𝚆𝚛𝚎𝚗

You say it plainly. No flourish. Just a fact, presented as-is.

Samira lets out a small huff that’s definitely a laugh she’s trying to disguise for the sake of your simmering irritation. Laughing was not the way to diffuse this situation. “Mel?” she asks, voice light, arms crossing over her chest. You risk a glance up at her, restlessness flaring in your chest when you see the corners of her lips tilted up. 

Traitor.

“Don’t make fun of me–”

She doesn’t listen. “Sweet Mel King?” she repeats, voice pitching upward with exaggerated innocence. “The same woman who smiles more in a day than you have in the last nine months–?” 

You fully look at her this time, doing your best to narrow your eyes slightly and minimally furrow your eyebrows to concoct an expression that could rival one of her death glares. It does not work. You don’t have the bone structure for it. 

“It’s a front, I’m sure of it,” you mumble, lips sealing into a thin, unamused line. You shift on the chair, the cushion flattened and uneven from the steady churn of bodies that have occupied it all day–attendings, residents, nurses, you. The seat gives a tired little sigh beneath you. “She’s out to get me. Every. Single. Time I go to pick up a case, she’s magically right there and saying it before I can.”

“That sounds like you just need to get the words out a little faster.” 

Your eyebrows tick up, joke on the tip of your tongue but Samira clearly reads your face before you can say anything. Ironically enough. “No Slo-mo mentions.” 

You roll your eyes again, but this one lacks heat. It’s fond, almost reflexive, the kind you don’t bother suppressing because there’s no real irritation left to protect. You redirect your attention to the computer, wheels scooting closer to the counter as your fingers find the keys again. She was probably waiting for it to open up so she could complete her own charting. And you honestly weren’t doing anything anyway, just wallowing in your own frustration. The least you could do was get out of her way. 

“Sorry,” you hum, the word pitched low and noncommittal. An apology, technically. “To be fair, though, you were making fun of me too.”

“Yeah,” Samira says easily, without remorse. “Because you have this one-sided rivalry with the princess of sunshine and rainbows over there.” She nods her head to the door of the trauma bay. A very obvious nod. You rush out a string of ‘Stop’s when you catch a glimpse of Mel turning to get up, seemingly done with the patient, panic hitting fast and inelegant.

“What?” Samira laughs. “Everyone knows it.”

The skin of your neck feels akin to that of a stovetop on high heat. And it creeps upward, impossible to hide. “Yeah,” you say defensively, “and Dana agrees with me. So does Shen.”

“Dana does not agree with you,” Samira scoffs, smile growing fully on her lips and you cringe internally at how her voice raises in volume slightly. Loud enough to carry. You hunch further over the keyboard, shoulders rounding, as if becoming smaller might render you invisible. “Shen…” she concedes after a beat, tilting her head. “You’re just his favorite, so, maybe. But Dana’s saying that ‘cause she refuses to pick sides.”

“So there are sides–”

“No,” Samira protests. Then, reconsidering: “Well, not with you and Mel. Not outside of your own delusions,” She corrects herself with maddening calm, one hand settling on her hip while the other braces against the countertop. She looks down at you, head tipped slightly, like she’s diagnosing something benign but persistent. 

You stare at the screen, cursor blinking patiently. You have never regretted speaking so much in your life.

“What d’you mean?” you ask offhandedly, focused on keeping your fingers moving. Focused on trying to pretend like you’re checked out of the topic of Melissa King. Your eyes stay on the screen.

“She refuses to pick sides in the bet,” she says like she’s explaining the weather. Obvious. Inevitable.

It’s not. 

Your hands stop mid-keystroke. Not gradually or politely, they just halt. Muscles locking on instinct as the gears in your brain start turning slowly, breath catching, protesting the load. Your head turns first. Then your eyes follow, as if they need a second to catch up.

“What bet?”

Samira tilts her head to the side, eyebrows lifting at the inner corners in something almost sympathetic. Almost. Her smile does a strange thing–trying to be kind while still enjoying this far too much. “The one about how long it’ll take for you and Mel to…” She trails off, gesturing vaguely in the air between you. “…y’know.”

You shake your head once. Small and eerily controlled. You’re aiming for detached interest. You’re doing your best to seem genuinely curious instead of letting whatever anger is growing inside of your chest take over your reaction. Because that heat has to be anger. Or irritation. Or frustration. Something controllable. Something manageable–

“Sleep together?” 

The words come out flatter than you expect. Almost experimental, like Samira’s testing a term she’s just learned and isn’t sure she’s using correctly. The cursor on the screen blinks again, patient as ever.

It takes everything inside of you to not let your jaw drop. 

You don’t respond right away. There’s a delay while your brain attempts to catalog what she just said under things that are real and happening, and keeps failing.

Sleep together. You and Mel. Melissa King.

The Mel that you hate? The Mel who materializes beside you every morning like an aggressively cheerful conscience, asking what you did last night, what you’re doing tonight, how many hours you slept–as if she’s auditing your existence for residency compliance. The Mel with no concept of personal space even during active traumas, leaning in too close, voice too warm, hands too quick. The Mel you almost trusted that first month, before you found out, casually and secondhand, that she was also gunning for the same PEDs ER position and simply hadn’t thought to mention it. As if that wasn’t the sort of information that mattered.

