Chapter Text
The room was still, glowing with the soft light of early morning. Golden slats of sunlight cut across the bed, catching on tangled sheets and bare skin. The comforter had slipped off during the night, now puddled at the foot of the bed. Their legs remained tangled, one of Carina’s arms draped across Maya’s waist, her fingers moving lazily across the smooth skin just above Maya’s hipbone.
There was nothing urgent in the moment. Just warmth. Familiarity. A closeness carved over months of trust and careful, slow unwinding.
Carina shifted slightly and pressed a kiss to Maya’s shoulder, smiling softly when she felt her girlfriend’s chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm beneath her.
But the smile faded.
Her brow furrowed.
Maya was warm. Not the soft heat of shared body warmth — no, this was something else. It clung to her skin, too much. Damp. Wrong.
Carina pulled back a little and brushed Maya’s hair from her face. Her forehead glistened with sweat. Her skin was flushed. Her breathing — Carina now realized — had a hitch to it, shallower than normal, as if her body was trying to conserve energy without waking her.
Carina sat up slowly, instinct immediately flipping the switch in her brain from lover to doctor.
She touched Maya’s forehead. Then her neck. Then leaned in to feel her breath on her cheek.
Definitely fever.
She frowned, glancing at the bedside clock.
6:11 AM.
Still early. Early enough to make her late for her shift if she didn’t get up now. But none of that mattered. Not if Maya was sick.
“Maya,” she whispered, brushing knuckles against her cheek.
A low sound of protest came from the woman beneath her.
“Mmhh… five more minutes…”
Carina smiled despite herself, then leaned closer. “Amore, wake up for me, just for a second.”
Maya shifted, groaning softly as she rolled toward Carina. Her eyes barely opened, her voice still thick with sleep. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re warm,” Carina said, gently. “I think you have a fever.”
“No, I’m just… I’m fine.” Maya tried to sit up but winced, clearly dizzy.
“You’re not fine.” Carina was already reaching for the thermometer in the drawer of her nightstand. “Your breathing isn’t normal and you’ve sweat through the pillow.”
“I’m not sick,” Maya muttered, voice sharper now, more awake.
Carina turned to face her with a gentle firmness. “You’re burning up. I want to take your temperature.”
Maya pushed the covers off with more force than necessary and stood, her body swaying slightly as she crossed the room to grab the hoodie hanging over the chair.
“I can’t be sick.”
“Maya—”
“I have a 48 today. We’re short already. I can’t call out.”
“You can’t even walk in a straight line.” Carina stepped closer. “Please don’t do this.”
Maya stiffened as she pulled the hoodie on. “I said I’m fine.”
Her voice cut sharp. Cold.
The temperature in the room changed instantly.
Carina paused, the thermometer still in her hand. She set it down carefully on the dresser.
“I know you hate being taken care of,” she said, gently, “but pretending this isn’t happening won’t help. You’re sick, Maya. And you—”
“I’m not weak.”
Carina flinched at the sudden volume in her voice. Maya’s eyes were glassy, jaw clenched, her posture suddenly ramrod straight — not just from fever or stubbornness, but something deeper. The old, buried fear in her voice wasn’t new to Carina. She’d heard it before. After Maya’s injury. After her father’s death. After every time she felt like her strength was the only thing keeping her loved.
Carina’s tone softened even further. “No one said you were.”
“You don’t have to,” Maya snapped. “You’re a doctor. You see problems and fix them. But I’m not a patient.”
“Maya, you’re not a problem,” Carina said, her own voice growing tight with emotion. “You’re not a burden. You’re allowed to be sick. You’re allowed to let people—”
“I don’t need saving.”
Carina took a breath.
“Maya, it’s not about saving you.”
Maya turned away. “I need to shower.”
Carina swallowed hard. “Don’t go in.”
“I’m going to work.”
“You won’t make it through the day.”
“I have to try.” Maya’s voice cracked, just a little. “I can’t let them down.”
“You’re going to burn out.”
“I’ve already burned out,” she snapped, louder than she meant to. “So just… stop trying to fix it, Carina. Please.”
Carina took a step back.
She’d never seen Maya like this. Not sick like this. Not angry like this. Not... closed off like this, from her.
The silence stretched.
Maya disappeared into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
Carina stood in the middle of the room, chest aching, the small thermometer still resting on the dresser — useless and untouched.
The kitchen was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the low gurgle of the coffee maker. Carina stood at the counter in her robe, staring at the small pool of coffee rising in the pot, watching the dark liquid swirl like ink. The smell, normally comforting, now turned her stomach.
She hadn’t heard Maya speak since the bathroom door closed.
That wasn’t new — Maya always went quiet when she was trying to keep herself together. But this silence felt heavier. More pointed. Like every unspoken word between them had sunk into the air, weighing everything down.
Carina poured two cups of coffee anyway. One in her usual mug — white with the Grey Sloan logo faded from years of use. The other was Maya’s: matte black, a small white Olympic ring printed along the handle. A joke gift, once. Now just one of the little things that lived quietly in their routine.
Maya’s mug sat untouched on the counter.
Carina tried not to read into it.
She took a breath and turned toward the hallway. The bathroom door was open now. