Dionysus

butch!cassie mckay who takes bimbo!user shopping and lets them swatch makeup on the back of her hand, grumbling and complaining the entire time whilst she carries all the bags around the mall (but secretly loving it) butch!cassie mckay who isn't afraid of putting men in place when they flirt with bimbo!user, immediately becoming possessive and having her hands all over bimbo!user butch!cassie mckay who LOVES when bimbo!user wears stockings and makes them keep the stockings on whilst they take her strap butch!cassie mckay who warns bimbo!user not to wear certain shoes when they're going out for the day, knowing they'll be walking a lot and it will hurt their feet (butch!cassie mckay who caves and ends up carrying bimbo!user around when they start complaining)

butch!cassie mckay loves babying bimbo!user and looking after them, even though they are fully capable of doing things themself. but they're cassies princess and should be treated as such

Maya’s only been in her office for a few blissfully uninterrupted minutes when Sal appears in her doorway. 

“Knock, knock!” 

His voice is bright, unusually chipper. It immediately puts Maya’s hackles up. She’s preparing for a major meeting this afternoon, an update on several big projects. There are numbers to gather and pitches to perfect. But something tells her Sal is here to derail all that. 

“I’m busy,” she says, eyes flickering away from her laptop screen for only a moment as her fingers continue flying over the keys.

“Totally, totally,” he laughs, stepping inside and closing the door despite this obvious warning from her glossy lips. “Just wanted to get a quick update on Legion.” 

She sighs, realizing he isn’t going away, and closes her laptop temporarily.

“They’re on Lot 12 for the next few weeks,” she recites. “Just got back from filming on location.” 

“Right, gotcha,” Sal nods. “And…have you heard anything about the director?” 

Maya’s phone buzzes. She slips it out of her pocket, reads the notification, typing out a quick reply.

“Just the usual, that he’s a prick with an over-inflated ego, yada yada yada,” Maya says without looking up from her phone. 

Sal nods, trying not to look too worried. Which of course means that he looks very fucking worried. 

Maya pinches the bridge of her nose. “What’s wrong?” 

His eyes dart around the room, like he expects an entertainment reporter to be lurking behind the ficus. 

“Apparently there was…an accident on set this morning,” he says. When Maya’s eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline in alarm, he seems to rethink his choice of words. “Or…more of an incident.” 

She puts her phone down, fixing him with a glare. “Well which is it?” 

“Accident. Minor. Nothing too grisly,” he assures her. “But there’s a stunt actor involved and she is pissed. I was hoping, maybe, you could swing by? Smooth it over?” 

“A stuntie?” Maya narrows her eyes. “Isn’t that a bit beneath my pay grade?” 

Sal laughs, that nervous fake laugh that sets her teeth on edge. He wanders over to the shelf that’s crowded with all of her industry awards, fiddling with a shiny silver cup. 

And she knows with a sudden rush of clarity that she’s not getting the full story. 

“I wouldn’t normally ask, it’s just that production is already a little behind schedule,” he says, still fidgeting. “We don’t need more drama. Just figured you could work your magic and make this go away before it turns into a real problem.” 

Maya bristles at the clumsy attempt at flattery.

“Don’t touch that.” 

He immediately retracts his hands, trying not to squirm as he awaits her reply. 

Maya glances at her laptop. There’s a lot riding on this presentation. She’s made a career out of being the woman who moves mountains, defines culture, makes trends. 

And her reputation at Continental hinges on her ability to deliver results consistently. With awards season looming, the lineup of productions is under more scrutiny than ever. 

She knows they can’t afford any scandals right now, however minor the players might be. Scandals lead to delays, and delays lead to lost dollars, budget bloat…

“Fine,” she seethes. “I’ll stop by later.” 

Sal hesitates. “I really feel time is of the essence on this one.” 

Maya presses her lips together. “Christ, Sally, your panties are really in a twist over this,” she hisses, glaring at him. Then: “Name?” 

Sal closes his eyes briefly in relief, giving Maya your name. She jots it down on a sticky note. Then Sal is thanking Maya, backing out of her office, hands clasped in prayer pose. 

In the silence after his departure, she glances at the name. She whispers it, letting the syllables roll off her tongue. 

“Hmm,” she murmurs to herself. “Pretty.”

Then she stands up, grabs her bomber jacket, and stalks out of the office with all the purpose of a heat-seeking missile. 

______

As soon as she arrives at the lot, Maya can feel the tension buzzing in the air. The director is hunched in his chair, sulking as he stares at a clipboard. A few sound guys are huddled around a large boom mic, adjusting the settings. But Maya gets the sense that they’re mostly pretending to look busy, killing time while they wait for…something. 

She grabs a passing AD and recites your name. “Where can I find her?“

“She’s in that trailer,” he says, pointing to a nearby outbuilding. Maya squints, swiping her distance glasses off her head and bringing everything into focus. 

She makes a small noise of surprise in the back of her throat. Pretty nice digs for a stuntie. 

But as she draws even with the door, she sees the name “Melanie Sweet” emblazoned on the star at the center and  everything clicks into place. 

So, you’re not just any stunt double. You’re Melanie Sweet’s stunt double. 

The actress has been getting plenty of buzz this season. She’s beautiful, funny, fresh. Her star is definitely on the rise.

Maya’s thoughts are interrupted as she approaches. There are raised voices coming from inside the trailer. She pauses outside the door, listening. 

“You can’t keep protecting him!”

And Maya goes still. She’s pretty sure that’s Melanie’s voice. She’s watched enough interviews and press junkets to recognize her. And it seems like Sal’s intel (pitiful though it was) got at least one thing right: drama is brewing.

Because if Melanie’s involved, it’s more serious than she originally thought. If Melanie’s involved, this whole thing could easily become a disaster. 

Maya straightens her shoulders, then gives a little courtesy knock before climbing the steps. 

It’s dark and cool in the trailer. You glance up when Maya walks in. For a heartbeat, you hold her gaze. And it feels like an eternity gets compressed into that single second. 

She sees you, sizing her up. The guarded expression on your face gives little away. Maya stares right back, studying, surprised by what she sees. 

Like most stunt doubles, you’ve got a killer body. Lithe frame, defined arms, toned legs. But it’s your face that really stands out. You’re pretty enough to be a movie star in your own right—strong jaw, dark eyes, full lips. 

Then Melanie turns, and time speeds back up. 

“Finally,” she says. “Are you from Continental?”

Maya opens her mouth to reply, but is momentarily stunned by the intense resemblance between you, which extends beyond height and build into facial similarities. 

You could be sisters.

“Maya Mason,” she says, refocusing on the problem at hand. “Head of Marketing for the studio.” 

Melanie shakes her hand, but it’s perfunctory. You don’t even make that much of an effort, just glancing at the offered appendage and grimacing. 

Maya feels a flutter of indignation. Rude. 

She drops her hand, pressing ahead nonetheless.

“Well,” she says, putting on her most charming smile and glancing between you. “I heard there was some trouble on set this morning. How can I be of service?”

Her gaze settles on you, expecting a well-prepared tirade. She even has her rote response ready. But you just stare at the floor, saying nothing. And for a second she feels a smug satisfaction. This is the Maya Mason touch. There’s no wrinkle she can’t smooth. Her mere presence is enough to—

“Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking stubborn,” Melanie growls at you, interrupting Maya’s premature self-congratulatory monologue.

“Sorry,” Maya says, eyes flickering back and forth between you. “I’m not following…”

“She didn’t complain,” Melanie says, crossing her arms. “She’s too noble, thinks it goes against some kind of honor code.” 

Maya blinks. “Well then who—“ 

“I did.” 

And oh shit, Maya thinks. No wonder Sal was worried. Because a surly stuntie is one thing…but a pissed off movie star is something else entirely. 

“What’s the problem?” Maya asks, smile starting to crack at the edges as the stress mounts. “I’m sure we can—“

“The stunt coordinator almost killed her.” 

It’s like the air gets sucked out of the room. Maya sees your breathing stutter in your chest, feels her own lips part in surprise. But Melanie doesn’t back down. Her claim is blunt, full of a furious conviction. And for a second, Maya can’t help it admire the way she says it — with zero apology. 

Then her crisis management brain kicks into overdrive and she clears her throat. 

“That’s quite an accusation,” Maya says, glancing at you, hoping for some additional insight. But your face remains blank, neutral, giving away nothing. 

Except…that’s not entirely true, Maya realizes as she looks at you for a little longer. She notices a faint sheen of sweat on your forehead. The way you’ve gone a bit pale. Are the nerves getting to you? The stress? 

“It’s true,” Melanie spits, doubling down and pulling Maya’s focus back into the converstion. “The past week has been non-stop, one breakneck stunt after another. We’re behind schedule. Shaun spent too much time on-location, and now he’s taking it out on her.” 

Maya exhales slowly, fighting the headache that’s building right behind her eyes. It’s clear there’s no love lost between Melanie Sweet and Shaun Fritz, the prickly German director. 

She opens her mouth, uncertain how to navigate this quagmire. But then you speak for the first time. 

“You should head back to set, Mel.” 

Your voice is low, threaded with exhaustion and something else Maya can’t quite put her finger on. But there’s a steely undercurrent. Something steady. Final. 

Melanie glances at you, eyes shining with concern. She breathes your name, exasperated and maybe a little apologetic. “Please, you can’t just—“

“I’ll handle it,” you say, and you give her a soft smile of reassurance. “I promise. Go ahead, they need you out there.” 

Melanie glances at you for a beat longer, then her gaze slides to Maya who squares her shoulders and nods. 

“You get back to work, do what you do best,” Maya soothes, going into coddling-the-talent mode. “We’ll fix this, you have my word.”

And although she still looks a bit mistrustful, Melanie finally leaves the trailer. 

Then it’s just you and Maya. 

The silence is…heavy, almost intimate as you sag a bit further against the kitchenette countertop. 

“Thanks,” you say, voice soft and weary. The word slips out before you can stop it. 

For a second, your eyes flutter shut. It’s like the last bit of fight has gone out of you, and you’re giving yourself a moment to regroup. 

Maya feels an uncharacteristic hesitation, wonders if she should give you a bit of privacy. But she can’t look away. You’re half in costume, half out. Wearing tactical pants and a tank-top spattered with grime and fake blood. 

It’s not just that you’re hot. There’s something raw, magnetic about you. Maya admires the strong slope of your shoulders, the plane of your abs just visible beneath the shirt. She opens her mouth to say…what? She’s not sure, feeling strangely off-balance. 

But then you open your eyes, and there’s a renewed determination there. You reach down and start rummaging carefully through a drawer. It’s like Maya isn’t even in the room. The previous moment evaporates. 

“You can go,” you say, barely sparing her a glance as you continue searching the kitchenette. 

Maya bristles at being dismissed. 

“Uh, no, I can’t just go,” Maya says, waving her hand and jangling about a dozen gold bracelets in the process. “We need to talk about the allegations against your stunt coordinator —“

“Forget it ever happened,” you say, voice tight. “There’s no official record of this conversation, and I’m not corroborating her claims. You’re off the hook.”

Despite the fact that this solution would make her life much easier, Maya feels heat flushing her cheeks. “Are you telling me how to do my job?” 

You snort, derisive and impatient, opening another drawer and finding a small first aid kit. “I’m giving you a get-out-of-jail-free card. Melanie’s a sweet kid, but she’s barking up the wrong tree.”

Maya frowns, her curiosity piqued. “So the stunt coordinator isn’t the problem?” 

For the first time, your mask slips a bit and you bow your head just slightly. And you look like someone who’s barely holding it together. Like someone who just said something they didn’t mean to say. Maya feels her heart clench unexpectedly. You can’t be more than 25 years old. And you look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders. 

“We’re not having this conversation,” you bite out. “Remember?” 

Again, you don’t look up. And it’s starting to drive Maya a little bit crazy. She’s used to people fawning all over her, trying to ingratiate themselves, cozying up to the power she represents. She’s unaccustomed to being ignored. 

Although, she reasons, it does afford her the opportunity to openly admire the fine muscles and tendons in your arms, your neck; her gaze drifts down, appreciatively, glancing at the curve of your ass…

The drawer slams shut, and Maya jumps slightly.

“Hey, Corporate Barbie,” you snap, unlocking the first aid kit and checking the contents. “Did I not make myself clear? If you’re not walking away in the next 30 seconds, you’re an idiot.” 

And now she really sees red. 

“What the fuck?” She growls. “You can’t talk to me like that. Nobody talks to me like that.”

And finally, you look up at her. 

Your eyes are glassy, a little faraway. Sweat trickles down from your hairline. You blink once, hard, like you’re trying to clear cobwebs from your vision. And when you finally manage to refocus on Maya, it’s with considerable effort.

“I just did,” you say through gritted teeth, closing the kit again. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to get back to work. You know, that thing some of us actually do for a living?”

You move towards the door, intending to brush right past her. At the last minute, Maya reaches up and grabs your bicep. Because she’s not done talking to you. Because this conversation is over when she says it’s over. 

“Listen to me you little—“

The remaining color in your face drains away in an instant. You cry out, your knees nearly buckle. 

And whatever Maya was going to say dies on her tongue. She retracts her hand immediately and leaps back, startled. 

“Shit! What the fuck?” 

You don’t answer for a few seconds. Your face is twisted by an expression of obvious pain, your breathing ragged as you try to speak. It takes several seconds before you manage to form the words.

“I dislocated my shoulder,” you say, teeth gritted. “On that last take. And I need to …pop it back in place.” 

Mayas mouth falls open. 

“What the fuck,” she breathes. “You’ve been standing there all…dislocated? This whole time? Why didn’t you say something?” 

She steps toward you, wanting to help, but pauses when you flinch away. The look of uncertainty in your eyes actually makes her sick to her stomach. 

“I’m not …I won’t touch you again,” she says, voice softening at the edges as her adrenaline subsides. “Let me call medical.” 

She’s already reaching for her phone when you shake your head, stiffening as the pain lances through you again. 

“Don’t be an idiot,” she snaps, concern and frustration bleeding through her words. “You’re hurt.” 

“No shit,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “But if you get medical involved it’ll be a formal accident with paperwork and everything. Plus they’ll make me leave set for the day, maybe longer. And production is already behind schedule. That’s why you’re here isn’t it?” 

Maya looks at you, not enjoying the way you seem to have sized her and her priorities up so accurately. Because yeah, there’s no part of her that wants to allow this project to get derailed. But she still has the nagging feeling that she’s not getting the full story from you, and she hates that.

She’s chewing her lip as she considers your words. And then…wait, are the corners of your mouth quirking up? 

“What?” She snaps.

“Nothing,” you say, sticking your tongue into the pocket of your cheek to fight the smile that’s threatening to steal across your face. “It’s just…I guess I am telling you how to do your job.” 

Little shit, Maya thinks. 

When you laugh, she realizes she said the words out loud. 

“Guilty,” you murmur, voice tired but warm. 

She flushes a very becoming shade of pink. And for a second you just hold her gaze, smirking and looking so pleased with yourself. 

Neither one of you backing down. 

Neither one of you apologizing. 

And the tension in the room stretches into something else entirely. Maya feels her stomach do a very inconvenient somersault, eyes flickering down to your lips. 

But then you move wrong and your face contorts, you hiss in pain. Maya shakes her head. She needs to call someone. This is ridiculous. 

“Look,” you say, cutting her off before she can default into crisis management mode again. “Mel and I have a big sequence this afternoon. A fall. The rig is set up for me. No one else can do it. I know all the choreography, I have to be there...” 

Maya glares, half-exasperated and half-impressed by the ridiculous proposal you seem to be making.

“You can’t work like this,” she says. “You can barely stand up.” 

But Maya feels her resolve weakening. Because there’s merit to your argument, even if she doesn’t understand the full extent of the motivations behind it.

“I’ve done it before,” you tell her, and now she detects a little bravado in your tone, a hint of absurd swagger. “One time in New Zealand I worked for three days with a broken wrist.” 

Maya’s eyes widen in alarm at this claim, at the way you seem to wear it like a badge of honor. She knows stunt actors are patently crazy—adrenaline junkies, thrill seekers. But it’s one thing to hear about it and another thing to see it right in front of her. 

“That’s insane,” she says flatly, trying to remain unimpressed. 

“Occupational hazard,” you counter, and somehow you manage a smile so cocksure and charming that Maya feels her stomach do a little flip. “So, are you in or are you out?” 

And Maya thinks about the meeting she has later this afternoon. How she needs to give an update on a handful of highly anticipated projects. How Legion is one of those projects that the studio is counting on. How they can’t really afford to fall further behind schedule.  

If she was thinking purely with her studio hat, she would have walked away by now. But there’s something about you that makes her waver.

She groans in frustration. 

“Okay,” she says, swallowing back the bitter taste in her mouth, suppressing the instinct that tells her to put you in her car and drive you straight to the nearest hospital. “What’s the plan?” 

“Right,” you say, drawing your attention back to the problem at hand. “I’ll be fine once I pop it back into place.” 

Maya nods. “And how do we do that?” 

You blink. You can’t hide the surprise that flashes across your face when she says this. Because you sort of expected her to disappear by now, leave you to sort it out yourself.

In your experience, execs don’t fraternize with the crew. It goes against the pecking order. And they certainly don’t get their hands dirty. But here’s this powerhouse of a woman deferring to your decision. More than that…she’s taking you seriously, respecting your call, even rolling up her sleeves to get the work done. 

“We?” You repeat, a little dazed as she brushes her hair out of her face, a look of concentration pinching the delicate skin around her eyes. 

Maya scoffs in disbelief at your question. “I agreed not to call medical, fine, but I’m not leaving you like this. You look… pathetic.” 

And the pain must be making you delirious now, because there’s a little tug of arousal in your belly at hearing that word - pathetic - leave her mouth. For just a second you imagine her shoving you down on the sofa, framing your waist with her long legs and sinking into your lap…

“Besides,” she says, snapping you out of your daydream. “I dated a professional baseball player a few years ago. I watched him do this once.” 

She doesn’t mention the fact that he screamed like a baby, that the pain was so intense he almost puked. 

“Alright,” you say, because you’re really not in a position to refuse the help she’s offering. “It’s actually a lot easier with another person.” 

You draw yourself up to your full height, lips pressed into a thin line of determination. Then you shuffle a bit closer, turning your injured shoulder toward her. 

And now that she’s really looking, she can see the unnatural way the bones are jutting through your skin, the absolute wreck of your posture as you try to stand in a way that doesn’t hurt. 

For a half-second, Maya wonders if she’s in over her head. But she swallows back her fear, pocketing her phone and awaiting instruction. 

“I’m going to lift my arm,” you explain in a low measured voice, seeming to sense her apprehension. “When I tell you, grab my wrist and pull it toward you. Like this.” 

You lift Maya’s arm with your good hand, then grip her wrist and apply pressure. Maya nods, but there’s a look of mounting panic on her face. It would be comical if it wasn’t so sincere. You realize you need to move quickly, to get this over with before she loses her nerve. 

“Wait,” she says, wringing her hands nervously. “What if I hurt you? I mean, what if I make it worse?” 

You stare at her for a moment. Something warm and sweet threatens to crack open in your chest. You’re not used to people worrying about you like this. It feels strange…and really nice if you’re being honest with yourself.

“You won’t,” you say, reassuring her softly. 

Maya frowns, worrying her bottom lip. “How do you know?” 

You glance away, afraid your face will betray all the emotions right at the surface. You cast around, desperate for something to cut the tension. 

“Because then you’d have to deal with a fuck ton of extra paperwork,” you tell her with a wink. 

A surprised snort bubbles out of her, some of the tightness in her chest easing. 

“You’re an idiot,” she says, fondness cutting through the words like a warm knife through butter. 

And despite all the pain you’re in, despite the stress of the morning, a goofy grin tugs at the corners of your mouth. 

You slowly lift your arm until it’s parallel to the floor. 

Maya watches the way your muscles flutter with pain and exhaustion. Once it’s high enough, you pause and take a deep breath. 

Her eyes find yours, waiting for your next instruction. 

“Now,” you grit.

Maya wraps her hand around your forearm and pulls. At the same time, you lean back, creating enough tension to recalibrate the joint. 

There’s a loud pop in the silence of the trailer. 

Maya cringes, wincing, expecting you to scream or at least cry out. 

But what you actually do is worse. Much worse. 