Your teeth clack with how hard you clench your jaw.

“And who initiates it?” Samira presses, still oblivious. “I thought Whitaker spilled it–” She stops mid-sentence and a smile falters when she notices the way your lips compress into a thin, bloodless line. “Oh,” she says softly. “You didn’t know.”

You don’t know if you should laugh or hide away in the break room for the rest of your shift from embarrassment. 

“It’s really not that big of a deal–” Samira starts, already backpedaling.

“I would not–” The words come out too loud. You stop yourself mid-syllable, swallow, clear your throat like you’re scrubbing the sound from the air. “I would never,” you say again, quieter now. “Never even think about having sex with King.”

You stare straight ahead as you say it, as if the computer screen might back you up.

Samira nods instantly. “Right,” she agrees, even if you can tell with the way the pitch of her voice is a little higher that she’s been caught with something you weren’t supposed to figure out. “Right, and I know that, which is why I refused to take a part in whatever Santos and Whitaker are doing.”

“I thought you said Dana was in on it too,” you grumble, fingers practically stabbing at the keyboard and mousepad. Out of the corner of your eye, you think you see Samira flinch. 

“No,” she corrects quickly. “She actually told them not to, and then Princess–”

“Princess and Perlah know?” you cut in, exasperation finally cresting, and you think Samira’s two words away from actually facepalming her forehead as your head whips back to look at her. This time, you do let out a bitter laugh. 

Your thoughts trail off, already imagining it: the smirk, the inevitable what? the way she’ll pretend this was all harmless fun.

“I am gonna kill Santos–”

“Hi guys!” 

You’re already closing out of the account before she even finishes the word guys, another small, automatic eye roll slipping free. “What’re we talking about?”

Normally, Mel would feel discouraged when people would glare at her when she spoke. If expressions hardened when she entered a conversation, the subtle but unmistakable shift that suggested she was intruding. It used to sting. Used to make her second-guess the timing, the tone, the very act of speaking. But she’s come to the conclusion that this is just how you are. You roll your eyes, you glare, you bristle like a cat that’s been touched without warning, and yet–you still listen. You always do. You respond. You engage. And Trinity had assured her that she was going about this right.

You push back from the counter with a soft scrape, muttering under your breath as you stand. You take the long way around the counter back to the boards to avoid passing by Mel. She just watches you go with a tiny smile. 

Like she has all the time in the world to wait you out.

“Alright,” Mel says easily, the corners of her lips still tipped up as she redirects her attention to Samira, who’s already slid into your vacated spot in front of the computer. Samira takes over like she’s always been there, fingers moving, posture settling in. Mel leans forward, elbows on the counter, chin hovering just above her hands. Samira shakes her head softly, a quiet chuckle slipping out of her.

“Dr. Garcia told me that taking patients off her workload is starting to work,” Mel says, bright and pleased, like she’s reporting a small miracle. She tilts her head toward where you’re standing with one of the nurses, gesturing vaguely in your direction. From here, she can see it–that adorable little crease still between your brows as your loosely curled hair bounces around your shoulders. “Dr. Garcia also said she had a conversation with her and the only thing she talked about was me.”

Samira doesn’t look up from the screen. “Yeah,” she says mildly, keys clicking. “She talks about you quite a bit…”

“Good,” Mel exhales, a long, relieved breath that loosens her shoulders like she’s been holding them tight all shift. The smile returns, gentler now. “I was going to ask her to this thrifting event they’re having at the North Hills library this weekend,” she continues, words tumbling out once she’s started. “Since she likes collages. You only have to pay fifty cents, and then you can take as many vintage magazines as you want. Old fashion spreads, ads, weird typography–everything.” She gestures with her hands like it’s all already laid out in front of her. “I thought it might be fun. Low pressure.”

Mel pauses then, finally aware of how much she’s said, how hopeful it sounds. Her fingers curl slightly against the counter’s edge. “Do you think she’ll say yes?”

And because Samira has $20 on Mel being the one to make the first move in the timeframe of roughly 2 weeks, she lets out a small hum of agreement.

Mel’s smile brightens somehow, like the encouragement has physically fueled it. She straightens, pushing off the counter, already halfway mentally gone as she turns to leave. There’s a lightness to her step, a buoyancy that suggests she’s rehearsing the conversation in her head, going over her words.

Samira exhales, then straightens her own spine. She calls after Mel, who pauses mid-step, turning back, blonde braid swaying. Her expression is open and expectant. Like she’s ready to take notes.

It started with the constant headaches, the pounding behind your eyes no matter what you did. You pushed it off, saying it was because you just hadn't drank enough water or because you hadn't eaten yet. You pushed it off even more when the Joaquín and Sam got called into a mission, you just threw yourself into work and got it done as soon as you could. Sam and Joaquín wouldn't need you for a few hours, but you felt the ringer of your phone on just in case. You laid down on the couch, your head still pounding, and closed your eyes.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You were sixteen and you had just been stood up for the first time, and for prom too. You were sitting on the porch of your friend's house, she had gone to prom with her boyfriend and didn't know about you being stood up. "Excuse me," a boy walked up, he was wearing a nice suit. "I don't mean to bother you, but are you ok?"

