empty, pleasure soaring. You devour her, just as needy for her ambrosial taste, silently praising the heavens that your plea for forgiveness ended with your tongue deep inside her.

You lick a thick stripe up to her clit, feeling the rearing bud twitch on your tongue as you swirl—lapping like every drop of her juices is the only relief from the heat above.

The expert onslaught of your tongue and fingers clouds Ellie’s senses in white-hot pleasure, more of her slick running down your chin. Her chest heaves, rosebud nipples hardening beneath the thin fabric of her tank, one hand reaching up to toy with it while the other braces against the steamy window.

She begins to tremble, breath coming in short, ragged bursts as you continue—mouth and fingers moving in perfect rhythm to bring her to the edge. A distinct cry and arch of her back tell you she’s cumming, but you don’t stop until she rides out the high.

You only relent when her hand tangles in your hair and pulls, a pathetic, overstimulated whimper breaking through that it’s too much. And even then it’s difficult to pull away, but you don’t want to be driving well past midnight.

It seems to have done the trick. Ellie’s sitting there, as gorgeous as ever, both of you glowing with a thin sheen of sweat from the heat and now your “apology.” She’s mellowed out, her brain still dumbed out. You taste the last traces of her sweetness on your lips, savoring it before reaching over to the dash to check the map.

“Nearest town is… forty-five out. Want me to take the wheel?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Ellie grumbles with no malice, affection peeking its way back through, pointing to the driver’s side—because yes, you can finally take the wheel.