You whimper, a pathetic little noise that’s completely incongruous with the brave face you’ve been putting on this whole time.

Maya doesn’t hesitate, operating on instinct. She steps forward the moment you start to curl inward, catching you around the waist with her right arm. And you immediately put your weight on her, sagging, trying to catch your breath. 

She brings her other hand up, bracing against your back. The muscles there are hard, taut.

“D-did it work?” She asks after a few moments. 

Distantly, you register the feeling of her fingertips ghosting across your bare skin where your shirt has ridden up. It feels good, grounding. You sigh, but don’t say anything. At the moment it’s all you can do to not pass out. Your legs are like jelly, and there’s a sick nauseous feeling in your stomach.

“Mm-hmm,” you hum eventually, exhaustion bleeding into your voice. Maya feels the tickle of your breath against her neck, and a shiver of pleasure races down her spine. 

You stand like that for several long seconds, Maya half-holding you upright, tracing circles on your skin with her warm fingers. 

Finally, you shift. Your cheek brushes against her shoulder. Maya feels moisture soaking through the expensive fabric of her shirt. She realizes you’re crying. 

“For future reference, I think I’d prefer the paperwork,” she murmurs. “Corporate Barbie can handle it.”

And her heart leaps when she feels the rumble of your laughter. Finally, reluctantly, you disentangle yourself a little from her arms. Just enough to lean back and face her properly. The pain in your eyes has cleared. You still look tired, but less heavy. 

“Sorry about that,” you say, voice weary and warm. “I shouldn’t have said…you’re not…”

But you trail off, searching for the right words. 

Maya brings her hand up to your face. With her palm, she cradles the edge of your jaw. Her thumb strokes once across your cheek, brushing away the fresh tear tracks there. 

“Is this the part where you tell me I’m not like other girls?” She whispers, a cocky grin playing around the corners of her mouth. 

She keeps her voice low and steady. For some reason she doesn’t want to burst this little bubble of stillness, of peace. She gets the sense you don’t have many moments like this. 

Your mouth opens slightly—ostensibly to answer her—but the second her thumb brushes against your cheek, your eyelids flutter shut and Maya feels the little tremor in your shoulders, the way you sway forward just slightly. 

“Something like that,” you sigh, eyes crinkling with the ghost of an easy smile. 

You’re close enough that she can see the little splash of freckles across your nose, can smell the faint musk of shampoo and sweat on your scalp. It’s intoxicating. She swallows, forgetting to breathe. 

For a second it feels like it’s just the two of you against the world, here in this trailer. Everything else fades into the background. 

Then a bell rings outside. You both startle, separating, and the sudden movement makes you wince. 

“You should take something for the pain,” Maya says, reluctant to leave you even though there’s not much reason to stay. “Was there anything in that first aid kit?” 

You shake your head. “Just a brace and some bandages.” 

She deposits you on the sofa, careful not to jostle your arm. “I’ll check the bathroom,” she says. 

Maya’s rummaging through the vanity when there’s a loud knock at the front door of the trailer. She pauses, nerves on edge, but doesn’t say anything. 

“Just a minute,” you call, voice a bit sturdier now. 

The next thing Maya hears is a man’s voice. It’s a low growl, with a slight southern drawl. 

“Hey, kiddo,” he says. “You alright?”

“I’m always alright.” And there’s something warm in your voice, something familiar. Maya can tell you have genuine affection for this person, whoever he is. 

“I must have checked that harness a dozen times.” And there’s real pain in his voice now. Maya frowns. 

“It was an accident, Eli,” you say swiftly, not even allowing an apology to form.

She hovers in the bathroom, awkwardly clutching the small bottle of pills she found behind the mirror, straining to hear the next part of the conversation.  

“I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you,” he says. “I promised your old man.”

“Come on,” you say, dragging out the words playfully, attempting to cajole him back to cheerfulness. “It takes more than a little tumble to knock me off the board.” 

There’s a sniff, some shuffling, and then he chuckles. “I’ll see you back out there, kid.”  

When Maya re-enters the main room of the trailer, she finds you staring at the door. There’s a distant look in your eyes. 

She pours a glass of water, then hands you the pills. 

“Thanks,” you say, turning to face her properly and popping the meds in your mouth. 

“So,” Maya says, watching you carefully. “That’s who you’re protecting?” 

You give her a sidelong look, and there’s a flicker of warning in your eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Maya huffs in frustration. “Fine,” she says. “It’s your funeral.” 

Then she turns on the spot, running a hand through her hair. 

“Except it’s not fine,” she hisses, contradicting herself suddenly. “Because you dragged me into this mess. And now I know about this negligent old dinosaur! 

She fixes you with a glare, looking slightly deranged.  

“He’s not negligent,” you say calmly. 

“Really?” Maya huffs. “Tell that to your rotator cuff.” 

You take a deep breath.

“There’s a difference between negligence and human error,” you say slowly. “What happened today was an honest mistake, and it’s not worth anyone losing their job over.”  

Maya considers this, chewing her bottom lip, trying to decide if she believes this. Looking at you on the sofa, still cradling your arm, her throat gets tight with unexpected emotion. 

“You better be right,” she says. “Because if anything happens to you, I’ll kill you myself.” 

And you can hear concern shining through the words. It makes your chest feel warm. Part of you wishes you could stay right here, hidden in the little cubby of the trailer with her. But you know you have to get back out there, finish the day, keep the production on schedule. 

“Deal,” you say. 

Then, you push yourself up and off the sofa. 

Maya stands nearby, hands ghosting against your elbow in case you get lightheaded. The feel of her, so close, makes the back of your neck heat up. 

You turn so that you’re face-to-face with the other woman. Gingerly, you extend your hand to her, testing the strength of your shoulder. The pain is still there, throbbing distantly. You know it will hurt later when the swelling gets worse. 

Your palm is warm and rough when she grips it. A mischevious smile skates across your face, and Maya notices again that you are very pretty. 

Without warning, you lift her hand to your mouth and place a kiss just above her knuckles. 

“It was nice to meet you, Maya Mason, Head of Marketing for the studio.” 

Your words are chaste, sweet. But they’re laced with an unspoken apology for your earlier snub. They’re laced with gratitude, and tenderness, and teasing, and a dozen other emotions from this strange, surreal encounter. 

The feel of your lips moving against her hand, the sight of your heavy-lidded gaze holding hers, steals Maya’s breath completely. 

You step back, give her a little wink. “See you around.” 

Yelena bounded up the steps to the brownstone late in the afternoon, not even bothering to knock. The door swung open and she kicked off her boots, expecting to see Oscar running toward her. But the house was oddly quiet.

“Nat?” She called, striding into the kitchen. “I’m here to negotiate the return of your hostage.”

She opened the refrigerator, taking a long drink from the bottle of orange juice. The tangy sugary drink hit her tongue like lightning. She smacked her lips, then screwed the top back on and returned the bottle to the shelf on the door with a self-satisfied little smirk. Natasha hated when she did that.

Turning around, she noticed that the kitchen was a mess. Dirty dishes in the sink. The aroma of something sweet and savory hung in the air.

“Waffles!” she muttered the word like a curse. “Without me!”

She grabbed an apple out of the fruit bowl, taking an enormous bite as she jogged down the hall, climbing the stairs two at a time.

The upper floor was quiet too. Yelena stopped chewing, straining to hear. There was a soft murmuring of voices coming from the guest room.

She called your name as she opened the door. “Okay it’s time to give me back my—“

Yelena froze mid-sentence.

You were lying in bed. Wanda was scrambling backwards, sheets tangled around her waist. Both of you were half-dressed.

“Yelena,” you yelped, voice cracking as you struggled to sit up. Your eyes were glassy, cheeks flushed in surprise…and something else. “What are you doing here?”

In any other situation, the guilty expression on both your faces would have been priceless. But Yelena’s blood ran cold as she scanned the scene.

“I was worried about you,” she said flatly, breaking the tense silence. “Seems like you’re feeling better, though?”

You nodded, wincing a little. She shifted her attention to Wanda.

“Where’s my sister?” Her words were clipped, accusatory, and you physically flinched. Wanda instinctively reached out, gripping your hand. This only stoked Yelena’s outrage.

“Your wife?” She added, enunciating each syllable with knife-like precision.

“She took Oscar for a walk,” Wanda said calmly.

“Funny.” Yelena’s eyes flashed at you, flat and cruel as a shark going in for the kill. “Thought that was your job.”

You ducked your head, letting out a shaky breath. She’s right, she’s right, she’s right. What the fuck am I doing here?

Wanda stood up, intending to diffuse the situation. But you scrambled to your feet before she could speak.

“I was just about to head out.”

“Really?” Yelena arched a doubtful eyebrow at you, still clad in pajamas.

You swayed a little as the blood rushed to your head. But you blinked through it stubbornly, avoiding Yelena’s cool gaze.

“Yeah, didn’t realize it had gotten so late,” you said, doubling down. “I’ll be ready in two minutes.”

Wanda made a noise of disagreement as you took a few slow but determined steps across the room, gathering your dirty clothes from where Natasha had folded them on the dresser the night before and ducking into the bathroom.

Through the door, you heard Wanda’s voice, low and angry, but couldn’t make out the words. Then Yelena replied, louder and more bombastic. You realized they were speaking in Russian. Somehow this made you feel even more alone, isolated. You’d always be the outsider, no matter what. Suddenly, the urge to run was overwhelming. You tried to take a breath, calm down a bit, but your chest felt tight, your pulse skittering.

You pulled on your jeans with trembling hands. Yelena shouted. Raised voices weren’t your favorite, even in the best of circumstances. You bit your lip, hard, trying to quell the anxiety and guilt and shame clawing up your throat.

You patted your pockets, grateful to find your keys there. Now, where was your bag? Your boots? You closed your eyes, casting your mind back to yesterday. They should be in the entryway, by the umbrella stand and coat rack.

You placed your hand on the doorknob, taking a deep breath. You’d have to make a run for it. You steeled yourself, opening the door and cutting directly across the bedroom, making a beeline for the hallway. One foot in front of the other. Nothing else mattered except getting away from this confrontation.

You thought you heard Wanda say your name, but you kept your eyes trained on the floor, covering the distance quickly.

Yelena was still standing in the bedroom doorway. For just a second you caught her eyes. What you saw there was instantly burned into your mind—judgment, mistrust, uncertainty. Like you weren’t the person she thought you were. It gutted you with all the force of a punch, stealing your breath.

You shouldered past her and slipped down the stairs, moving so fast that you almost lost your balance on the landing.

You pulled your boots on with clumsy fingers, driven by adrenaline, by the need to escape. The sound of footsteps propelled you upright.

Yelena appeared at the top of the stairs, watching you with that same intense expression. But it softened as she watched you fumbling. Despite the outrage that had flared in her chest, she could see you were a wreck.

“Where are you going?”

You didn’t answer, didn’t meet her gaze. You grabbed your bag, flung the front door open—and collided with Natasha.

“Little wolf?” She murmured, steady arms looping around your waist. “What are you doing out of bed?”

Her gray eyes searched your face, concern etched into every feature. Then she heard Yelena’s voice and she looked past you, her lips parted in surprise.

For a fraction of a second you allowed yourself to lean in, resting your mouth against her neck. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Natasha stilled, trying to understand what was going on. By the time she realized it was goodbye, you were already wrenching yourself out of her arms, stumbling down the steps, ignoring the sound of their shouts as you turned the corner, ignoring Oscar’s frantic barks.

Everything faded into the background. You stared at the sidewalk, stepping into an intersection just as the light changed. Horns blared, tires screeched, but you kept walking. Somehow you made it to the subway, boarded a train. The rest of the journey was a blur.

The next thing you knew, you were climbing the stairs to your apartment. Everything hurt. Your head. Your chest. Your heart.

You locked yourself in your bedroom and turned off the lights, turned off your phone. But your brain kept running a mile a minute. You replayed the look on Natasha’s face, regarding you with such tenderness; remembered the feeling of her strong arms holding you so carefully.

But she hadn’t followed you. Neither had Wanda. And that told you everything you needed to know.

You weren’t worth chasing. Especially not if the choice came down to you or Yelena. Of course they’d pick her. She was their family.

They’d helped you out, sure, but their kindness was just that—kindness. As for the kissing…you must have misunderstood, taken more than they had intended to give. An uncomfortable stab of pain twisted in your stomach, and you almost doubled over as bile threatened to rise in your throat. What was wrong with you? Why did you always fuck everything up?

You fell into bed and slept, fitful and miserable and alone.

It was dark when something woke you up. A noise in the hallway. Then you heard a key in the lock, the front door opening. The sound of footsteps crossing the hardwood floor. A shadow appeared under your door. Your muscles ached, but you propped yourself up, tense and uncertain.

“It’s just me.”

You weren’t sure if you were relieved or disappointed to hear Yelena’s voice. You fell back down into the sheets, shivering and sweating and strung out from the mix of emotions.

“Hello? Are you alive in there?”

Your friend sounded almost as miserable as you felt. She rapped her knuckles gently against the door. You heard her jiggle the handle experimentally, then sink to the floor with a heavy sigh. You held your breath.

“Come on,” she said. “Give me something.”

There was a note of real concern in her voice now. You coughed, raising your head a bit to project.

“Alive,” you called out hoarsely.

You heard her exhale, sharp and relieved. “Will you let me in?”

You deliberated, unsure if you could face your friend right now. But then you swung your legs out of bed and shuffled to the door, opening it just a crack.

“Hey.” Yelena’s eyes softened. “There you are.”

You gave her a small smile. “Here I am.”

For a long moment, you just stared at each other, navigating the new uncomfortable space between you. In all the years you’d been friends, nothing had ever shaken your dynamic like this.

“I’m sorry, about before,” you said, stumbling over the words. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

“Really?” Yelena said, doubt flickering across her face. “Because it looked like—“

“I swear,” you interrupted, face burning with shame. “It was just a misunderstanding.”

Yelena made an uncertain noise, like she didn’t quite agree with your characterization of events. But you didn’t give her a chance to elaborate.

“And it won’t happen again,” you said, even as those words made your own chest want to cave in with grief.

Yelena regarded you, eyes owlish and calm.

“Let’s talk when you’re feeling better,” she said after some deliberation. The pain and exhaustion in your voice had her worried about pushing you too far. “Get some sleep.”

You moved to close the door, but Yelena placed her foot in the way. You looked up, surprised. There was a pause before she spoke again.

“And call Natasha—she’s really worried about you.”

If she’s so worried, where is she? You swallowed back this bitter retort, and nodded once.

“I’m serious,” Yelena elaborated, unable to suppress a little eye roll. “She’s practically crawling out of her skin. Wanted to drive over here and pick you up. But Wanda said you might need some space.”

You had never wanted anything less. But you couldn’t tell Yelena that.

“Yeah,” you said, voice hollow. “Space makes sense.”

It looked like Yelena had more questions, but she swallowed them back for now.

“I have an early flight tomorrow,” she said. “But let’s talk when I get back?”

“Deal,” you said with a soft smile.

A few minutes later you had thrown yourself back into bed, reaching reluctantly for your phone.

The screen showed you had a long list of missed calls and voicemails. You stared at the notifications for a few minutes, deliberating. Hearing their voices right now would feel so good. But then you remembered Yelena’s face at the brownstone, her look of disgust, betrayal.

You deleted them all without listening.

Next, you glanced at the unanswered texts. They had started not long after you left.

Call us when you can.

Did you make it home alright?

Just let us know you’re safe. Please.

With a determined little frown, you typed a quick reply:

Home. Sorry for all the trouble.

As soon as you sent it, you switched your phone off and closed your eyes. Sleep came mercifully fast.

You woke up late the next morning. Pale light was streaming in through the window. At first, you thought that was what had woken you up. Then you realized there was someone knocking at the front door. No. Not knocking. Pounding. A little jolt of apprehension shot through you, propelling you up and out of bed.

Maybe the neighbor’s cat had gotten out again? You yawned, pulling on a robe, pushing a hand through your tangled hair as you opened the door.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

The sound of Wanda’s voice almost brought tears to your eyes. It was like a physical wave of tension left your body all at once. You sagged against the doorframe, drinking her in.

“Hi.”

Her eyes were slightly red, as if she’d been crying. But other than this small detail, nothing about the other woman seemed out of place. She looked immaculate, breathtaking, too ethereal to be standing in the dingy hallway.

“How are you?”

“Terrific,” you rasped, sad smile playing around the corners of your mouth.

Wanda made a small noise in the back of her throat, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. She pressed her palms against her thighs, like she was physically restraining herself from reaching out to touch, to check for herself that you were alright.

“You look terrible,” she said. “Worse than yesterday. Have you eaten?”

You didn’t answer, peering around her with sudden curiosity.

“Nat’s downstairs in the car,” she said, answering your unspoken question. “We didn’t know if we should….but we were just worried about you.”

You winced. “I’m really sorry. About everything.”

“We’re not mad,” Wanda said gently. “Well, not at you. But we do need to talk, if you’re up for it.”

You glanced up at her, gathering the robe closer around your body with a little shiver.

“Not necessary,” you said with a watery smile, desperate to avoid this conversation, to never hear the words of rejection spill from her perfect lips. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. It should never have happened in the first place, and it won’t…it won’t happen again. I promise.”

Wanda opened and closed her mouth several times, eyes widened in shock, in heartbreak .

“Is—is that what you want?”

You shook your head, confused. Why was she making this harder than it needed to be?

“No,” you said. “But it doesn’t matter what I want.”

Your words hung in the air for a moment.

Then Wanda breathed your name, closing her eyes in disbelief. When she opened them again, they were bright and sharp. She stepped a little closer, reaching out to cup your jaw.

“That’s the only thing that matters.”

She spoke with such conviction you almost believed her.

“If you’ll give us another chance,” Wanda continued. “We’ll show you exactly what you deserve.”

The other woman scanned you from head to toe, her dark, earnest eyes brimming with something that looked like love. You shuddered, leaning into her touch.

“Yelena is my best friend,” you whispered. “I can’t lose her.”

Wanda opened her mouth to argue, but another voice cut through the silence before she could speak.

“Nobody’s losing anybody.”

Natasha’s voice was low, but it carried clearly in the empty hallway. Your eyes found hers as she crested the stairs and walked toward you both. Something about the sight of her broke your last bit of resolve. You felt your chin quiver, your eyes prick with tears as you breathed her name.

“Little wolf,” she said, drawing you into her arms without hesitation. “You gave us quite a scare.”

“Sorry,” you said.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Nat said, her voice rumbling against your chest as she held you close. “You panicked, needed time to process everything. I understand.”

You nodded, relived that you didn’t have to explain yourself. Natasha drew back slightly, holding your face in her hands.

“But it was incredibly dangerous running out into the street like that,” she said, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “You could have gotten yourself killed.”

You swallowed nervously. “I’ll try to be more careful next time my best friend walks in on me in bed with her sister’s wife.”

Wanda tried and failed to stifle a laugh. Natasha arched an eyebrow at you.

“Brat,” she said, ruffling your hair.

You grinned, feeling the tightness in your chest unwind slowly.

“Now come on,” Natasha said. “I’m double-parked downstairs.”

You glanced around uncertainly. “Where are we going?”

“Home,” Natasha shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then she caught Wanda’s eye, confusion flickering across her features. “Didn’t you tell her?”

You scrunched your nose, disliking the idea of another surprise. “Tell me what?”

Wanda shifted her weight, looking a little…nervous?

“We were hoping you’d come back for a few days,” she said. “The house felt…very lonely without you there last night.”

Your heart leapt at her words and you smiled. “Yeah?”

“Oscar was super sad,” Natasha said, an adorable pout on her lips. “He really liked cuddling up with you.”

“Does that mean…” you trailed off, not sure how to ask the question. Wanda stepped forward, tangling her fingers in your hair. Slowly, she leaned in and brushed her lips against yours. You moaned, eyes fluttering shut.

“We’ll figure out what it means,” she said, breaking away to give you a look full of certainty. “Together.”

“Promise?” Your voice shook with longing, with need.

Natasha placed her hand at the small of your back, guiding you into the bathroom. Immediately the bright, invigorating smell of eucalyptus and citrus filled your lungs. Tendrils of steam curled up from the hot bath she’d drawn, the humidity soothing your scratchy throat. Even your headache seemed to diminish slightly.