You wiped the tears running down your face. "I just got stood up for prom," you admitted.

The boy sat down next to you, placing his jacket around your shoulders. "I did too," he whispered and you looked at him.

"You got stood up for prom?" you asked, confusion written all over your face.

"Yeah, she goes to Ransom Everglades," he shrugged.

"Oh, she goes to mine," you muttered.

"That explains why I've never seen you before, I would have remembered such a pretty face," he told you.

You laughed, gently nudging his shoulder. "Where do you go to school?"

"Miami Senior," he told you, standing and offering your his hand. "I'm Joaquín Torres, by the way," he introduced himself.

You took his hand and he helped you stand up as you gave him your name. "What are you doing?" you asked, holding onto his hand as he started walking away with you in tow.

"We both got stood up and my mama always told me that to feel better, all you need is a laugh," he told you, leading you down the street. "I figured some ice cream wouldn't hurt either," he joked, taking you to a car.

There was a part of you that thought that getting into a random boy's car was a bad idea, but there was something about Joaquín that told you that you could trust him. "I don't think ice cream ever hurts," you joked back, getting into his car and making sure to tuck your dress away from the door.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You walked across the stage, a smile on your face, as you heard Joaquín cheer the loudest. You two started dating a few months after you met and now you two were graduating college together. It wasn't a perfect time, you two fought and there were times where you were worried that Joaquín being a frat boy meant he'd cheat; however, Joaquín had made it known in no uncertain terms that he loved you and would never.

You ran to him as soon as you could, both of you hugging in the middle of other students looking for their caps and hugging their friends. Joaquín pulled back only to pull you into a kiss, both of you wrapped up into each other. "We did it!" you cheered, pulling away to look Joaquín in the eyes.

He smiled, moving to walk with his arm wrapped around you. "We did, mi vida," Joaquín replied, leading you off to find your friends so you all could celebrate.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You barely stirred at the phone going off, but you managed to grab it for a moment. "Mmm?" you hummed into the phone.

Your head still pounded, but this was the most sleep you've managed to get since the headaches started. "We're headed him, mi amour," Joaquín told you. "I love you," he added.

"I love you too," you barely managed to get out, laying back down. Your eyes closed and you sighed out, going back to sleep. A warm feeling washing over you, one of peace.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Joaquín came practically bounding into your shared house one day, a smile on his face as he sat down on the couch with you. "You haven't looked this happy since I said I do," you teased, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

You listened to Joaquín tell you about how he started working with Sam and you smiled, you knew how much he wanted to get where he was. Joaquín had swapped the topic at some point in his little rant, but you didn't care. You were just watching him talk with a smile. "What?" he asked, a small blush crossing his cheeks.

"Nothing," you mused, leaning in to actually kiss him. "You're just real handsome when you get excited."

The blush on his cheeks got worse as you laughed. "That's not fair, mi amor," he mused.

"What? I can't call my husband handsome?"

"You know what I mean," he teased, reaching over to pull you closer to him. Both of you falling into a fit of giggles.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Even though Joaquín has wanted nothing more, other than marry you, to work with Sam, he told the older man he'd only take the job is Sam hired you. Sam was already reluctant to work with Joaquín and let him use the wings, but you and your counter intelligence masters plus with the fact you were working on your masters in cyber security swayed him.

Which was how you found yourself working side by side with your husband, always privy to his more unsavory way of self sacrifice plays. It seemed that all it took for him to, mostly, stop was a talking to by his very worried and upset wife. Sam has it recorded and uses it as blackmail.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Joaquín and Sam walked back into the office after landing, you hadn't been there when they touched down so they assumed you were sucked into work. The sight they walked in on was worse, you were on the couch dead. Joaquín broke as Sam called everyone they could think of, but it was too late. There wasn't anything that could be done.

It was determined you died in your sleep, a brain aneurysm. Sudden and probably why you had such a headache for so long. Joaquín had known you had the headache, but you were prone to migraines and he thought that was all it was. The only comfort Joaquín had was that you died peacefully, that you never had to know a day without him by your side.

The funeral was small, just the people deemed important. Sam lead a lot of it, letting Joaquín sit in the front row staring at your casket. You were in there and Joaquín knew you enough to know you just looked like you were sleeping. He wished you would wake up, scare everyone, and ask why you were in there. He wanted so bad for death to be reversible so you could come back to him.

Sam told Joaquín that he could go say goodbye to you one last time. Joaquín stood in between you and the small crowd, gently whispering that he loves you and that he'll see you as soon as it was his time. Then, he ran his finger over your wedding ring before kissing his fingers and placing them on your lips. Sam watched Joaquín walk back to his seat with sad eyes. There was no mistaking the love you two had for each other, it was almost as if it was fated within the stars themselves that you two would end up together.

People say that as you die you get flashes of your best moments for seven minutes, Joaquín just wished he was one of them. If you were alive, you'd tell him he was all of them.

➽──────────────❥

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