Natasha turned and busied herself at a linen drawer near the sink, retrieving a fresh wash cloth and towel. You eyed the massive freestanding tub longingly. The other woman had already added a generous amount of soap, and there was a thick layer of bubbles. You quickly shimmied out of your bra and boxers, then slipped into the water. The relief was instant, overwhelming.

“Fuck me,” you moaned, sinking down into the warmth.

Natasha dropped the washcloth she was holding, her mouth going dry at the raw, wrecked sound of your voice.

“Uh, I should call ‘Lena,” she stammered, backpedaling away from the sink with none of her usual catlike grace. “Let her know you’re here.”

“Kay,” you said, eyelids heavy. You didn’t notice the pink tint in her cheeks, the way she hurried out of the bathroom. The only thing you cared about was the awful chill in your bones retreating inch by inch, your tense muscles relaxing.

Natasha stepped out into the bedroom and ran a hand over her flushed face. Get it together, Romanoff.

She had just dialed Yelena when Wanda walked in. She was holding a bottle of Tylenol and a glass of ice water. Her dark eyes scanned the room instantly, looking for you.

“Where’s our little wolf?”

Nat pointed toward the bathroom.

“Is she behaving?” Wanda asked, kissing her wife on the cheek. Then she lowered her voice, threading a hand through Nat’s hair and tugging softly. “Are you?”

Natasha barely suppressed a groan just as the line stopped ringing. “H-Hey, it’s me! What? I don’t sound weird. You sound weird.”

Nat glared at Wanda, who just laughed and knocked softly on the bathroom door before stepping inside.

She expected to find you lounging in the tub, but you were nowhere to be seen. The surface of the bathwater was still, ominous. She called your name, moving quickly across the room. In an instant, her hands were outstretched, ready to plunge into the water. But then your head resurfaced. You flicked your hair out of your eyes, surprised to see Wanda standing so close.

“What?” You coughed.

A small crown of bubbles adorned your wet hair. Water trailed down your smooth skin in rivulets, gathering between your lips. Your pink tongue darted out, licking the beads away, and Wanda felt her heart flutter at the sight.

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head slightly.

“You thought I drowned in a bathtub,” you accused, feeling a twinge of exasperation in your foggy brain.

Wanda twisted her mouth to one side, like she was trying not to laugh. “Maybe,” she admitted.

“Y’know,” you said, petulance creeping into your voice. “This ‘little wolf’ managed to survive for the past 24 years without anyone’s help.”

Your headstrong claim was slightly undermined by the mountain of suds around you. A rubber ducky wouldn’t have been out of place. But Wanda kept this particular observation to herself.

“So,” she said instead. “You heard that.”

“I’m delirious, not deaf.” You eyed her curiously. “Why little wolf?”

She knelt beside the tub, leaning against the ceramic edge. “First, take these,” she instructed, depositing a couple of pills into your hand. “They should reduce your fever and help with the ache in your muscles.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “How did you know…”

Wanda just smiled that mysterious smile of hers. You accepted the medicine gratefully and took a drink of cool water.

”I can’t remember how it started exactly,” Wanda murmured. “I suppose it’s because when we first met you…you seemed a bit of a loner.”

You ducked your head, considering this assessment. You tended to keep your guard up around new people. Not unfriendly…just careful.

“Wolves are actually pack animals, you know?” Wanda continued, reaching out to grip your chin, drawing your attention back to her. “They need each other to survive.”

She held your gaze for a long moment. You felt a funny ache in your chest that had nothing to do with your fever. Something warm and tender was rising up, something long dormant. The way Wanda was watching you—so patient, like your trust was something worth waiting for—made your heart flicker with hope, longing.

Before you could think of what to say, Natasha came back in the room. She waggled her cell phone. “Yelena wants to talk to you directly,” she said, perching on the edge of the tub beside her wife. “Claims she needs proof of life.”

Wanda stood up, drying her hands on a towel.

“Dinner will be ready in half an hour,” she announced, ghosting a hand over Natasha’s bicep. “You’re on lifeguard duty.”

Her wife winked at her, then handed you the phone.

“Hello?” You braced for Yelena’s usual tirade.

“So it’s true,” she said. “You’re shacking up with my sisters.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting a blush. “They kidnapped me, alright?”

Yelena laughed. “That’s not what I heard.”

You glared as Yelena recited her sister’s version of events. “I didn’t faint,” you hissed, flicking water at Natasha. “Stop telling people that. I just…lost my balance or something.”

“You don’t remember, because you were unconscious, because you fainted.” Yelena’s flat voice rumbled through the phone speaker, sounding far too smug.

“Whatever,” you sighed. “The point is, I’m fine now. Just waiting for the storm to pass.”

“Do me a favor,” Yelena said, exasperated. “Just let them spoil you for a bit, okay? Enjoy the high thread count and the gourmet food. It’s one of the only real perks to being in this cuckoo crazy family.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Instead, a silly smile worked its way across your face as you processed her words: being in this family. Something about that phrase felt so good, so right.

“This bubble bath is really nice,” you finally muttered, realizing the silence had stretched on a beat too long.

“Bubble bath?” Yelena repeated. “Are you in the big tub? Come on, Nat never lets me use the big tub!”

You winced, handing the phone back to Natasha. “I may have said too much.”

The older woman held the phone away from her head. “You’re breaking up, ‘Lena! We’ll call you later! Gotta go.”

Nat ended the call and sank down beside the tub, running her fingers through the warm water to check the temp. Then she reached out, playing with a strand of your hair, gently twirling it around her pointer finger.

“Want some help with this?” She asked.

The question caught you off guard. You blinked, slowly, brain catching up to her words.

“Sure,” you said.

Natasha leaned over, grabbing a shampoo bottle and lathering a dollop between her hands.

“Sit up,” she instructed.

You complied, giving her better access. Nat gathered your hair to one side and began massaging the base of your scalp. Your eyes slipped closed and you sighed as her fingers threaded through your hair. Nat swallowed. From this angle, she couldn’t help admiring your broad shoulders. Then she glanced lower, where the swell of your breasts was just visible above the bubbles.

The older woman cleared her throat. She cast around for a conversation starter.

“Where did you grow up?”

You didn’t open your eyes, and for a moment Natasha wondered if you had drifted off. Then finally you answered.

“Middle of nowhere.”

A non-answer. Natasha followed your lead and didn’t press. A few more seconds passed in silence before she tried a different approach.

“What brought you to New York?”

You laughed, a humorless hollow sound that made Natasha’s skin prickle with alarm. “I came here to disappear.”

She stilled, processing your quiet confession. Something about the statement rang piercingly true, and she got the immediate impression that you hadn’t meant to say it at all. Her suspicion was confirmed when your eyes snapped open a second later.

“Sorry,” you said. “Fevers make me talk too much.”

But it was more than that. Something about the warm bath water and Natasha’s patient expression made you feel safe enough to keep talking.

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know.”

You gathered a few bubbles between your hands, playing idly with the suds.

“I watched a lot of movies when I was a kid,” you said. “All the characters were always running off to New York. The place where anything could happen. You could get a fresh start, reinvent yourself. So when I was sixteen I bought a bus ticket and never looked back.“

Natasha’s hand stilled.

“Sixteen? How did your parents feel about that?”

“No idea,” you sighed, eyes slipping shut again. “My mom died when I was born, and my dad...”

Blamed me. Hated me. Couldn’t stand to be in the same room as me. You swallowed, fighting not to be dragged back into memories you had worked so hard to forget. Natasha’s hand slipped down, gripping your shoulders and massaging you gently, like she could sense your turmoil. You groaned in appreciation as she kneaded the tender muscles carefully.

“He wasn’t around a lot,” you finished. Natasha could sense there was more to the story.

“That must have been hard,” she murmured.

“Nahhhhhh.” Your objection elongated into a moan of pleasure as she hit a sensitive spot. “I liked the freedom. No one to answer to.”

Natasha could just picture you at sixteen, arriving in Port Authority with nothing but a duffel bag and a desire to prove everyone wrong. Clearly you were street smart, resourceful. But the city could be a hard, unforgiving place for runaways. She felt a sudden irrational wave of panic for that young girl. Who would notice if she got hurt, got lost along the way?

Natasha shook her head, told herself she was being silly. After all, you were right here. Safe and sound. All grown up. Still, she wished she could somehow reach back in time and protect you.

Natasha rinsed your hair, careful to avoid getting soap in your eyes. Then she started massaging conditioner into your scalp. You leaned into her touch.

“Feels so good.” Your voice was barely more than a whisper. “Thanks, Nat.”

Natasha smiled, still focused on her task but hanging on your every word.

“You’re very welcome,” she said. “Little wolf.”

When your hair was finally clean and detangled, Natasha stood and brought you a towel, a white fluffy robe.

“Dry off,” she said. “I’ll find you some fresh clothes.”

She disappeared into the bedroom as you reluctantly climbed out of the tub. Your skin was soft and warm from the hot water. Almost immediately, you started shivering again. You toweled off quickly and pulled the robe on, luxuriating in the soft fabric.

The late afternoon sky had darkened with even more storm clouds, and the bedroom was bathed in soft amber lamp light when you joined Natasha. You looked around properly for the first time. A king-size mattress dominated the center of the room, but there was also a lounging sofa tucked beneath an enormous bay window on the far wall beside a book case.

It wasn’t until Natasha emerged from the walk-in closet carrying black cashmere joggers and a matching hoodie that it clicked. You weren’t standing in a guest room, as you had originally assumed, but in their bedroom. Where they slept. Where they…

An image suddenly flashed through your mind, of Natasha between Wanda’s legs, worshipping the other woman with her mouth, her fingers, her tongue. Wanda’s head thrown back, face slack with pleasure, auburn hair fanned out across the pillow. You tried to ignore the flare of heat in the pit of your stomach.

“What?” You blinked, realizing Natasha had just said something.

She gave you a worried look.

“I said, you’re a little taller than Wanda, but I think these should work.”

Natasha hung your towel and robe up in the bathroom while you got dressed. The clothes were a perfect fit, extremely soft against your tender skin. Plus, they smelled like Wanda’s perfume. Sandalwood and bergamot.

“Ready?”

Nat wrapped an arm around your waist and guided you downstairs. You would normally have shrugged her off, but as soon as you hit the landing, a wave of exhaustion jackknifed through your body. It was actually a little frightening to feel so weak, and you clung to her arm.

“We should take your temperature,” Nat said, feeling the unnatural heat of your fever still rolling off your back.

“Kay,” you said, leaning against her more heavily with every step. She deposited you carefully in a chair at the dining room table.

“I think there’s a thermometer in the medicine cabinet,” she said. “You’ll be ok for a second?”

You laughed despite the pain in your throat. But the look in her eyes was so sincere you couldn’t bring yourself to tease her. “Yeah, Nat,” you said. “I’ll be ok.”

Natasha narrowed her eyes. She pointed a finger at you. “Don’t go anywhere.”

You leaned forward, closing your tired eyes. “I wound’t make it very far.”

Natasha ducked into the hallway.

“Wands?” She called, rummaging in a closet. “Where’s that thermometer?”

The other woman appeared a few moments later, insinuating herself into the search. “Let me,” she said. “You set the table and serve dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Nat purred, smacking her wife on the ass as she walked away.

Wanda found the thermometer and made a beeline for the dining room. You were hunched on the table, head bowed slightly, eyes pinched together. She frowned, and immediately dimmed the overhead lights.

You blinked, looking up at her gratefully. “Thanks.”

Wanda didn’t say anything, just watched you with those owlish eyes—like she could peer into your soul. She pushed the damp hair off your forehead. You gravitated toward her feather light touch, feeling your stomach flip pleasantly at having her undivided attention.

“Open,” she said.

Your lips parted automatically and she placed the thermometer in your mouth.

“Good girl.”

For a second you stared up at her, dumbstruck by how beautiful she was. The kind of beauty that armies went to war for. The kind of beauty that heroes and gods braved the underworld for. And here she was, absently playing with the baby hairs at the nape of your neck, like she had nothing better to do.

Natasha appeared a few moments later, breaking your feverish reverie. Guilt and shame instantly gathered in your chest. They were married. You had no right to be pining like a puppy dog at their table, looking for scraps of affection.

“Dinner is served,” Nat said with a smile.

A wonderful aroma—salty, savory—drifted into the room with her. The large serving dish in her hands was steaming slightly. She set it down and began ladling the hearty stew into bowls. Then she carved a loaf of bread into slices.

The thermometer beeped and Wanda withdrew it from your mouth. “101.4,” she said with a frown.

Natasha sat down across the table. “I think we should call him.”

You picked up your spoon, stomach growling. “Call who?”

“Careful, sweetheart,” Wanda cautioned as she took the seat directly beside you. “It’s hot.”

You blew on the spoonful of stew dutifully, looking to Wanda for approval. She nodded and you took a bite.

The broth was rich and flavorful with a little undercurrent of spice. You tasted carrots, peas, celery, chicken, and some type of noodle. It instantly soothed your scratchy throat, spreading warmth through your chest.

“Strange?” Wanda asked, tucking into her own food.

Natasha nodded, tearing her bread into pieces and dunking one in her own bowl.

“What’s strange?” You asked in between bites.

Wanda chuckled. “Not a what, a who.”

You furrowed your brow. Sometimes it felt like these women spoke their own secret language.

“I’ll see if he has any availability tomorrow,” Natasha said, reaching for her phone. Before she could send the email, a weather alert illuminated the screen. “Whoa, flash flood warning for lower Manhattan.”

As if on cue, a clap of thunder rolled overhead. “Guess you’re staying here tonight.”

You felt your stomach tighten anxiously.

“No, I should go,” you said, reluctantly pushing back your unfinished bowl of food as your appetite failed. “I’ve taken up enough of your Friday night.”

Wanda leaned back in her chair, taking a sip of wine as she regarded you with a thoughtful gaze. For the first time, it occurred to her that maybe she and Nat had read this whole situation completely wrong. “Do we make you uncomfortable, little wolf?”

Her tone was quiet, curious.

“What?” You nearly choked on your water. “No, of course not! You’ve been so generous, made me feel so….”

Wanted. Loved. Safe. You clasped your hands in your lap, afraid you’d say something you might regret, and you missed the look that passed between Wanda and Nat.

“I just don’t want to overstay my welcome,” you said shakily, trying to reign in your emotions.

Wanda reached out, tracing a finger along your jawline until you raised your head and met her gaze. “That would be impossible,” she said firmly. “Do you understand?”

Her gray, piercing eyes seemed to pin you to the chair. You swallowed, wanting to believe her.

“I don’t understand,” you admitted quietly, because that was the truth. No one had ever offered to take care of you like this, unconditionally. “But I believe you.”

Nat’s lips quirked into a hopeful grin. “So you’ll stay?”

You nodded.

Wanda tucked your hair behind your ear, clearly pleased. “Good,” she said. “Now, do you think you can finish your dinner?“

You glanced at the half-eaten bowl uncertainly. Your hunger had vanished.

“Stomach kinda hurts,” you said. “Sorry.”

Wanda looked torn. On the one hand, she guessed (correctly) that you hadn’t been eating enough lately. But she also didn’t want to pressure you.

“Just a couple more bites,” she encouraged. “You need your strength, milaya.”

When you didn’t move, she picked up your spoon and scooted her chair closer to yours. “For me?”

You couldn’t deny her anything when she asked so sweetly. “You don’t play fair,” you groused.

Wanda laughed. “Is that a yes?”

You nodded, and she brought the first bite to your lips. Letting her feed you should have been humiliating. But pride required energy, and you had precious little of that.

Wanda smiled. Getting to baby someone who was usually so self-reliant was a special privilege, one she didn’t take lightly. Especially considering she didn’t know when you might indulge her like this again.

Natasha watched you both from across the table. There were dozens of things she loved about Wanda. But it was this—her ability to be firm and gentle in the same breath—that always left her speechless. It was like a superpower.

Wanda wiped the corner of your mouth with her finger. You scrunched up your face at Nat, trying to look threatening. “Not a word to Yelena,” you managed hoarsely.

Natasha grinned. “Our secret,” she said. “Scout’s honor.”

When Wanda was satisfied you’d eaten enough, she sat back and sipped the last of her wine. The sound of rain on the roof created a pleasant white noise. Your throat was a little less scratchy and your headache had receded. Maybe the meds had finally kicked in. The delirious fever feeling was still there, making your emotions spike and dip in unpredictable patterns. But with a full belly and a warm bed waiting upstairs, you felt a deep sense of calm and safety descend over you.

Natasha checked her watch.

“It’s still early. Why don’t you two go get comfy on the couch?” She stood up to clear the plates. “I’ll clean the kitchen and then we can…watch a movie?”

Wanda hummed noncommittally, looking at you. “I don’t know,” she hedged. “Someone looks pretty sleepy.”

“Not sleepy,” you insisted. “Wanna watch a movie.”

Natasha could tell you wouldn’t last long, but she wasn’t ready to let you out of her sight. She looked at Wanda. “Please?”

“Only if I get to pick the movie.” Wanda arched a playful eyebrow at her wife.

Natasha rocked back on her heels, considering. “Deal.”

The sofa was big and obscenely comfortable. You sank into the middle section, cushioned by several pillows. Wanda tucked a blanket around you, scolding Oscar when he leapt up and laid across your body protectively.

“He doesn’t know he’s not a lap dog,” she said, shooing him away.

“I don’t mind,” you laughed, scratching his ear.

“I know you don’t mind,” Wanda said. “But he’s not the only one who wants a cuddle.”

“Well in that case,“ you said, heart leaping at the chance to cuddle and be cuddled by Wanda Maximoff. “Get lost, Oscar.”

You gave the dog a gentle shove. He turned and licked your hand once, then moved to the far corner of the sofa and curled up in a ball.

Wanda sat down, pressing her body close against you. She fiddled with the remote, tracing her hand up and down your arm absently. The feeling of her fingertips gave you goosebumps.

“What do you like?” Her words hung in the air, open-ended. She could be talking about movies. Something told you she wasn’t.

“Whatever you like,” you replied instantly. The answer worked for either question.

Wanda’s gaze flickered to you, her smile shifting ever so slightly from fond to flirtatious. “Is that right?”

You nodded, not sure you could formulate words with the full force of her gaze leveled at you. Your faces were just inches apart, so close that you could feel her warm breath on your neck.

She looked away first. It felt like a pause, not an end, to your conversation. Wanda shifted, placing one hand on your upper thigh and giving you a gentle squeeze. You relaxed against her, letting your head fall onto her shoulder.

She scrolled through different movie titles until you saw Dirty Dancing and pointed. “Please? It’s one of my favorites.”

“Excellent choice,” Natasha said, entering the room balancing two mugs of tea and a big bowl of popcorn. “Nobody puts baby in a corner!”

Wanda wrinkled her nose in confusion. “Who is putting babies in corners?”

“Wait,” Nat said, grabbing a handful of popcorn and wedging herself in on the other side of you. Her warmth made you shiver pleasantly. “Have you never seen Dirty Dancing? How did I let this happen?”

Nat lifted the edge of the blanket, pulling it over her own legs as well. “I made you a special tonic, little wolf,” she murmured with a wink. “Honey, lemon, ginger, and a dash of cayenne pepper.”

You curled your fingers around the mug, taking a sip. “Thanks, Nat.”

“Course,” she said. “Now, are you comfortable? Need any extra pillows? Blankets?”

“No,” you laughed, burrowing against her side. “I’ve got the perfect pillow.”

Natasha smiled, settling her arm around your shoulders. She caught her wife’s eyes over your head, blew her a quick kiss. “Perfect Friday night right here.”

Wanda rolled her eyes at the other woman affectionately. “You’re such a softie,” she teased.

“Just press play, woman!” Natasha barked.

You could feel your eyelids drooping before the title credits even finished, but that didn’t bother you. You’d seen Dirty Dancing about a hundred times. The last thing you heard was the rumble of Natasha’s soft laugh as she explained the Borscht Belt to Wanda.

“Yeah, baby, like the soup,” she said.

You fell asleep with a smile still on your lips.

——————

Your alarm clock was blaring when you woke up. You blinked slowly, groggily, the last tendrils of sleep refusing to abate. You glanced at the time and swore softly, realizing you’d overslept.

As soon as you were upright, a searing pain shot through your head. You winced, reaching for a glass of water. You took a few gulps, registering more pain as you swallowed. A sore throat.

“Oh no,” you groaned, scrubbing a tired hand over your face. You’d gone to bed early last night, hoping to curtail the symptoms you’d been stubbornly ignoring for the past few days. Clearly that strategy hadn’t worked. Now you’d have to pay the price.

You dragged yourself upright, wandering into the kitchen to make a quick cup of coffee. Yelena was sitting at the island, scrolling on her laptop.

“I’m late!” Your voice was hoarse, raspy. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

The blonde barely looked up from her inbox. “Why do you sound like the crypt keeper?”

You laughed, but this quickly dissolved into a dry, wheezing cough. Yelena frowned, fixing you with a perturbed look.

“You’re sick,” she said.

You shook your head. “I can’t be sick.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re a dog walker, not a heart surgeon. You can take the day off.”

You snagged a protein shake from the fridge, choking down a few sips.

Yelena grimaced. “Seriously, go to the doctor.”

“I’ll be fine,” you insisted.

Your roommate muttered something in Russian. “Whatever. Just don’t die ok? I can’t afford this place without your half of the rent.”

You knew her well enough to recognize this blunt directive as her version of affection. Yelena was actually a big softie, once you got past the very rough exterior.

You’d met at a bar playing darts a few years ago, drinking everyone else under the table. By the end of the night, it was settled. Kindred spirits like that only come along every so often.

“If you want the rent money, I have to walk the dogs. See how that works? We can’t all be BitCoin miners or whatever the hell it is you do.”

She gave you the finger. You blew her a kiss and walked out the door. In truth you had no idea how Yelena made her money. It had something to do with finance, maybe crypto? Your eyes glazed over whenever she tried to explain.

The sky was threatening rain when you hopped on your bicycle and began the journey into Manhattan. The clouds opened up and started pouring just as you arrived at your first client’s house.

“Come on, Pepper,” you said, coaxing the ornery Pomeranian into her rain gear. “Let’s get this over with.”

By midday your symptoms had worsened. The dull ache that started in your chest slowly spread to your shoulders and back. The wet chill of the day seeped into your bones as you stomped up and down the streets of the city, soaking your rain coat, slicking your hair to your forehead.

Most of the time, you loved your job. Being outside, running around with dogs. But today was proving to be brutal. By the time you finished your last walk, you could barely see straight. You unclipped Oscar’s lead in the entryway of the massive brownstone, shutting the front door and leaning against it heavily.

The Rottie mix bounded into the living room, straight to his toy box, and brought you the squeaky plush raccoon—his favorite—depositing it at your feet like an offering. When you didn’t pick it up immediately, he nudged it closer with his nose and whined.

Despite the pain radiating through your body, you chuckled, shaking your head. “Not right now, bud.” Your voice was low, hoarse. His big square head tilted to the side in confusion.

You grabbed a towel from the hall closet, then knelt beside Oscar, removing his raincoat and wiping the mud off his paw pads. He waited patiently, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

“There ya go,” you said, dismissing him with a weary pat. You groaned, pushing yourself off the floor. Just that simple action required almost all your strength. Your head felt like it was full of concrete.

Your phone vibrated in your pocket. You checked the message blearily, realizing there were several of them. All from Yelena.

10:20am

Text me when you finish your route.

11:42am

And take the train home, you can’t bike in this weather.

2:15pm

Are you alive?

3:30pm

Hello????

You were about to reply when Oscar barked impatiently. He had trotted into the kitchen and was waiting to be fed.

You sighed, slipping your phone back into your pocket. You just had to finish up here, then you could head home and collapse into your bed. Take the weekend to recover. This was the mantra you’d been repeating to yourself all day. Now you were in the final stretch, you could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

But you felt so achy. And your mind kept wandering, losing track of what you were doing. You glanced into the living room longingly. What if you just laid down on the sofa for 10 minutes? Surely Wanda and Nat wouldn’t mind.

They were your favorite clients, after all. Practically family, considering Yelena was Nat’s sister. You had attended dinners and parties in their home before. Maybe it would be totally acceptable to crash out on their expensive, luxurious sofa…

A roll of thunder overhead snapped you back to reality.

“Feed the dog,” you sighed, worried your foggy brain would forget if you didn’t say it out loud.

You slipped off your muddy boots, then padded down the hallway. You made it to the kitchen feeling out of breath. Leaning over to grab Oscar’s food and water bowls, the world suddenly tilted sideways.

“Whoa,” you muttered, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter.

Oscar barked once, twice.

“It’s okay,” you said, trying to soothe him even as your vision swam. He turned and bounded out of the room.

You closed your eyes, then reached for the bowls again. This time you managed to set them on the counter. Mission half-way accomplished. Slowly you breathed in, willing the room to stop spinning.

The unexpected sound of footsteps on the staircase roused you from your stupor. You heard Wanda saying your name, a fact that would have startled you under normal circumstances. After all, the house had been empty when you arrived. But all your senses were dulled.

“Is that you?” She called. “I’m glad I caught you, there’s leftovers in the fridge and Nat wanted me to make sure you took them home.”

She was walking down the hall, Oscar trailing behind, and you dimly realized you should say something. But before you could form a coherent sentence, she paused.

“Sweetheart?” Her voice was different now—uncertain, confused.

“Yeah, it’s me,” you called, trying to sound normal, trying to muster the strength to stand upright as you leaned heavily on the counter for support. “In here.”

Wanda rounded the corner, carefully scanning the kitchen. When she finally saw you hunched by the sink, she stilled.

“Hey, Wanda,” you said with a little wave. You tried to smile. “Sorry, I was just…”

You trailed off, losing the plot mid-sentence. Even at full strength, you would have found the sight of the other woman distracting. But given the state you were in, you stood practically no chance. She was wearing a loose denim shirt with both sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Her hair was pinned back, and she had a pair of reading glasses perched on her head. You realized you were staring and closed your mouth, looking away as an intense shiver wracked your body. Wanda’s eyes narrowed. You gestured weakly to the dog bowls on the counter in front of you.

“Just about to feed Oscar,” you finished, hoping you didn’t sound as miserable as you felt.

Wanda watched as you struggled to push yourself upright. You took a few unsteady steps toward the pantry where they kept the dog food, then swayed like you might fall. The other woman stepped toward you instantly, catching you around the waist. She could feel how hot you were through your shirt.

“Let me do that,” she said. “You sit down, before you fall down.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but she was gone before you could get the words out. You sank onto the nearby barstool, legs feeling like jello.

As soon as you were down, you worried you wouldn’t be able to get back up. It felt so good to be off your feet.

When Wanda reappeared, she was still looking at you with the same expression as before—suspicion edging toward concern. But she knew you well enough to guess that outright fussing would be met with resistance. You were private. And you had a stubbornly independent streak. She’d have to play this one carefully to avoid scaring you off.

“Long day?” She asked.

“I’m fine,” you said mechanically. “Just tired.”

She set Oscar’s bowls on the floor, then fixed you with a glare.

“You don’t look fine.”

“Well, I am,” you argued. “Perfectly fine.”

That earned you a small smile. She shook her head, took a deep breath like you were trying her last shred of patience.

“Prove it,” she said.

You scrunched your face up in confusion. Wanda tried very hard not to find this adorable.

“If you’re fine, prove it,” she elaborated, speaking slowly so your fuzzy brain could follow along.

“How?” You whined, rolling your eyes.

“A minute ago you it seemed like you couldn’t even pick up Oscar’s food bowls,” she shrugged. “So, show me something that a ‘perfectly fine’ person could do.”

“Or what?” You said, trying to buy yourself some time.

She sauntered toward you. “You’re not leaving this house,” she said slowly, enunciating each word. “Until I’m satisfied that you’re okay.”

A ripple of defiance propelled you off the barstool. As soon as you were standing, black dots gathered at the corners of your vision. You ignored these, taking a step forward. Then another. And another. You were almost in the hallway. It would have been a very impressive exit if you had managed to stay upright.

From faraway you heard Wanda cry out, her voice muted by the fuzzy ringing in your ears. The next thing you knew, you were on your back, looking up at the kitchen skylights.

Wanda dropped to her knees beside you. She called your name, brushing your hair back and feeling your forehead. Your cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy.

“See,” you said, slurring slightly. “Perfectly fine.”

She didn’t laugh.

“You have a fever,” she said, words clipped. “How long have you felt like this?”

You shrugged. “Few days.”

“Days,” Wanda repeated faintly, trying to quell her outrage. Something about the flash of anger in her voice made you recoil.

“Don’t be mad,” you said, feeling pathetic.

She softened instantly, schooling her face into something gentle.

“I’m not mad, milaya,” she rasped. “Just worried.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to say there was no reason to be worried, just as another violent shiver wracked your body. Your teeth chattered.

“You and Nat,” she murmured, tracing her thumb across your cheek. “Refusing to admit you’re not invincible.”

You looked away. With sudden horror, you realized you were close to tears. Thankfully, Oscar reappeared in the room just then. He ran to your side, licking your face and furiously wagging his tail.

“Honey, I’m home!” A familiar voice called from the entryway.

“Speak of the devil,” Wanda breathed, and you could see the relief in her eyes. Now that they outnumbered you, maybe you’d listen to reason.

“Hey, did Yelena call you? She left me a weird voicemail,” Natasha said. There was a soft clatter as she placed her keys in the ceramic bowl by the door. “She’s worried about our little wolf -“

“In here, Nat,” Wanda said impatiently. “Need your help.”

Little wolf? Before you had time to question it, Natasha appeared, looking devastating as always in a fitted suit. She had clearly come straight from the office. Her smile vanished as she entered the kitchen.

“What happened?” She demanded, skidding across the tile. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Wanda said, just as you said “Yes.”

Natasha looked between the two of you, confused.

“She fainted,” Wanda explained, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“I didn’t faint,” you grumbled, insulted by the prissy word. “Just got dizzy.”

Wanda and Natasha ignored you.

“Should we take her to urgent care?”

You groaned, horrified by that idea. You rolled sideways, trying to push yourself up off the floor. Natasha laid a hand on your chest. When you kept struggling, she reached over and pulled you firmly into her lap, anchoring you in place.

“Stay,” she said, her voice a stern rumble.

Natasha had a soft spot for you. Wanda had teased her about it at first. But as you became a more regular fixture in their lives, Wanda found herself feeling the same way—terribly fond, overly protective, almost possessive. And seeing you like this had them both in overdrive.

Natasha pressed the back of her hand to your forehead, eyes widening in alarm. “You’re burning up.”

“I’m fine,” you repeated, voice cracking with exhaustion. “Just tired. Need to sleep it off.”

Wanda stilled, tilting her head to one side.

“I…agree,” she said, giving Natasha a significant look.

You frowned, trying to follow the unspoken conversation they seemed to be having above you.

There was a loud clap of thunder outside. The noise seemed to settle things for Nat. She nodded, acting like a gavel had been struck, a decision reached.

“You hear that?” Natasha said. “Bad storm. Why don’t you stay for dinner? Once you’ve had a hot bath and a home-cooked meal, we’ll send you on your way. Deal?”

“You don’t have to do all that,” you objected, even as you curled slightly closer to Natasha, seeking her body heat. She ran an absent hand over your back, rubbing big soothing circles.

It was Wanda who spoke next. “We want to.”

You looked back and forth between their faces then heaved a sigh, suddenly too tired to argue anymore.

“Okay,” you said, voice small.

Wanda smiled, victorious. “I’m making stew! Something hearty, restorative. There will be potatoes and broth and—”

“Ok, babushka,” Natasha teased. “Your old country is showing.”

Wanda scowled, then stuck her tongue out, turning toward the cabinet to retrieve several pots and pans. The next second, Nat was helping you to your feet. She watched you carefully, troubled by how unsteady you seemed.

“Do you mind if I just…?”

She didn’t wait for an answer before scooping you into her strong arms. “Hey!” You cried, surprised. But a few seconds later you relaxed against her, eyes slipping closed as she carried you down the hall, then turned and started climbing the stairs.

“When’s the last time you ate anything?” She murmured against your hair.

You shrugged.

Her eyes narrowed. “Bad girl.”

The words made your breath catch. You buried your face in her shoulder, trying to hide flushed cheeks that had nothing to do with your fever.

Get it together, perv. Natasha and Wanda were trying to do something nice for you. Were they absurdly hot? Sure. Had you entertained an idle daydream or two about what it might be like to kiss them both? Of course. But that was no excuse for reacting like a horny teenager.

Natasha opened the door to one of the large bedrooms and set you down gently beside the bed. You thought she might leave, but then she walked into an en-suite bathroom and you heard the sound of running water.

“There are fresh towels and robes in here,” she called. “Can you get undressed or do you need help?”

You swallowed around a sudden lump in your throat. “I’m okay, thanks.”

She reappeared, smiling softly. “Do you mind if I stay? I don’t want to leave you alone. In case you pass out again, or slip, or…”

You gave her a tired smile. “You faint one lousy time and suddenly nobody trusts you.”

Natasha snorted, then turned and faced the wall for propriety’s sake. With shaky hands you began unbuttoning your pants.

“Yelena called me,” Nat said after a few moments. “She’s worried about you.”

You sighed. “Seems like there’s a lot of that going around today.”

Although you couldn’t see her face, you could hear the frown in her voice. “We care about you,” she said. “Is that so bad?”

You pulled your shirt over your head with a small grunt of pain. Natasha glanced back instinctively, catching a glimpse of your exposed stomach and toned abs, the low-cut sports bra showing off your curves. She sucked in a breath, feeling that inconvenient flutter again. It would help if you weren’t so pretty, she thought. Then she quickly turned around before you saw her peeking.

“Sorry,” you said, tossing the shirt on the floor. “I’m not very good at this.”

Natasha stilled, hearing the emotion in your voice. “At what?”

You gestured vaguely at the space between you.

“Making people worry,” you sighed. Again, tears suddenly pricked the corners of your eyes. It was a testament to how rundown you were, all these emotions roiling so close to the surface. Natasha heard the way your breathing changed, became ragged.

She said your name so softly it made your chest ache.

“Can I turn around?” She asked.

You crossed your arms, feeling exposed in just your bra and boxers. But you gave her permission anyway. You trusted her.

“Sorry,” you said, hitching on the word. “Just makes me feel like…a burden, an inconvenience.”

Natasha stepped toward you, enveloping you in a warm hug. “You don’t have anything to apologize for, detka,” she murmured. “And you could never be a burden to us. It’s okay to let people take care of you when you don’t feel good.”

You sagged against her. “Kay.”

You might have let her go on holding you all night. But then your stomach growled, and she chuckled.

“Come on,” she said, lips quirking up in a gentle smile. “Don’t want the water to get cold.”

——————

It’s been a long morning. Billy is a gifted witch in his own right, but he’s not especially talented when it comes to brewing. He doesn’t have the patience, the eye for detail. Much like someone else you know…

Agatha’s been hovering nearby all morning, fading into the background for the most part, letting you teach. Billy turns to grab a bottle from the shelf, and his elbow brushes the simmering vial beside your hand. The liquid splashes across your skin, leaving an immediate welt. You don’t react, just reset the vial and shove your injured hand in your pocket.

Billy is none the wiser, and there’s no sense in bringing it to his attention. It would only set his confidence back further, you reason.

Your eyes flicker once to Agatha, seated in a wing-backed chair. She’s lazily turning the pages of a book. You breathe a sigh of relief, thinking you’ve escaped notice.

But Agatha doesn’t miss a thing when it comes to you.

She waits until Billy’s gone before she makes her move. She approaches the table, scanning your face for some sign of discomfort, some evidence of pain.

But instead your expression is unreadable. You’re cleaning up the work bench in smooth, calm motions. Agatha feels a small flicker of unease in the pit of her stomach.

If she hadn’t seen the spill with her own eyes, the way the boiling liquid splashed on your skin, she’d never know anything was amiss.

You’re too good at this, she realizes.

Pretending everything is fine. Ignoring the pain. Not expecting comfort. The reaction unsettles her, unnerves her.

It’s an instinct Agatha understands, but one she won’t tolerate here. Not in her classroom, and not in her home.

“Look at me,” Agatha says, waiting until your eyes settle on her face. Those eyes. So pretty, so bright.

She peers at you expectantly, giving you a chance to be honest. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” you say with a little smile and a practiced quizzical shrug, hoping she’ll drop it. The burn on your hand throbs from being shoved in your pocket.

All you want is some privacy, a chance to clean the wound and apply the burn salve you know is on the far shelf.

“I’ll rephrase,” she says, hands gently gripping the sleeve of your shirt, not letting you shift away, not letting you hide. “Where are you hurt?”

Her eyes drift over your face, watching your expression go slack with faint surprise at being caught. Agatha really is too smart for her own good.

“I won’t ask again,” she warns, asserting her dominance in that theatrical way you love.

You’re still learning each other. But one thing she’s noticed is how you practically melt when her voice gets a certain quality to it. Because for all your fierce independence and stubbornness, you like letting Agatha take charge. Handing the reins to the other woman quiets your mind. She can see it on your face, plain as day. The way you settle into her lead, like she’s draped a warm blanket over your shoulders.

She’s rewarded a moment later when you swallow the instinctual resistance in your throat and nod, indicating she can investigate.

You remind yourself it’s alright to accept this tenderness from Agatha, that submitting to her care is part of this arrangement you have.

That for the first time in your life, letting someone help you doesn’t have to feel like weakness.

Agatha’s hands ghost over your skin as she rolls back the sleeve of your shirt, every movement familiar and knowing in a way that still catches you off guard. You can’t help but shiver. It’s the raw sensation of being seen, being carefully held after so much time on your own.

Her eyes flash up at you, noticing the slight tremble working through your body. “Pain?”

You shake your head, a little embarrassed. “No, just…tickles.”

Agatha smirks, comprehension dawning. “Behave yourself, pet,” she purrs.

You roll your eyes. The ego on this woman should be infuriating. You’ve never met anyone who could turn an insult into a compliment like her.

“You know,” you say with a little sigh. “You’re not as irresistible as you think.”

Agatha’s eyes flash. “Is that any way to talk to your mistress?”

The challenge is clear. Agatha waits for the deference that you don’t want to give. But eventually you can’t resist a little duck of your head, a mumbled apology.

Agatha purses her lips, clearly pleased at the submission, the obedience.

“Good girl,” she hums, and you do your best to ignore the bolt of pleasure that hooks into your chest at those two words. “Now let’s take a look at this hand, if you please.”

You let her pull your hand fully from your pocket, her touch incredibly gentle. When she sees the burn, her eyes widen.

She swears softly and you squirm. “Sorry,” you say automatically.

Agatha glances up at you, eyes narrowing. “For what?”

But you don’t answer. Judging by the look of confusion pinching your features, Agatha assumes you don’t exactly know the answer.

She returns her attention to the burn. It’s worse than she thought. If this was her own hand, she’d be howling. She tells you as much, wondering if you’ll admit to how much pain you must be in. But all you do is shrug.

She sets to work cleaning the wound, pausing when you wince.

“You should have said something sooner,” she scolds, worry making her irritable. “Why didn’t you?”

Your blank stare, fixed at the far wall, makes Agatha nervous. She turns away, reaching for a small vial.

Suddenly the words bubble up almost without permission.

“I wasn’t allowed.”

She’s looking through different poultice jars, but your words make her go still. She hardly dares to move, afraid you’ll retreat if she reacts, expresses too much interest.

“My father,” you add, voice still oddly flat. “He didn’t tolerate crying or …or anything like that.”

Agatha feels her blood run cold. Suddenly a piece of the puzzle is clicking into place and it’s a big one, a terrible one.

The warning from Melina all those weeks ago flashes through her head again. And she realizes some part of her knew all along. Because it’s a twin scar, one that Agatha also bears. The betrayal of a parent runs deep. You never really heal from it.

She turns to face you and finds your eyes are fixed on her face, searching, uncertain. Waiting to see if you made the right decision to share this information, to trust her.

“You never have to apologize for being hurt,” she says slowly. “Not in this house.”

Your shoulders tremble a bit, and then sag. Like a cord of tension has been cut. And Agatha can tell she’s landed on something deep, something painful.

But she doesn’t back down. Because more than anything, she needs to know you’ll always come to her with any injury, that you won’t hide away.

“Okay,” you manage, voice shaking a little.

“It’s my job to take care of my things,” she continues lightly, hoping to make you smile. “What kind of mistress would I be, letting my pets limp around in disrepair?”

She picks your hand up and begins massaging ointment.

You shiver again, enjoying the soft touch, the soothing effect of the balm. And enjoying the claim. You think you could happily spend the rest of your days being one of Agatha’s things. Something precious and needy in her care.

“Promise me,” she adds, a stern undercurrent lacing her words. “If you’re hurt, you let me know. Even if you think you can heal yourself. Even if it’s small.”

Your eyes flutter, pleasure obvious on your face as the pain dissipates, easing the pinch around your eyes.

“Promise,” you sigh.

Agatha proceeds to bandage your hand in silence for a few moments, expression thoughtful. The sudden relief after so much discomfort is heavenly. Your shoulders drop further, tension easing out of the muscles in your back. You watch her, how careful she is, how thorough. And being this close to the other woman does what it always does—you feel your thoughts getting slow and warm and loopy, and so you open your mouth and speak without thinking.

“Going to kiss it all better too?”

Agatha freezes, then fixes you with a wicked look.

“Would you like that, pet?”

Your heart suddenly feels like it’s hammering in your chest, so loud you wonder if the other woman can hear it. You nod, dumbstruck as she drifts closer to your hand, presses her pink lips against the clean bandage. She looks up at you from beneath those long, dark lashes. Your blood feels hot in your veins.

“You bring everything to me.” The words are soft but powerful, like an incantation. “We’re a team.”

“Team,” you repeat the word with reverence, eyes fixed on her face.

Agatha nods. “Good girl,” she whispers again, and you know with sudden certainty that she knows how much you like hearing it. “Now go upstairs and get warm by the fire.”

“But I need to clean up —“

“Do as I say,” she chides, bumping you with her hip and guiding you toward the stairs. “This can wait until tomorrow.”

“Hey, D.” You approached the central nurses’ station from the ambulance bay, a tray of coffees in one hand and a light-blue athletic jacket in the other. “You know where Baran is?”

“Why are you here?” The charge nurse asked in lieu of an answer, appraising your jeans and sweater over the bridge of her glasses.

“Baran lent me her jacket after the whole cric fiasco, so I thought I’d return it to her.” You held up the article of clothing like it was evidence and set the drink tray on the counter.

“Al-Hashimi,” Dana pointedly corrected, a lilt of teasing in her voice, “is in south 15 treating a patient, doing her job. You ever heard of that, Barbie?”

“Ouch.” You clutched your chest with mock offense before holding out a cup for her to take. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

Dana’s stare sobered and softened slightly as she accepted the drink and took a sip, letting out a hum of approval when she tasted her usual order.

“So you came all the way down here on your day off just to return a jacket?” Dana raised a brow, not bothering to hid her disbelief, and you couldn’t blame her.

If it were anybody else’s jacket, you would’ve just held onto it until your next emergency consult, and who knew when that would be. No, actually, you wouldn’t have even done that. If it had been anybody else, you would have just given the jacket to Walsh or Garcia, or even Shamsi, and had them to return it for you.

Yet, here you were, on your rare day off, bringing coffee for people, all to return Baran’s jacket.

Baran.

You had only interacted with the woman twice but there was something about her that piqued your interest. Obviously she was attractive, there was no questioning that, and she was clearly more than competent to run the ED, seeing as the department was no longer one breakdown away from complete collapse. But there was something else, something more, that caught your attention.

Whether it was the way she carried herself with a composed air of compassion, or the fact that she didn’t back down from your flirtatious quips, or how her big brown eyes practically bore into your soul every time she looked your way, you weren’t sure. But whatever it was, it had you down in the emergency department at 7 am with the hopes of speaking with her again.

You couldn’t exactly tell Dana all of that, though based on the look she was wearing, you had a feeling she already knew.

Before you could explain why you were really here, the woman in question approached you, her soothing voice cutting through all the chaos.

“Doctor—” the syllables of your last name rolled off Baran’s tongue with ease, causing your insides to coil— “to what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I wanted to give this back to you.” You held up her jacket before pushing the tray now holding only two cups in her direction. “I also come bearing caffeine.”

“Oh, thank you.” Baran smiled, pleasantly surprised, as she took the jacket from you. “You didn’t have to come all the way down here just to return this.”

She noticed you weren’t in your scrubs, your autumn outfit making you look softer than usual.

“I wanted to see you.” Your lips curled up into a grin, and Baran clung to the trace of earnestness in your voice.

Then, as if to play it off, you shrugged and added, “I had to pick something else up anyways.”

Baran’s eyes narrowed barely, but before she could ask further, Emery Walsh ambled up to the station. “So I’m a thing now?”

“Finally,” you groaned, rolling your eyes as you plucked the cup of coffee labeled “DC” out of the tray and handed it to the other surgeon. “You usually take this long to do a routine cholecystectomy?”

“Just trying to match your speed, Spook,” Emery retorted, taking a sip of the drink before scowling. “What the fuck is this decaf shit?”

“You have a problem.” You shot her a glare, one that told her you knew about her personal consultation with cardio a couple weeks ago. “You can get order whatever you want at breakfast. My treat.”

“You spoil me,” Emery snarked as she downed the rest of the coffee.

Baran watched the interaction with an itchy feeling creeping up her spine. She couldn’t tell whether this was just another instance of you being naturally flirtatious or if you and Emery were going on a breakfast date. After all, you had come all this way on your day off just to pick up the surgeon. Either way, Baran felt a pool of envy twist in her gut.

“I should get back to my patients,” she excused herself with a tight smile. “Thank you for returning my jacket.”

Sensing the shift in the other woman, her expression more tense and posture more rigid, you softened. “Wait.”

Baran paused, turning slightly on her heels as you grabbed the last paper cup from the tray and held it out for her.

“This is for you.”

As Baran reached out to accept the drink, her fingers brushed against yours, the slight contact sending a jolt straight to her chest.

“Your usual.”

When she raised a questioning brow, you chuckled awkwardly. “I asked around.”

Baran couldn’t help the amused glint in her eye at the sight of the faint blush dusting your cheeks. There wasn’t enough time to figure out the whiplash of emotions she had just experienced in the last five minutes, so Baran simply raised her cup.

“Thank you,” she said your name fondly. “I hope to see you around.”

“Likewise,” you replied, a satisfied smirk creeping back onto your lips.

Nodding, Baran turned on her heels and disappeared into the chaos of the emergency department. Your eyes followed her retreating figure, admiring the curves and angles of her movements, committing them to memory.

“You’re drooling.” Emery’s deadpan voice interrupted your trance.

You slapped her hand away from your face, earning a laugh from her. “Shut up,” you grumbled.

“I see Yoyo wasn’t lying.”

“About what?” You frowned at the idea of your two friends talking about you. The three of you had a friendship where if two of you were talking about the third behind their back, it was usually out of concern. While that concern did manifest itself in the form of snippy, sarcastic comments, it was still concern nonetheless.

“You have a crush,” Emery sang with a teasing grin.

“What? No, I don’t,” you refused quickly, too quickly, which Emery noticed, her grin widening even more.

“You returned her jacket,” Emery noted.

“After she lent it to me,” you countered, but the other surgeon ignored you.

“On your day off,” she finished with a pointed look.

“And—” she held up her hand to silence whatever argument you had ready— “you brought her coffee, her usual at that.”

Emery wiggled her brows suggestively.

“I brought you coffee,” you argued teasingly.

“Yeah, but decaf,” she said it like a curse word.

“Because you’re a bitch,” you quipped, and Emery let out a hearty chuckle.

“What are you two still doing here?” Dana’s Yinzer accent interrupted your bantering as she reentered the nurses’ station. “Go talk about Barbie’s crush somewhere else,” she said, having clearly heard enough of the conversation.

“Not a crush,” you corrected, grabbing the empty drink tray from the counter with one hand and pulling Emery’s elbow with the other.

“Okay, lover girl,” Dana muttered under her breath, shaking her head at you and Emery, as the two of you continued to bicker on your way out.

From across the department, standing at a computer, Baran watched the entire exchange with narrow eyes. While she couldn’t hear the words you and the other surgeon were exchanging, to anyone with eyes it looked like flirting, and based on the little she knew about you, she’d take one guess to say that’s what was happening. You and Emery seemed to interact with an ease and familiarity, and Baran couldn’t help but wonder what kind of history was there.

As her eyes followed you out the door, she took a sip of the drink you had given her. The familiar flavors of Assam tea with a splash of milk and just a dash of sugar hit her tongue, and yet it tasted warmer, sweeter, as if somehow the fact that you went out of your way to find out her order changed the taste.

“Hey, doc,” Dana’s voice snapped her back to the moment. “Labs are back on South 15, and we got an ambulance ten minutes out. Girl with a failed epi-pen”

Baran inhaled sharply and straightened her posture. “Thanks, Dana,” she said, taking the tablet from the nurse to scan the lab results.

As she moved to go check on her patient, her half-full paper cup still sitting on the desk, Dana interjected with a knowing smirk, “Don’t throw that away. Looks like it’s got some important information on it.”

Baran frowned, but before she could ask, the other woman was already walking away. Turning around, Baran picked up the cup and rotated it. As the sleeve slid down an inch, she finally noticed a line of digits scribbled on the cup and she knew it could only be one thing.

Trinity just smirks while she places her bag on the ground, eyes roaming around your delicious body.

"Damn. Now this is a treat to come home to."

"I wanted to surprise you," you mutter, glancing at Mel, whose face is visibly red underneath her hands.

"Should I leave?" Mel asks, using her finger to point in the direction of the front door. She feels awkward as you and Trinity talk like she's not even there.

"Stay. If you want. And you can remove your hands from your face, Mel. I don't mind." You glance at Trinity, who licks her lips at what you're suggesting.

"Yeah, why don't you stay?" Trinity kicks her shoes off and shrugs her jacket off her shoulders.

Mel slowly removes her hands from her eyes, gulping hard, thinking about how much of a pervert she is for immediately glancing at your naked chest. This is Trinity's girlfriend she's looking at. She shouldn't be staring.

You smile at her, clit twitching underneath your boxers as you notice how worked up she is. "Wanna join Trinity and me?"

Mel splutters and looks toward Trinity, who raises a brow.

"The more the merrier," she responds with a shrug. "You can touch her if you want. You're not that sly with those little looks."

Mel's face reddens, and she pushes her slightly foggy glasses up on her nose. "I-I'm not...I wasn't looking."

"Sure, you were. I mean, look at her. Who wouldn't stare?" Trinity walks over to you and bends down to give you a sloppy kiss with tongue, inhaling sharply at your scent.

Mel shifts awkwardly as she watches Trinity make out with you, feeling a rush of heat settle deep in her stomach. She doesn't know what to do. Should she leave? Should she walk over there? Should she stick a hand down her pants and rub her clit while she watches you two fuck?

You push Trinity away and look at Mel. "Come here."

Mel nods obediently and briskly walks over to you, wiggling her fingers by her side as she waits for your next command.

You jut your chest out and beckon her closer, patting the spot next to you. "Touch them."

Mel stares stupidly for a few moments before jumping into action and leaping to sit next to you, way too closely. Her eagerness turns you on.

Mel's eyes dart down to your chest, and her tongue swipes across her bottom lip as she reaches her hands forward. A tiny rumble escapes her throat when she makes contact with your tits, and her hands squeeze them hard. Her roughness is surprising. She didn't even need to be told to loosen up.

Trinity's eyes are half-lidded as she watches her friend play with her butch's chest. Mel pinches and tugs on your nipples, eliciting the prettiest moans from you.

“I actually agree with you for once,” the body beside you grumbles, effectively sending you into tachycardia.

“Fuck!” You shriek and leap out of the bed, the blankets tripping you up. The lack of balance from the hangover sends you crashing to the ground.

Your breathing starts to slow as the figure sits up. Thank god. It’s just Walsh. Not some rando who followed you back to your hotel room.

A new, more terrifying realization sends your stomach roiling. Why is Emery Walsh in bed with you?

Your heart rattles as you glance down to find yourself fully clothed… in your silk, thigh-length teddy. Your hand floats over your hipbone. To your relief, the waistband of underwear answers your next question.

Of about a thousand.

"What are…" you immediately scramble to your feet, the quick movement sending waves of nausea crashing over you. You gag, then palm the wall to your left. 

"Oh, god, you're not gonna throw up, are you?" Walsh sits against the headboard, looking on with disgust. As though she'd be horribly put out if you did. "That's a hell of a way to start the honeymoon." 

The what? 

Your eyes flick to your hand, more specifically, your finger. Catching the sunlight through the window in a horrifying glint, sits a gaudy gold band, embedded with a little black spade, accompanied by a little red heart. 

You have to keep hold of the wall as you stumble into the bathroom. You collapse into the fluffy white rug, and vomit into the toilet.

Emery's frown deepens as the sound of your retching echoes off the opalescent tiles of the bathroom. Her own head thrums in a rhythmic, unrelenting warsong, but thankfully her stomach was spared. She glances down at her own hand, adorned in a ring that is twin to your own. 

It'd be pretty terrible if she left you on the floor of the bathroom, puking your guts up, even if she wasn't (techincally) your wife. With a heavily inconvenienced sigh, she flips back the duvet and pads into the bathroom. 

Like everything in Las Vegas, this bathroom is obscenely over-the-top, with shiny marble countertops and opal subway tiles adorning all four walls. Your knees dig into the faux rabbit-fur rug, arms braced around the toilet seat, lacking the dignity to even sit up. 

"God, you sound awful," Emery slides unceremoniously down the sink, knees poised up to her chin once her ass hits the cold floor. 

"Beyond helpful, as always," your voice echoes into the basin, followed by a dry cough. You feel too sick to your stomach to panic about the goddamn Italian-mafia-paperweight on your ring finger. Your eyes find Walsh's over the rim of the toilet. "What the fuck happened last night?" 

"I think the front-page headline is pretty obvious," her voice tolls into your head as she presents her own left hand. 

"We got… married?" You grimace, leaning back from the toilet and tugging down the flusher. Walsh tears off a strip of toilet paper and hands it to you without a word. 

"There's a certificate somewhere out there," she gestures lazily to the suite as you pat the corners of your mouth. Her lips pressed into a flat line when she adds, "if you require documentation." 

You blink, flashes of last night coming back to you in quick, persistent gut-punches.

The medical conference being a total bust. Agreeing, apprehensively, to a drink with Walsh at the hotel bar. Finding it surprisingly enjoyable outside of the pressurized environment of a surgical residency. Googling clubs within walking distance. 

Her hands firmly gripping your hips as the bass-heavy music thumped through your entire body. 

Then… nothing. Blank pages flipping to the end of an unfinished book. How do those useless bits of information add up to matching rings and an apparent marriage certificate somewhere in this hotel room? 

Emery has to blink when she realizes you truly don't remember. 

God, she knew you were both fucked up, but being equal levels of smashed was what's been keeping her from feeling like a total piece of shit the past forty minutes she's been awake. How is it possible you could consume the same amount of drinks that she did, but be completely in the dark about the little trip you both took to the chapel just down the strip? 

"I-I'll get you a glass of water," she slowly rises to her feet, gripping the edge of the sink for a breath before her bare feet smack against the tile. Your trail her, eyeing the silken shorts slinking across her wiry frame. Mint green and lined with frilly, ditzy lace, they look naggingly familiar, until the realization smacks against you.

Those are your pajamas. Your drag your gaze to the sink to see your pink hairbrush exactly where you left it yesterday afternoon. This is your suite. 

A second round of vomiting sends you hunched back over the toilet. 

Emery ends up helping you stay upright while you brush your teeth, then hobble back atop the blankets. Finally, she brings you a glass of water before perching on the end of the mattress by your feet. 

She stares at the lavishly soft carpet beneath the bed frame, one bare, creamy leg crossed deliciously over the other. God, how had you not realized Walsh was so… sexy before? 

You'd certainly had the fleeting thought that she's pretty in the past. Uniquely so, with her dark brown waves and chocolate eyes to match, her endearing little mole just above her lip. She's very cute, especially in the rare moments when her mouth is actually shut. 

To say you don't exactly get along with Walsh at work is something of an understatement. 

You're too protective of your reputation to have a row with her, or anything remotely resembling unprofessionalism, but she certainly likes to push your buttons. 

In the six months you've been a surgical resident at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, she still hasn't quite found the thing to send you over the edge. You're annoyingly by-the-book, in the least abrasive way possible, which obviously grates against Emery like a bad rash. As someone who's unafraid to do the dirty work and be a bitch about it, it was incredibly unnerving for Emery to discover that the two weren't mutually exclusive. 

It felt like weakness for you to be a stickler for procedure and well-liked among the surgical team. You diagnose and advocate and accomplish without ego, and you're good at it.

You weasled your way into the surgeon's club in less than a month's time, earning the respect of Shamsi and Garcia alike. Even Park the Shark's taken something of a liking to you. 

Everyone in surgery's a hardhead. You included, but in different ways than everybody else. You stick your neck out for your patients without garnering a reputation for being 'abrasive' or 'callous', words that have come up in more than one of Emery's performance reviews. 

In the medical world, especially as a female surgeon, not exuding either of those qualities is as rare as a fucking double rainbow. 

So when Gloria said you'd be joining Emery at the conference in Vegas, the conference she'd been waiting for since before you even got your goddamn ID badge photo taken, yeah, she was a little prickly about it. 

A long silence hangs between you now, layered atop a buzzing, confused feeling that you can't quite name. 

Finally you brave a short sip of the tepid water. As you set the glass down on the bedside table, you search for Walsh's eye. 

"You remember what happened, then?" You ask, the most timid Emery thinks she's ever heard you. 

She nods, tracing her fingers along the lace hem of the pajama shorts. "It's like a puzzle without the corner pieces. Mostly there," she explains without looking up. "I take it you don't remember?"

Your lips purse in the side of your mouth. "It's like I have a couple of corner pieces, and nothing else," you proffer, your voice an uncertain rasp. "I remember the bar downstairs, then dancing." 

As you vocalize, a handful of more unexpected details come gushing out. Word vomit, this time, instead of actual vomit. 

"We danced a lot, actually," your eyes pinpoint on a crease in the duvet, fixating on it. "There were quite a few drinks, and… maybe… karaoke?" You find one corner of Walsh's mouth twitching up. "And then we started daring each other to do a bunch of stupid stuff… and then we passed the chapel in the Uber on the way back here and…" 

You shake your head and blow out a long, exasperated breath. "You licked salt off of my stomach," the verbal realization spews out before you can think better of it. 

Emery's annoyingly endeared when she looks up at you and finds your entire face has turned red. 

"You ate a whole lime wedge," she fires back, smirking. "Peel and all." 

Your jaw drops in feigned indignation. "You did the worm on a dirty club floor," you retaliate. "Unsuccessfully." 

"You told me you think Garcia's perfume smells like an old lady's closet."

"You told me you once had a sex dream about Brendon!" You point a finger. 

"Yeah, well, you dared me to marry you," Emery crosses her arms over her chest with a finality that sends your extended arm flopping back down to your lap.

"I did not," your voice wobbles. Your gaze flicks to the ring on your finger, then to the one on hers. 

"You sure did," Emery turns to face you, the mattress creaking as she tucks her foot under her rear. The little mint-colored shorts ride up the ivory plane of her thigh. The competitive edge dancing in her chestnut eyes has melted into an unsettlingly flat frankness, one you're certainly used to in the O.R, but not here. Not when you could draw back the gossamer curtains and find a replica of the Eiffel Tower. 

"You said you were surprised I'd be willing to dance with someone like you," Emery explains, a distinct lack of emotion in her intonation. "You said you thought I'd only be into imposing energies like my own."

You grimace. "I didn't mean—"

"Sure you did," Emery scoffs, waving away your attempt at an apology. "Everybody's filter gets thrown out when they're drunk." 

"I'm sorry," you murmur, picking at a loose thread on the duvet. 

"Oh, I wasn't done," she tuts, and your eyes snap to her. "You also said you didn't think I'd be into you, and I told you I was." Her expression dissolves into something softer, and somehow even more unreadable. Is that… fondness on her face? 

"I told you I was," Emery repeats, then says your name in a low hush. The minty taste in your mouth from the toothpaste dissolves into sand. "And then you pointed to the chapel as we passed it and said 'prove it'." 

"And then you kissed me," you find yourself saying, your chest starting to rise and fall a little more rapidly. 

"And then I kissed you," Emery confirms with a nonchalant nod that irrefutably contradicts the weight of the words leaving her lips. 

Her lips. You remember now. 

They were so soft, and they tasted like passion fruit margarita with a hint of vanilla bean chapstick. You asked the Uber driver to drop you off at the chapel instead, where Emery spent a long time pressing you against the cheap, white siding of its exterior, her hands roaming your hips and up your back. You sucked on her bottom lip and slid your tongue into her mouth, palming her nipple through the thin, violet top she'd worn beneath her blazer at the conference. 

You're still not sure, exactly, how that translated into actually entering the chapel and signing the paperwork, but as the pounding in your heart travels below your belly, but you're also not sure you totally care. 

"Do you still feel sick?" Emery asks, braving a hand up to clasp around your shin. 

You shake your head at her, caught in the gravitational pull of her eyes. 

She unfolds her leg, sliding it across the duvet, crawling over you. Her knees settle on either side of your hips. She brushes her elegantly long finger along the line of your jaw. 

Her weight hovers over your lap, threatening to sink onto you. The fluttery, liquid feeling drops beneath your stomach, thrumming between your legs all of a sudden. 

Wanting, wanting, wanting. 

"Last night," your voice crackles like a lit wick when you speak again. "Did we have…?" 

"We didn't have sex, no," Emery's voice vibrates along the column of her throat. Her touch is feather-light along your jawline, then she pinches your earlobe between her thumb and forefinger. "Lots of kissing, and then you insisted I borrow your pajamas. Even though my suite is on the other side of this wall," she smiles at this. It's a soft, feminine thing, unexpectedly shooting lightning straight down to your core. 

"And then we just laid here for a while," Emery continues. Finally, she lowers her ass to your lap, your hands bulleting for her hips like she might spring up at any second. "And you told me—"

"That I'd been thinking about you since the day we met," you cut in, your breath catching in your throat. It comes back to your mind in slurred words, lined with the invoked scent of salt and tequila. "That I thought you could be really difficult sometimes, but I knew under all of that was another woman clawing to prove herself in a field she's not expected to succeed in. That I admired you, and I thought you were beautiful." 

"Radiant, I think, is the exact word you used," Emery snorts, her hips twitching in a roll against yours. You whimper, soft and honeyed, into her ear. "You also said you didn't think I looked inward to my softer side very often," she whispers against your neck. "And that you'd like to be the person to show me how that's possible." 

"Sounds like I was really working an angle on you," you say sarcastically. 

"Baby, we were already married by then," Emery presses a slow-motion kiss to your neck. The tackiness of her lips lingers along your skin, her hot breath giving you goosebumps. "You didn't need to work any kind of angle." 

You regress back to the state you were in last night. All of a sudden, all logic's tossed out the thirty-story window. You're no longer surgeons at a trauma center in Pittsburgh, vying for the limited amount of respect your colleagues —including each other— have to give. You're just two women, all softened lines and rounded edges, dropping into some kind of slow, languid dance. 

"Fuck, Emery," you murmur as her fingertips glide along the thin straps of your teddy. Desire pools between your legs, throbbing in a needy, desperate, stuttering heartbeat. "I can't believe we got fucking married." 

"Crazy fucking decision on both our parts, to be fair," Emery kisses slowly along your neck, up your jaw, then once, twice on the corners of your lips. "But I think we can figure out what to do about it later, don't you?" 

You hum, chasing her as she pulls her head back. Finally, for the first time sober, and in the light of day, your lips meet hers. They slot together, and you both trade pleasurable moans back and forth. It's as good of a confession as any. 

Everything after that is reactive. 

When you squeeze her hips, she palms your breasts. When she grinds into you, you sigh into her open mouth. 

Newton's Third Law of Motion, you think, but don't say aloud for fear of squashing the moment.

Counterthoughts poke their little heads in and out, saying oh god, we shouldn't be doing this, and if we're going to do it, it should only be once and we should be really clear about it right now and holy shit, I'm fucking married to Emery Walsh.

You're not proud to admit it, but you ignore all of them, and continue to sloppily, lazily kiss and touch your wife. 

Your wife. 

A uncontrollable, incredulous laugh bubbles up in your chest and shoots out of you. 

Emery peels back in an instant, her hands abandoning your breasts to cap your shoulders. Your nipples perk at the sudden exposure to the cool air. "What?" She side-eyes you. 

"Nothing," you press your fingers into the small of her back soothingly. Your expression and your tone slowly start to sober. "I'm sorry. This is just fucking insane. I think we need to at least acknowledge that." 

She rubs your shoulders. "Yeah, it's fucking insane," Emery agrees with a nod. 

Your cursed need to have a goddamn plan trumps any sort of aching at the apex of your thighs. Fuck, you warn yourself.Don't say it. Don't say it, don't say it! 

"What are we gonna do about this, exactly?" 

“You’re not even going to say good morning?”

Emery lets out a light laugh. She slightly moves up towards you, sacrificing her pride, to kiss your cheek. Her breath is warm as she leans into your ear, “It’s not morning yet.”

That catches your attention. Emery isn’t shy about her ambition, about the hours of work she needs to put in to feel sane. She wants to be the best, so she’ll always be first on the clock, and the last to leave.

You lean over to grab at your phone that sits on the chocolate brown nightstand next to you. The device blinds you with the time, 4:26. Your head hits the soft, sage green pillows, “How are you even home?”

“They scheduled too many people, figured I’d head out early.” Her hands start moving towards your breast again. 

“Since when do they schedule too many people? There’s always too much going on at that hospital.”

Emery sighs, and removes her hand from your shirt. “Why do you have so many questions when I’m trying to fuck you?”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of your chest. You didn’t factor that into the words that were leaving your mouth. You were still half-asleep, wondering what God to thank now that you finally got to sleep next to your girlfriend. It wasn’t easy to have a good night's sleep with Emery. She was a great surgeon, and that’s because she built herself into one. It didn’t come naturally for her, she worked her ass off to get the spot that she has. People told her countless times that she should pick a different specialty, but she refused to listen. And she sure showed them. She would never tell you this, but she feels like if she lets up for one second, her whole reputation will come crashing down.

“I’m sorry,” you move her hands back onto your body, and her thumb rubs tight circles right where your waist meets your hips. “I’ve just never seen you come home early, I’m very confused.”

Emery hums to herself. “Can’t you just be grateful?”

You snap yourself out of it, and nod your head, finally opening your eyes enough to see the look of hunger in her eyes. She was right, what were you doing? Why all the questions?

Emery wastes no time in pushing your shirt up to your neck. Her hands quickly find your right nipple and begin to pinch and pull. The moan that leaves your body is lewd, and probably too loud considering the time. But you didn’t really care. Her mouth kisses the middle of your chest before it wraps around your left nipple. You reach your hand towards her head to ground yourself. Her hair is still tied up in a bun, that’s probably been in for ten hours at this point. You rock your body against hers, hips pressing up into her thigh that's conveniently placed between your open legs. 

Her lips pull off your nipple, and you whine into the open air. Emery makes quick work, though. The sheets ruffle as she lowers herself to the bottom of the bed. She hooks a finger into your waistband, but doesn’t pull them down yet. Instead, she presses open-mouth kisses to the lower half of your body. You feel like she’s trying to cover you in them. She acts like the kisses are marks that let everyone know your hers– like she’ll die if every inch of you isn’t covered in her scent. 

Her hands continue to tease you under your underwear, on your hip, or on the edge of right where you need her, but never right where you want it. No one warned you about this part of dating a surgeon. She knows exactly where to tease, and when. Her hands are so precise, you genuinely believe that all the surgery has helped her hands grow their own brain cells. 

She finally seems satisfied, and takes her fingers out from your waistband. She pulls the lace material off of your body and throws the garment across the room.

She takes a few moments on top of the bed. She’s sat up on her knees, looking at you with so much lust, you’re convinced she’s creating her own layer of hell in that moment. 

“Why so much staring when I’m trying to fuck you?” You quip, wanting her to get on with her desires. 

“Yeah, like you ever do the fucking. I just need you to lay here and look pretty for me. It’s all you're good at, anyway.” Most people would be offended by this statement, but all it does to you is bring a warm wave of pleasure down your body. “I’m just trying to admire what’s mine.”

Despite her words, she does get a move on with it. She settles in between your legs, blows gently on your heat, just enough to make you squirm. She starts by lightly teasing your clit, pressing, but barely, just so you knew she was there. Emery was always attentive to your needs; to how your body responds to her. She knew what you needed, and you loved letting her have full control over you. Your hips pressed up for the second time that night, letting her know she was doing something right. 

“God, you get so wet without me even doing anything. Or were you dreaming about me before I got here?” Emery asks. She’s not really looking for an answer, she just wants to hear you whine. You go to grasp at her wrist, and press her hand harder. “C’mon, you know better than that.”

You pull your hands back and cross your arms over your eyes, digging the inside of your elbows into the sockets. Emery begins to press harder on your clit, and you feel her other hand snake up to press a digit against your entrance. The room suddenly feels too hot to bare, and you sit up just enough to pull Emery’s Penn sweatshirt off your body. 

“So good, fuck,” you mumble, mostly to yourself. It feels like there’s a pile of hot coals sitting in the bottom of your stomach. Like your desire is actually burning for her, it always was, if you're being honest. She has always had a magnetic pull about her. Her cold demeanor never deterred you, it only made you want her more. You felt so lucky that you knew how to play her games, that you knew what she wanted you to do like the back of your hand. There were never any questions. You just understood each other.

All at once, Emery pulls away from you. Before you can even get an exasperated noise out of your body, you can see Emery’s hand shooing you away. She climbs off the bed and kneels down on the floor, and you understand. When she stands up, she has the harness and strap-on in hand. Again, you’re still trying to think of who to thank for this. Much like everything else, Emery is a master of getting it on quickly. She’s back on the bed, and lining up at your entrance in record time. The silicone head presses in gently, and you let out a puff of air.

“There y’go, baby, breathe.” Emery mumbles, mouth against your ear again. You wish the hot air didn’t drive you as crazy as it did, but every time she whispers words in your ear, your head gets a little bit fuzzier. 

Her thrusts don’t let up for a second. She has the stamina of an olympic athlete. She can go for as long as needed. But you already feel like you’re close. Between her teasing, and your sleepy headspace, it all hits you ten times harder. The strap rubs the perfect spot inside of you, and your legs wrap around her waist instinctively. “Right there?” she asks, even though she already knows.

Your mouth falls open. A sound tries to come out, but your breath is hitched again, so you choose to nod.  

“Already so fucked-out, aren’t you?” The more talkative Emery gets, the more you know it’s getting to her. The strap must be rubbing on her clit just right, because she’s panting in your ear like she’s close too. “When they asked who wanted to go home, I leapt at the chance. I’ve been wanting to fuck this sweet cunt all night, honey. You don’t even know how hard it was to keep my head screwed on straight today.”

You whimper at her words.

“It’s starting to become a problem. Any time I get a chance to think, it’s about you. You’re taking over my brain.”

“Sorry, sorry, just— please, Emery.” you say, hoping your pleas will convince her to let you come.

Emery ignores you, “I mean, what’s the point of being the best surgeon if I don’t have the best girl to come home to, huh? I swear, I’m starting to like showing you off more than my surgeries. I’m addicted to how you fucking feel– to how you make me feel.”

You snake your hand down and hold her hip as she thrusts into you. Your mind is practically blank at this point, but part of you knows that this is the nicest thing Emery has ever said to, well, anyone. She really loves you. You know it.

“Y’wanna come? Come with me, sweetheart. You got it.”

All it takes is a few more strokes before you're both being sent over the top of the rollercoaster. Your cunt twitches around the strap, and you grip onto Emery so tight that you’re positive she’ll have a bruise on her hip in the morning.

After a few moments of heavy breathing, Emery moves slowly to take the strap out of you. You wince at the removal, but it's quickly soothed by kisses on her neck. She sits up just to tear the strap off, and then crashes down on the bed next to you. You instinctively crawl into her open arm, laying your head down on her chest. The moonlight is bright in your joint bedroom, and you can make out her brown eyes staring down at you. She leans up to take her hair out of the bun, running her fingers across her scalp once it’s finally free. 

“Did you really leave work just to fuck me?” you ask, genuinely curious if it was just pillowtalk.

She sighs through her nose, “Go to sleep.”

A/N: I received three asks for Emery Walsh, no specific stories just requesting fluff and angst/comfort, so we’re hitting all three here! Hope you enjoy. Ps. Tedra Milan, the Pitt misses you please come home 💛

✺ ───── ✺ ───── ✺

The bell above the café door is less of a jingle and more of a chime.

It suits the place.

The whole shop is white and blush and made of pale wood, clean without feeling sterile. The walls are painted the faintest shade of pink, warm enough that the late afternoon sun turns everything honey-soft through the massive front windows. The gold light fixtures glow even when they aren’t in use and there are tiny vases with baby’s breath on every table. Someone once described it as “aggressively feminine” and you’d laughed because they weren’t wrong, it was so in every stereotypical sense of the word.

It constantly smells like vanilla and coffee and sugar crusting over on fresh pastries.

It also makes, objectively, the best coffee within a mile radius of PTMC. Which is why doctors keep wandering in despite themselves.

You’re alone behind the counter, like always on the closing shift. Your boss swears the evening rush “isn’t a real rush”, which means three nights a week it’s just you from five until close. You don’t mind, you actually prefer it. The quiet gives you something to do without being overwhelming. And if you’re being honest, staying up late lines your schedule up with Emery’s night shifts.

Speaking of Emery, she’s insistent you don’t need this job.

“You know I make enough for the both of us, right?” she’d said once, leaning against the kitchen counter in her scrubs, arms crossed. “You could quit tomorrow.”

You’d shrugged noncommittally, insisting that you enjoy your job.

Which is true.

You like the rhythm of it. The hiss of the steam wand, the satisfaction of getting latte art right on the first pour. Your regulars who order the same thing every single day.

It’s six on the dot when the door chimes.

You glance up automatically, already pasting on your best and most polite “customer service” smile. One time, your boss caught you without it, and you were treated to a ten minute lecture on how “service with a smile” is the pinnacle of customer satisfaction. 

The man entering hesitates just inside the door like he’s walked into the wrong building. 

He’s tall, with silver hair and a hospital badge clipped to his shirt that reads Doctor. He wears black scrubs under a jacket that looks a little too light for the weather.

You recognize him immediately. Him, it takes a second.

His eyes narrow as he looks at you, stepping toward the counter, and you can see the cogs inside his head turning. “Have we -”

“Yes,” you say brightly, leaning on your forearms on the counter. “You stitched up my arm a few months ago when I fell.”

Understanding clicks across his face, followed by a mild look of embarrassment. “Oh, god. Right.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’m sorry, I see a lot of people.”

“I would hope so,” you tease lightly. “Otherwise that would be a bit concerning for your job security.”

That pulls a laugh out of him, easy and warm. He seems like the type who’s used to charming his way through awkwardness, and he does it well.

“How’s the arm?” he asks, nodding toward you like he expects visible damage.

You hold it up obligingly, turning it so the faint, pale scar near your elbow catches the light. “Healed. You did great work.” 

You avoid mentioning your girlfriend, who’d hovered over his every move, critiquing the whole way through your stitches.

He leans in a little to look, his professional instinct overriding the human ones. “Yeah?”

“Ten out of ten,” you say seriously. “Would have you stitch me up again.”

He hums in acknowledgement, his eyes flicking from your arm to your face. “Good. I aim to please.”

You grin, missing the double meaning entirely. 

“So, what can I get you?” you ask, reaching for a cup.

He studies the menu like he didn’t even consider ordering coffee in a café before you suggested it. “I was told this place has the best coffee within walking distance of the hospital.”

“We do,” you say without hesitation. “Who told you that?”

“Shen.”

You brighten immediately. “Dr. Shen? He gets the iced oat milk lavender latte.”

That seems to genuinely surprise him. “You know his order?”

“He comes in every day,” you shrug. “You’d be surprised how well you get to know someone when you see them daily, even if it’s just to make them coffee.”

That earns you another laugh.

“Okay,” he says, leaning on the counter to mirror you without realizing it. “Well, what would you recommend?”

You launch into your usual spiel, both animated and comfortable in your environment. He watches you like you’re fascinating. Like he has nowhere else to be. 

When you’ve finished your little rant at him, you grab a marker. “So what do you like? What’s your usual?”

“Black.”

You wrinkle your nose. “That’s boring.”

“Wow,” he says, his eyebrows lifting. “Way to make a guy feel good about himself.”

“I’m kidding,” you say quickly. “Kind of. But if you’re going to branch out, this is certainly the place to do it.”

Half of his mouth lifts up in a sideways smile. “You trying to change me?”

You don’t even notice the tone shift.

“I’m trying to improve your quality of life,” you correct, completely earnest.

He studies you with something akin to amusement on his face. Curious, almost. “And what would improve my quality of life?” he asks.

You reach up above you without looking, tapping the menu with the marker. “A brown sugar cinnamon latte, extra hot. Trust me.”

“Trust you,” he repeats, like he’s testing the phrase on his tongue. 

“I have excellent judgment.”

“Do you?”

“I sure do.”

He smiles again, slower this time. “Alright. Let’s do it, then.”

You turn to the espresso machine, missing the way he watches you instead of the menu. You miss the way his gaze lingers when you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You miss the way he seems far more interested in you than the drink.

When you slide the latte across the counter, foam art carefully poured into a clean little tulip, he looks at it and then back at you.

“That’s impressive,” he says.

You beam. “I know.”

He takes a sip and there’s a small pause as his tongue darts out to catch the foam on his lips.

“Alright,” he admits. “That’s excellent.”

“Told you,” you say, pleased with yourself.

He chuckles a little, shaking his head. Then, without looking away from you, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded bill, slipping it into the glass tip jar beside the register.

You straighten immediately. “Oh - no, you don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he says easily.

“You really don’t,” you insist, leaning forward like you might reach in and fish it back out. “It’s one drink.”

“And it’s a good one.”

“That’s my job.”

“Then you’re very good at it.”

The way he says it almost makes it sound like it’s about more than coffee.

He takes another sip of his drink, and then winces faintly.

You notice immediately. “Too hot?”

“No. It’s -” He glances at the cup, then back at you. “I hate to ask this.”

“What?”

“My shift starts in thirty minutes.”

You nod, completely missing the point. “Okay.”

“I’m going to need it in a to-go cup.”

You look down at the perfectly-poured tulip blooming in the ceramic mug between his hands, gasping softly. “You’re going to destroy her?”

He laughs. “I feel bad.”

“You should.”

He holds the mug out toward you, almost apologetic. “I promise to appreciate her while she lasts.”

You take it back with reluctance that’s exaggerated for the bit. “This is tragic.”

But you’re already moving, dumping the latte back into a metal pitcher to save the espresso shot. The steam wand hisses again as you reheat the milk.

He stays at the counter instead of stepping aside, not that he’d need to, being the only customer in the shop for now. Still, it's intentional on his part.

You slide the fresh to-go cup onto the counter and pour carefully, less intricate this time but still neat. You pop on a lid with a soft snap.

“There. Travel safe,” you say, pushing it toward him.

He takes the cup, hesitating for a moment before stepping backward toward the door.

“I’ll be back,” he says lightly.

“For better coffee?” you grin.

“For better company.”

You laugh like it’s a joke.

“Have a good shift, Dr. -” you falter, realizing you don’t actually remember his name.

“Abbot,” he supplies.

“Right, Dr. Abbot.”

“Jack,” he corrects after a second.

You blink. “Oh, okay. Jack.”

He smiles at the sound of his name like he’s won something. 

“See you soon,” he says.

The bell chimes softly as he leaves.

You shake your head a little, amused at yourself for forgetting his name, then turn back to the espresso machine.

You do not, at any point, even consider that he might have been flirting with you.

The rest of the evening is business as usual.

A pair of nursing students come in around seven, still in scrubs and whispering over flashcards while you make them matching caramel lattes. One of them spills half her drink on the counter because she’s so tired and overly caffeinated that she’s vibrating. You hand her extra napkins and a cookie “on the house” and she looks like she might cry about it.

An older couple wanders in near eight-thirty, clearly lost and asking if the bookstore that used to be here five years ago is still somewhere around here. It isn’t. You make them tea anyway.

At nine-fifteen, a man in business casual stands frozen in front of the menu silently for a full two minutes before admitting that he’s never actually ordered anything but drip coffee in his life. You gently guide him toward a vanilla latte and tell him it’s a safe gateway option. He tips you three dollars like you’ve changed his life.

It never gets busy enough to overwhelm you, just enough to keep your hands moving.

You wipe tables, restock napkins, and rotate pastries in the display case. The sky outside the massive front windows deepens from golden to black, the hospital down the street glowing like a second moon. You can see several upper floors lit bright white and you try to remember which floor is surgery. Emery’s in there somewhere.

At ten-thirty, you flip the sign on the door to Closing Soon.

At eleven, you lock it.

The quiet after close is your favorite part.

You turn off the lights to the pastry case first, and then the gold fixtures one by one until the café goes dark. The music is turned off last to save you from the silence. You’ve already mopped, counted the register, tallied the tips, and texted your boss the nightly numbers.

You shoulder your purse, double-check the locks, and step out into the cool night air.

The hospital is only a block away. Close enough that you can hear the wail of an ambulance pulling in somewhere around the side. 

You start walking.

The sidewalk is mostly empty this time of night. Save for a few scattered people in scrubs outside on their breaks, a delivery truck or two rumbling past, and a couple straggling unhoused people who hover near the hospital because they know it’s the only place this time of night they might get something to eat.

You pull your phone from your pocket and hit Emery’s contact. It only rings twice before she answers.

“Hey,” she answers, and you can already tell she’s distracted. You can hear the hospital in the background.

“Hi,” you say, smiling even though she can’t see you. “You on break?”

“For about six more minutes. Or until someone calls for me.”

“Wow, very generous of them to give you six whole minutes.”

“Don’t mock the system that feeds me.”

You laugh, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “I just closed up.”

“How was your shift?”

“Easy. Quiet.” You hop over a crack in the sidewalk. “Oh! One of your ER guys came in tonight.”

There’s a brief pause before Emery repeats, “…one of my ER guys.”

“Yeah. Tall, greying hair, looks like he hasn’t slept at all this decade.”

Another pause, slightly longer. 

“Abbot?”

You snap your fingers even though she can’t see them either. “That’s it! I could not remember his name, the one who sewed up my arm.”

“What did he want?”

“Coffee?” you giggle, amused. “What do you think?”

Emery hums noncommittally on the other line. 

“He said Shen recommended us,” you add. “Which is high praise.”

“It is,” she says shortly.

You don’t notice the shift in her voice at the mention of her coworker. You’re too busy watching the ER doors of the hospital slide open and closed across the street.

“He was nice,” you continue. “Felt bad about ruining my foam art because he needed it to-go. Very tragic.”

There’s a small sigh on the other end of the line. 

“Tragic,” she repeats.

“Mhm. I handled it bravely.”

“I’m sure you did.”

You smile at the dry edge to her voice, and it dawns on you then that maybe layering on work-talk while she’s working might not be the best use of her break. 

“Anyway, I’m on my way home. How’s your night?”

“Fine.”

“You sound busy.”

“I am.”

“Okay,” you say, softening. “I won’t keep you.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“You can keep me,” she says, quieter now. You can hear the smallest trace of a smile in her voice.

Your steps slow a little at that and you glance up at the hospital again, at the glowing floors where you know she is.

“I’ll stay on the line until your pager goes off,” you decide.

She lets out a small chuckle at that. “You’re insufferable.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

You grin to yourself and keep walking, unaware that several floors up, something ugly has already begun to take root inside of your girlfriend.

And that you’ve just handed it a name.

✺ ───── ✺ ───── ✺

Your bedroom is almost completely dark. 

It’s not like nighttime dark, more like the thick and muffled kind created by the blackout curtains that are pulled tight across your windows. 

Your phone says 2:07PM when you blink at it and for a second you’re disoriented. 

Your body protests the sudden wake up. You’d stayed up as long as you could last night, curled up on the couch with the TV going while you waited for Emery to get home. But four o’clock had been the absolute limit before your eyes refused to stay open any longer.

She must’ve slipped into bed with you when she got home.

The weight of her arm across your waist, the puffs of air against your back as she exhales. The warmth of her entire body following the shape of yours from behind.

Emery.

You move a little, trying to be careful not to wake her, but her arm tightens around you instinctively and it doesn’t take long for you to realize that it wasn’t a sleepy reflex.

She pulls you closer, smushing her face into the back of your shoulder like she’s making sure you’re not trying to go anywhere.

“Hi,” you murmur with a smile, your voice still full of sleep.

“Hi.”

Her voice sounds rougher than usual, low and almost a groan from exhaustion.

You roll onto your back slowly so you can see her.

Even in the low light you can make out the signs of a brutal shift: shadows under her eyes, her curls messy and piled on top of her head in a scrunchie, the crease between her eyebrows that only shows up when she’s pissed or overly tired.

She watches you for a moment before leaning in and kissing you.

Not unusual, Emery kisses you all the time, but this one lingers a little longer than normal.

And when she pulls back, she doesn’t go far. Her hand slides up to cup your cheek as she pulls herself back in and kisses you again.

You let out a surprised laugh against her mouth. “Good morning to you too.”

She hums something and kisses you again anyway, and again.

By the fourth one, you’re smiling too much to pretend you’re not noticing.

“Em.”

“Mm?”

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

The answer comes from her immediately, but her arms tighten around you as she says it, burying her face into your shoulder.

It’s…a lot. Not unwelcome, just unusual for her.

You settle, wrapping your arms around her as she tucks her face against your collarbone. Your hand drags up and down her back slowly and you press a kiss into her hair just above her forehead. 

She responds with a kiss to the base of your neck.

And then another.

You tip your head back to look down at her again. 

“You had a rough night,” you guess gently.

Her lips purse. “Something like that.”

You hum sympathetically and rub slow circles against her back.

“That’s okay,” you say after a moment. “I don’t have to work today, we can rot on the couch and order food and watch trash TV.”

She pulls back just enough to look at you again. 

“Rot on the couch.”

“Yes.”

“Compelling.”

“I know.”

Her eyes linger on your face for a while like she doesn’t want to look away. Her arms tighten around your waist, possessive enough that you notice but not enough to really worry you.

And you, still half asleep under the warm blankets, just assume she’s had a hard night at the hospital. 

The rest of the afternoon is just what you’d offered her: a chance to move slowly, to just rot and enjoy each other’s company.

The apartment stays dark even after you leave the bedroom, the blackout curtains in the living room pulled halfway closed so the afternoon sun filters in soft and muted. Emery moves slowly like she hasn’t decided whether she’s actually awake yet. But she never strays far from you.

Normally after a shift she collapses on the couch and disappears into a dead-to-the-world sleep for at least another hour or two after you’ve gotten up, only leaving the bed to stay close to you. But today she doesn’t. She settles beside you instead and then, after a moment, she pulls you with her until you’re tucked against her side.

You’d assume she’s cold, except the apartment isn’t cold.

She drapes an arm around your shoulders, fingers idly tracing slow patterns against your arm while the television murmurs quietly in the background. At some point her hand slides down to lace with yours, her thumb brushing circles over your knuckles.

It’s not unusual for Emery to be affectionate. She’s just not usually this constant about it.

At one point, when you stand to grab water from the kitchen, she follows only a few seconds later. When you reach for a snack, she’s already opening the cabinet for you. When you move back to the couch, she settles right beside you again.

Later, she disappears into the bathroom and you hear the water start up and you expect her to shower and then come collapse back into the couch. Instead, she pokes her head back out a minute later and gestures you toward the bathroom.

For a very confusing moment, you wonder if she’s trying to say you smell. You even lift your sleeve to your nose just to check, mildly offended.

The shower ends up taking much longer than usual, mostly because Emery keeps pulling you back under the spray with her and her hands find their way between your thighs no less than three times.

It’s…clingy. Especially for her.

You assume it has something to do with her hard night at the hospital. She gets this way sometimes after losing a patient, or dealing with something difficult that she doesn’t want to actually talk about. So when she seems more than just a little reluctant to let go when you move away, you don’t question it.

You just settle back against her.

✺ ───── ✺ ───── ✺

The bell chimes right at six on the dot.

Dr. Abbot - Jack - is back, stepping inside the door just like he did the first time, pausing as his eyes adjust to the warm light of the café. 

When he spots you behind the counter, you can almost see his posture relax. He walks up and splays both hands out on the counter in front of you like he belongs there.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” you reply brightly. “Brown sugar cinnamon again?”

A smile pulls at his mouth. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did,” you say with a shrug. “I’m the one who recommended it, after all.”

He nods even as you turn your back to begin making his drink. 

“You weren’t here yesterday.”

You blink, surprised he noticed. “Oh. Yeah,” you say, grabbing a to-go cup. “I only work three nights a week.”

His eyebrows lift at that. “Three?”

“Mhm.” You shrug, reaching for the espresso beans. “I’m only part-time.”

He watches you work, leaning against the counter.

“Which three days?” The question is casual, like he’s just making conversation.

You pause mid-reach, thinking. “Oh, it changes,” you say, grinding the beans. “My boss rotates us. Sometimes it’s the beginning of the week, sometimes the end, sometimes it’s split.”

“So you don’t have a set schedule.”

You shake your head. “Nope. It keeps things exciting.”

“I bet.”

You laugh, missing the way he looks at you like he’s thinking. 

“Honestly, I barely keep track of it myself,” you add. “I just show up when I’m told.”

The steam wand hisses as you start the milk. You move through the motions automatically, tamping and pouring, wiping down the counter between steps. 

Jack doesn’t look away from you as you work. He’s fixated on the brightness of your expression, the way you seem so happy doing something so simple. Like your own little ray of sunshine inside this shop.

“Guess I’ll just have to get lucky,” he says.

You glance up at that, catching his eyes. “With what?”

“Catching you here.”

You smile, assuming he means catching the café open. “Well, we’re open every day.”

His mouth curves as you hand him the drink.

“Good to know.”

After that, he becomes a regular.

He shows up the next time you work, right around six again, just like he did the first two times. You greet him with a smile, already reaching for the brown sugar syrup before he even orders. 

Every single time, the visits are the same. A drink, a little conversation while you make it, a tip you insist he doesn’t need to leave because your boss actually pays you a fair wage. And then the bell rings behind him a few minutes later as he disappears back out toward the hospital.

You don’t think anything of it.

Then he shows up the next time you work. And the time after that.

Eventually, you start expecting the bell around six. More often than not, he walks in right on cue.

Almost always wearing scrubs, always looking like he’s never slept a day in his life. Every day, he leans comfortably against the counter while you make his drink. The order never changes, nor does the routine. 

Sometimes he stays a little longer if the café is empty, and sometimes he leaves quickly if the hospital pager clipped to his waistband buzzes.

After a while, you start to notice something strange.

He’s there every single shift you work. Not most of them, all of them.

At first you think it’s just coincidence. The hospital is practically across the street, after all. And doctors need coffee, especially the night shift ones. You see Dr. Shen nearly every day, after all. 

But your schedule rotates constantly. Mondays one week, Thursdays the next, sometimes weekends, sometimes not. Even you don’t remember it half the time without checking the calendar your boss texts you. 

But somehow, Jack is always there every time you are. Right around six, every single shift. A couple of times you find yourself wondering if he’s coming in on nights you’re not there, too. It almost feels impossible that your schedules would line up this perfectly otherwise. 

You decide it must just be good timing. After all, you do make some damn good coffee.

Meanwhile, Emery stays…different. 

It’s not in a bad way, in fact you’re quite enjoying it. She’s just consistently more attached to you than she’s ever been. 

The extra affection from that first morning never fades over the following weeks. If anything, it becomes a subtle part of your routine together. She pulls you closer on the couch while you watch TV, she presses soft kisses into your hair every chance she gets. Sometimes she holds onto you a little longer than necessary when she hugs you. 

You assume the hospital has been rough on her lately.

Night shifts stack up. Surgeries run long. Sometimes emergency consults pull her out of bed at odd hours even on her days off.

So when she steals you away into the shower again or insists on cooking dinner for you even though she barely slept that day, or when she drapes herself across the couch so you’re practically pinned beneath her while she falls asleep against your shoulder, you don’t question it. You just let her.

The two halves of your life settle into their own rhythms.

Evenings at the café with soft music and warm light.

Mornings, afternoons, and nights at home with Emery, curled up together like nothing exists outside of your little apartment.

Down the street, the hospital lights burn twenty-four hours a day.

And at six o’clock, every evening, the bell above the café door rings.

✺ ───── ✺ ───── ✺

Emery’s pager buzzes almost the second she clocks in.

Surgical consult in the Pitt.

She groans softly into her collar as she digs the device from her pocket, thumb flicking the screen to read the note. It’s barely seven, she hasn’t even had time to settle into her shift, and already the ER is messing with her schedule.

She straightens her scrub top, splits her ponytail and pulls to tighten the elastic against her head, and heads toward the staff elevators. The fluorescent lights of the hallway glare against the ID badge clipped to her chest.

The elevator doors slide open with a metallic whoosh. She steps in, pressing the button for the ER, and leans back against the wall with her arms crossed. Her mind is already ticking through possibilities: minor trauma? Broken bone? Appendicitis? The page wasn’t 911, which almost always means they’re not sure if she’s actually needed or not.

She doesn’t really care what it is, she just wants to get it over with.

She steps into Trauma-2 just as Robby is finishing up vitals on the patient - a man in his late thirties with severe bruising across his lower abdomen that’s suspicious but not cause for immediate alarm.

“Abdominal trauma,” Emery states the obvious flatly, dropping her bag onto the counter. “Tell me what I’m looking at.”

“You’re looking at someone who thought sprinting down a staircase while carrying a coffee table was a good idea.”

“Great,” she deadpans, kneeling beside the patient. “And the bruising?”

Jack Abbot leans against the counter, hands in his pockets as he peers over Robby’s shoulder. “We’re concerned about internal bleeding. There was too much blood on the ultrasound to make a clear determination.”

“With this much blood just beneath the surface, I’m not surprised,” Emery replies, eyes narrowing at him. “Could also be nothing. No reason to scare the patient when you don’t actually know what you’re looking at.”

Jack chuckles, clearly enjoying her sharpness. 

Robby grins. “Come on, Walsh, don’t pretend surgery doesn’t love a little suspense.”

She straightens, crossing her arms as she looks at them both. “I love suspense. I don’t love being patronized while assessing someone who might actually die.”

“Watch out, Walsh, you’re scaring me,” Jack teases, leaning a little closer.

“Good,” she snaps lightly. “Maybe you’ll learn some humility before you get sued again.”

The patient grunts as she palpates the bruising, his eyes flicking between her and the ceiling. “It hurts here,” he says softly, pointing just below his ribs where the bruising is the worst.

She frowns, her fingers careful but precise. “It’s tender, yes. Guarding. But nothing that screams surgery. Jut bruising, that’s it. There’s no internal bleeding, no lacerations. You’ll be sore for a few days.” She stands upright, eyeing Robby and Jack. “I’m not operating.”

Jack tilts his head. “Are you always this blunt in front of patients?”

“Only when you make it obvious you’re trying to impress,” she shoots back dryly. 

Robby snorts. “Two-on-one and she still doesn’t back down.”

“I always win,” she says, stepping back from the patient, her arms crossed over her chest.

Jack smirks but shrugs. “Fair enough, I like a challenge.”

“You really shouldn’t,” Robby says to him, rolling his eyes. “She eats doctors for breakfast.”

Emery shakes her head, typing her consult notes into the chart. “Not breakfast, more like lunch. Sometimes a late snack if you’re lucky.”

As she finishes her exam, she tells the patient what to expect: mild soreness, over-the-counter pain relief if the ER isn’t prescribing something stronger, watch for any signs that are actually serious.

Jack is lingering, watching her chart on what will become his patient once the handoff is complete. 

“So you still haven’t asked her out?” Robby’s tone is casual and low as he speaks to Jack with a smirk on his face.

Emery isn’t trying to listen in. Her attention is on the patient’s chart, on his tenderness and bruising, on the notes she needs to hand off.

“Working on it,” Jack says casually.

“Dude, you’ve been working on it for three weeks.”

Her mind registers the tone but not the target. It’s just the low hum of conversation behind her, the usual banter in the ER. She keeps her head down, finishing her instructions to the patient until Jacks words catch her ear.

“She works evenings at that little coffee shop down the street.”

Something in her brain clicks at the mention of your café and her hands pause on the chart. The words coming from Abbot aren’t just background anymore. She keeps her expression neutral, but her mind is suddenly all over the place.

She hands the chart to the incoming nurse and straightens, trying to shake the unease twisting in her chest.

She had noticed it the first night, that night you called her on your way home from work. Abbot had been there, and she’d felt the familiar tug of possessiveness, the smallest flare of jealousy over nothing. She’d done her best to shrug it off. But then you told her he’d become a regular, every single shift you worked he was there, and he tips generously.

A cold little bubble of suspicion rises in her chest.

He’s trying to ask you out.

Her jaw tightens, but she says nothing. Professionalism is her armor. She smiles tightly at the patient, nods at Robby, and gives Abbot a neutral but assessing glance. “All set here. Thanks.”

Jack smirks, apparently unaware of the tension that’s practically radiating off her. Robby just smiles as she stalks out the doors to the trauma room and back into the ER.

“Later, geniuses,” she mutters, though it’s loud enough to carry. There’s a clipped edge to it that wasn’t there five minutes ago.

Inside, her mind races.

Are you flirting with him? Do you even notice he’s trying?

She shakes it off immediately. No way. You’re the most oblivious little thing when it comes to flirting, you hardly even noticed when she asked you out on your first date. There’s no way you’re entertaining him.

And Abbot might be a prick, but he’s not the type to go after a colleague’s girlfriend.

But he is.

He’s comfortable enough to seriously think about asking you out. 

Her hands tighten on the tablet and she leans against a workstation, blinking rapidly, trying to force her brain to focus on something besides the twist in her stomach, the anger bubbling up in her gut.

“Dr. Walsh?”

A voice cuts through her spiral.

She startles, looking up to see the Charge Nurse, a woman with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense tone that makes Emery feel both chastised an observed.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Emery says quickly. “Just busy.”

“Just busy?” The nurse’s eyes narrow in obvious disbelief. “You sure? You look like you’re about to pass out over there.”

Emery forces a nod. “I’m fine.”

The nurse doesn’t push further, giving her a pointed look before moving on. Emery sighs heavily, fidgeting with the tablet as she drags a hand over her face.

“Em?”

Fuck, can someone please just give her a break already?

But it’s not just somebody, it’s you coming through the ER doors, a little breathless, carrying a large pink box that Emery knows is used to carry pastries from your café. Your cheeks are tinged from the cold, but there’s a smile on your face regardless.

“Hey,” she says, trying to keep her tone neutral, but the crack in her voice has her failing. “What are you doing here? Are you okay? Shouldn’t you be at work?”

You shake your head. “The power went out about an hour ago and my boss let me go home early. I didn’t want these to go to waste, so I was bringing them to you for your team. I didn’t know you’d be down here though, I was headed up to surgery.”

Emery blinks, confused. “Surgery?”

“It’s late,” you shrug. “Reception said I had to come in through the staff elevators in the ER because the lobby isn’t open.”

She swallows, a strange mix of relief and renewed panic twisting in her stomach. She’s happy to see you, of course she is, but her mind is replaying the conversation she’s overheard and the insecurity that’s been plaguing her over the last few weeks has boiled to the surface.

She’s never felt like this before, this ugly, gnawing insecurity. She’s always been sure, confident of herself, and in command of every situation. But now? Her heart is racing and she’s unsure of herself, and for a terrifying moment she wonders if she’s losing herself - losing you - in something she doesn’t understand. 

Your voice snaps her back to reality.

“Em, are you okay?” you ask gently, concern etched into your features.

She’s about to answer, about to tell you the truth, but then she sees movement out of the corner of her eye: Jack Abbot stepping out of the trauma room, looking confident and casual with a clipboard in hand.

Without thinking, she grabs your arm just above your elbow. “C’mon.”

You blink, startled. “Uh, okay?”

You let her usher you down the hallway and through an open door into what you assume is a staff lounge. Once inside, she shuts the door and leans against the counter next to the fridge, taking a shaky breath.

“Emery, what is happening right now?” you ask, setting the large box down on the table.

“I -” she starts, then shakes her head, running a hand over her hair. 

“Hey.” You step closer, hands bracing on her arms and ducking your head to try and look her in the eye. “Look at me…what’s going on?”

She swallows hard, trying to loosen the knot in her throat. “It’s Abbot,” she spits out. “He’s been coming into your work all the time. He doesn’t care about the coffee, he wants to see you. And I - he’s comfortable enough to seriously think about asking you out.”

Your eyes widen. “What?”

Emery looks anywhere but at you, her eyes settling on the ceiling. “I overheard him and Robby while I was assessing a patient. He’s been flirting with you this whole time, he wants to ask you out.” Her hands twist in the edge of her scrub top as she continues to ramble. “I hate feeling like this, I never get like this, but I can’t stop thinking about why he feels comfortable enough to think he has a shot with you.”

Her gaze is fixed somewhere between you, not on you, and you can feel the storm swirling inside her. 

“And…and I don’t know…” her voice drops into a whisper. “…sometimes I wonder if maybe you - if you miss…” She falters, biting her lip, face coloring. “…if you miss men.”

You freeze, shock filling you. Your history with men had never been a topic of conversation before this moment. “What?”

Emery doesn’t stop, she can’t stop this hole she’s digging herself into. Her words tumble over each other, tinged with a panic that matches her face. “I mean - you’ve been with men before. Maybe…”

“Wait,” you cut in firmly, holding the sides of her shoulders. “Stop right there. Do you think I’m going to leave you for Jack Abbot?”

Emery takes a shaky breath. “No. I mean -” her hands fly up in a stop motion, backtracking. “I’m not saying that. I know you’re with me. I just…I can’t help thinking, maybe - maybe you miss it sometimes…” she trails off, clearly embarrassed.

“Em.” You shake your head with an exasperated little sigh. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? You’re not losing me.”

Her eyes close and leans into you, forehead resting against yours. “I know, I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I just don’t like feeling like this.”

“I know,” you murmur, your hands trailing down her arms until you’re holding hers. “But I don’t want anybody else, Em. Just you.”

You lean in further, angling your face to press your lips to hers. At first it’s just meant to be reassuring, a quick kiss to make sure she’s okay before you order her to go back to work. But Emery melts into it, her hands tangling in your hair, pulling you closer. There’s a heat to it that makes the room feel smaller, like the rest of the ER has disappeared.

Her hands move to your waist with a domineering edge as she pulls you flush against her. You respond in kind, looping your arms around her neck as your lips part for her.

And then the door swings open.

Jack Abbot freezes in the doorway, eyes wide at the two of you. Behind him, upon looking over his shoulder, Robby is trying and failing to suppress a laugh.

Emery pulls back enough to look over your shoulder. Her eyes narrow at Jack as she uses her grip on your waist to move you to her side possessively. It radiates off her in waves, her posture practically screams don’t even think about it.

Jack’s brain clicks like a switch, recognition flooding in.

The sutures on your arm.

“Your student isn’t learning on my girlfriend.”

“I had no idea you were such a softie, Walsh.”

“I’m not, I just don’t let people fuck with her.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

Emery pulls you tighter against her, her eyes still fixed on Jack as she watches realization take root. It’s impossible to misinterpret the look on her face as she stares him down.

Jack nods his head and you can make out his tongue poking his cheek. “Ah…I see,” he says, his voice calm despite the subtle edge of embarrassment. “Well…clearly…I was mistaken.”

He straightens his posture and, without another word, steps back out of the lounge. Robby lets out a quiet chuckle and the door shuts behind them as he follows Jack out.

“See? Nothing to worry about.” You giggle, heart still racing, and bury your face into the crook of Emery’s neck. “Are you okay?”

You feel her nod against the top of your head and her hand brushes over your cheek. “Yeah, better. Thanks for…you know.”

You sigh contently, nudging your face further into her skin.

“Always.”

✺ ───── ✺ ───── ✺

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✺ ───── ✺ ───── ✺

The waiting room is way too bright for two in the morning. 

The white lights that hum over your head wash everything in a flat glow that makes bruises look darker and faces look more tired than they actually are.

Every single chair around you is filled.

A child is crying somewhere to your left, a man behind you is coughing into his sleeve. The TV mounted in the corner plays a muted infomercial that nobody is watching.

You sit in your chair, one leg tucked up under you and your shoulders hunched away from the people on either side. A thin hospital towel is clutched tightly around your right forearm, the fabric already stiff in places where blood has soaked through and then dried.

Your ankle throbs with a pulsing insistence that refuses to be ignored.

You shift your foot just the tiniest bit on the ground and are met with immediate regret. Pain radiates upward through your leg like fire before settling back into the deep, swelling ache that makes your stomach lurch.

Okay. Don’t move.

You press your heel more firmly into the tile floor, testing the ability to bear weight. 

Also a mistake. 

You suck in a sharp breath through your teeth before you can stop it.

Across from you, a woman glances up at the sound, but then looks away quickly in that polite way strangers pretend not to notice pain in public.

You stare at the scuffed toe of your shoe and try to think about anything else.

It had been such a stupid fall.

One misjudged step off the curb outside your building. Your ankle had rolled with a sickening twist, balance vanishing in an instant. The world tilted with your vision and your forearm hit the pavement hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs before you even registered pain.

Then came the warmth.

Blood.

You’d stayed there for a moment, partially stunned but mostly mortified, your cheek pressed to the cold concrete while the night carried on around you like nothing had happened.

You could’ve just gone home.

Probably.

But instead, a passing couple had insisted, and before you could protest you were being helped to your feet and steered toward a rideshare that took you to the hospital.

You adjust your grip on the towel around your arm. The movement pulls at the split skin beneath it, a hot, stinging reminder that yes, stitches are non-negotiable. So said the nurse in triage, at least.

A fresh bloom of red seeps into the fabric.

Great. 

Your ankle pulses again, tighter now. The swelling has grown enough that your shoe feels too constricting, the laces confining skin that no longer has space to give.

You should’ve loosened it earlier. You should’ve done a lot of things earlier.

You glance at the digital clock above the intake desk. 

2:17 AM.

You’ve been here for nearly three hours already. 

Long enough for the adrenaline to fade, for the injuries to become hard to ignore. Long enough for exhaustion to begin to pull at the edges of your vision as you try to stay awake so you can hear your name called.

Your phone rests in your lap, the screen lighting up when you double tap on it.

No messages, no missed calls.

Good.

Emery is probably in surgery. Or seeing patients, or doing something else doctor-ly, whatever she does when she’s not actively operating on someone. 

This - a rolled ankle, a split forearm - does not qualify as a crisis. She doesn’t need to know right now.

You flex your fingers to keep them from stiffening. Your hand trembles faintly from the effort of holding the towel in place for so long.

You could text her. You should text her, she would want you to text her.

Hey, I fell. I’m at the ER but I’m okay, don’t worry.

But she doesn’t need the distraction. Plus, you’re too far into this already. Emery would be pissed if she found out you’d already been here for hours and nobody told her. She’ll be pissed when she finds out at all, but that’s a problem for another time.

You swallow hard and lean back in the plastic chair, closing your eyes for just a moment.

You hold the towel tighter against your arm and breath through the aching pain in your body, waiting for your turn, and just hope you can get in and out before anyone who knows you walks through those sliding doors. 

It takes a little while before your name is called.

You blink awake, disoriented for half a second before you’re reminded where you are. 

A nurse stands near the doorway, scanning the room until she makes eye contact with you.

“Hey,” she says when you raise your name. “I’m Janie. Let’s get you more comfortable.”

She disappears briefly and then returns pushing a wheelchair your way. 

“I can walk,” you insist automatically.

Her smile is kind but in a pitying way. “I’m sure you can, but just humor me anyway.”

You hesitate, your pride warring with the pain in your ankle, then carefully move forward in the chair. The moment your injured foot pushes too hard on the floor, pain shoots upward through the bottom of your calf.

Okay. The wheelchair it is.

Nurse Janie steadies your elbow while you lower yourself into the seat, careful of your arm. The towel slips and she catches sight of the blood soaking through.

“We’ll take care of that,” she assures you gently, adjusting the fabric to keep pressure on the wound.

The ride through the hallway feels strangely exposed. Curtains part and close, monitors beeping loudly, and a trauma team moves quickly past you in the opposite direction.

All of it reminds you exactly why you hate hospitals.

You’re rolled into a patient bay and parked beside the bed, the nurse locking the wheels with a click.

“Think you can pivot?” she asks.

“Not with any dignity, but I’ll try.”

She laughs and helps to guide you onto the mattress. The sheets ruffle as you settle back, your ankle elevated onto a thick pillow.

The relief of not bearing weight is immediate and profound.

“Oh,” you sigh, tilting your head back.

Nurse Janie smiles knowingly. She kneels to loosen your shoe laces, easing it off with careful hands. The swelling is unmistakable now, even through your sock, skin stretched tight and mottling around the outer ankle.

“That looks uncomfortable.”

She props it higher and then turns her attention to your arm.

“Let’s take a look at that.”

When she peels back the towel, the air against the cut stings sharply. The laceration along your forearm is deep. Not catastrophic, but wide enough that the edges won’t close on their own.

She cleans it efficiently, like she’s done it a thousand times before. The antiseptic burns and your fingers curl in reflexively.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, not looking up from your arm.

“It’s okay.”

The curtain moves just as she’s finishing up and a doctor steps inside, already pulling on a pair of gloves as he scans your chart, which has been laid out on the workstation at the edge of the bay.

“Evening,” he says, his voice rough but calming. “I’m Dr. Abbot.”

He doesn’t look at you right away, instead keeping his attention at the notes, the vitals, the intake summary, and you’re relieved.

You’re just another patient. 

The nurse steps aside to give him room as she fills him in. “She rolled her ankle stepping off a curb, forearm laceration on impact, already debrided and cleaned. No head strike, no LOC.”

He nods and finally looks up at you. His gaze is clinical and assessing, moving from your face to your forearm, travelling to the swelling at your ankle.

“Let’s take a look,” he says.

You shift to sit up more, keeping your arm steady as he gingerly takes your wrist and stretches it out.

The cut is longer than you’d like to admit, the edges parted just enough to confirm what you already know.

“You’ll need stitches,” he says matter-of-factly. “Let’s take a look at that ankle now.”

He turns to your leg, fingers pressing lightly along the joint. The first touch is too high and tolerable, but the second sends a sharp spike of pain up your leg.

“There,” you gasp.

He nods, palpating carefully along the outer bone.

“And here?”

“Yes.”

“Here?”

“Yeah.”

He sits back on the stool. “It’s likely a sprain,” he says. “But given the amount of swelling and tenderness, we’ll get imaging to rule out a fracture.”

Your stomach lurches again.

Nurse Janie glances out toward the hall. “Radiology’s backed up at least two hours,” she says quietly.

Dr. Abbot considers that for half a second. “No worries, we’ll get the portable x-ray in here.”

She nods and slips out of the room.

You stare at the ceiling tiles, trying to ignore the pain setting into your ankle now that it’s elevated and immobilized - it’s no longer sharp and breathtaking, but it is heavy and unignorable. 

Hopefully it’s just a sprain and some stitches and you can get out of here soon.

Dr. Abbot removes his gloves and types briefly into the tablet in his hands.

“Any numbness in your hand?” he asks.

“No.”

“Tingling?”

“No.”

“Good,” he says with a small smile. “That’s a good sign.”

The portable x-ray machine arrives with a technician who slides a plate beneath your ankle with careful instructions to not move.

You hold still, hands gripping the edge of the mattress while the machine clicks and whirs.

Done.

The tech leaves, and the nurse returns moments later carrying a neatly-arranged suture tray, setting it within reach of the doctor. 

“All right,” Dr. Abbot says. “Janie, why don’t you go ahead and get Dr. Javadi in here, we’ll have her do the sutures, then it’s just a matter of waiting for the imaging to come back and we’ll get you on out of here.”

You’re filled with relief and you sag into the bed below you. 

In and out, quiet and uncomplicated.

Janie nods and once again slips through the curtain.

Dr. Abbot begins arranging the suture kit, lining up gauze, forceps, the needle driver. 

“You’ll feel a pinch when we numb the area,” he explains, “and after that it’s mostly pressure.”

You nod. “Okay.”

Your ankle still pulses in time with your heartbeat, and you flex your fingers to keep from focusing on it, your eyes drifting instead to the slow sway of the privacy curtain.

Footsteps approach and the curtain parts, a woman stepping in. She’s young, much younger than anyone you’ve seen working in a hospital before.

“I’m Dr. Javadi,” she introduces warmly. “I hear we’ve got a forearm that needs closing.”

She snaps on a small pair of gloves with confidence, stepping up beside Dr. Abbot. 

He gestures toward the tray. “It’s a clean laceration, should come together nicely.”

Dr. Javadi assesses the wound with a focused tilt of her head. “I’ve definitely seen worse,” she says with a smile toward you. 

Reaching for the anesthetic syringe, Dr. Abbot begins to explain the process to you. “I’ll get you numbed up and then Dr. Javadi will -”

“No, she won’t.”

The curtain pulls open sharply, allowing cool air from the department into the bay. 

You freeze like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

Emery Walsh stands where the curtain had just been, her blue surgical cap missing from her head, her expression set in a way that suggests she’s doing a poor job of hiding her anger.

Her gaze trails over you, taking in the injury on your arm, the swelling of your elevated ankle, the suture tray laid out beside you. Her jaw is tight.

“Dr. Walsh,” Dr. Abbot says, straightening up. 

Dr. Javadi steps back a half pace, her eyes flicking between the two surgeons with open curiosity.

Emery’s eyes don’t leave you. 

“I’ll take it from here,” she says thinly.

Your throat goes dry. 

“I didn’t call for a surgical consult,” Dr. Abbot says, his voice as professional as he can keep it while clearly being annoyed at the surgeon’s appearance. 

She doesn’t look at him. “It’s personal, Abbot.”

Dr. Abbot folds his arms. “Walsh, what the hell is -”

“I’m sorry, Em.”

The words leave you before you can stop them.

“I didn’t want to take you away from work,” you rush on. “It’s probably just a sprain and a few stitches, I didn’t want you to worry -”

Her hand lifts to stop you, and silence follows immediately.

When she speaks, her voice is unusually quiet and controlled, the tone she uses when she’s trying to prevent emotion from taking over.

“How,” she asks carefully, “do you think it felt for me to check your location just to make sure you got home safely from work…”

Her jaw tightens.

“…and see you here?”

Your breath catches as you pause.

She moves closer to your bed, hands gripping the rail at the end.

“I waited,” she continues. “I thought maybe you were coming upstairs, to stop by between cases.”

A small shake of her head.

“And when you didn’t, I realized you must be in the ER.”

Her words are heavy, and the silence that follows isn’t just from you. Both other doctors are watching the interaction with blanched faces.

“Do you have any idea how worried I was walking down here?”

The question isn’t sharp, nor is her tone. It’s worse than that.

It’s raw.

The bustling ER noise outside the curtain feels distant now, like the world has narrowed to the space between you. Even the doctors have practically disappeared into your peripheral vision.

You swallow, a guilty look crossing your face. “I just didn’t want you to worry, Em.”

Her breath leaves slowly through her nose as she approaches your bedside opposite Abbot and Javadi. She sits next to you on the bed, her face still stern.

“You’re hurt,” she says, her voice quieter and tinged with hurt. “And you didn’t tell me.”

Your ankle throbs. Your arm stings. But neither competes with the weight in your chest.

From the other side of the bed, Dr. Abbot clears his throat softly, suddenly looking very interested in the monitor, and Dr. Javadi studies the floor with dedication.

Emery ignores them.

“You call me,” she adds softly. “Every time.”

She straightens then as she looks to Dr. Abbot, and it’s like a switch is flipped as she transforms from your girlfriend into a surgeon.

“Your intern is not doing her stitches,” she says crisply.

Dr. Abbot lifts an eyebrow, a smug little inflection creeping into his tone. “You don’t get to decide what my students do and don’t learn from me, Walsh.”

Her eyes narrow. “I’d be more than happy to move her to Presby if you disagree, but your student isn’t learning on my girlfriend.”

Opening his mouth, Dr. Abbot is clearly ready to argue more with her, but he then pauses. Dr. Javadi stands quietly behind him, her gloves still on, awkwardly trapped between professionalism and curiosity.

He sighs. “Fine, I’ll do them myself.”

Dr. Javadi looks relieved as she steps aside, happy to be washing her hands of this little war, leaving you to Dr. Abbot and Dr. Walsh.

Not long after, Abbot leans over your arm as he positions the first suture. Emery literally leans over his shoulder, hovering close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from her and see the intensity in her eyes – every movement he makes under her gaze is both measured and careful.

“Hold still,” Dr. Abbot murmurs, his fingers brushing your wrist as he threads the needle.

“Don’t fuck it up,” Emery mutters, not-so-quietly.

“Glad to see you’re such a team player,” he shoots back.

Her glare could’ve frozen the IV fluids. “Eyes on your patient, Abbot.”

The stitches start to close the laceration. You bite back a small gasp even though you can’t actually feel the needle, but Emery’s hand lands on top of yours, ground you as she whispers, “You’re okay, just breathe.”

Dr. Abbot doesn’t pause, but he smirks as his eyes flick up to Emery and then back to your arm. “I had no idea you were such a softie, Walsh.”

She turns her sharp gaze to him. “I’m not, I just don’t let people fuck with her.”

He shrugs, mock-offended, but doesn’t push the issue. The sutures continue under his steady hands, Emery’s eyes continuing to track his every movement. 

The banter fades, Emery occasionally muttering instructions or corrections under her breath and Abbot grumbling good-naturedly, and you…just soaking in the weird but comforting chaos of having her there with you.

By the time the final stitch is tied off, the cut on your forarm is neat, clean, and then wrapped securely. Emery stands back, her hands on her hips for a second, looking over the work with the faintest trace of approval.

The portable x-ray images arrive on the monitor. You glance over your shoulder at Emery as she looks at them with Dr. Abbot.

“Sprain. Nothing broken,” Abbot announces.

You sigh slowly, slumping into the bed. “See?” you say, looking up at Emery. “Told you I’m fine.”

She smirks down at you, though the edges of it are soft. “That doesn’t mean you’re going home alone on that ankle.”

You shake your head. “You really don’t have to -”

“I know I don’t,” Emery says, cutting you off. “But they can spare me for the last two hours of my shift. I’ll take you home.”

The wheelchair carries you down the hall and through the sliding doors into the chill night air. The hospital fades behind you, the sounds replaced by the quiet streets and your occasional groan as your ankle protests.

Emery drives with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on your knee. You rest your head against her should over the center console, letting yourself relax for the first time since you fell.

Once you’re home, she helps you inside and ushers you into the bedroom.

“Stay put,” she demands, tugging the blankets up around you.

You try to protest, your voice tired. “I’ll be fine.”

“Nope.” Her tone is firm and final, and leaves no room for argument. She slips into the bed beside you, not even bothering to change out of her scrubs despite how much you know she hates wearing hospital clothes at home, much less in bed. One arm drapes over your abdomen, the other traces little circles on your forearm over the gauze.

“Next time,” she murmurs, “you call me first.”

“I promise,” you whisper. 

Emery leans down, tilting her heads towards yours, her lips catching yours in a gentle goodnight kiss.

Your hands go up, cupping the back of her neck, pulling her closer. Pulling your body against hers, you tilt your head and part your lips to deepen the kiss just a little. You let the warmth of her so close overwhelm the ache of your body, one hand gripping the back of her neck while the other pulls her hips tight against your own.

Her eyes snap open, wide and incredulous, and she laughs, her breath warm against your cheek. “Are you seriously trying to do this right now? While you’re hurt?”

You whine, tugging her gently back toward you, your nose brushing hers as you place a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I want you,” you admit, your voice quiet and a little desperate. “I never get you to myself at night.”

“You’re insatiable,” Emery laughs with a shake of her head in disbelief and a grin tugging at her lips. She shifts down, pulling the covers up over her shoulders. “You tell me if anything hurts, yeah?”

You nod with a giggle as she disappears under the covers.

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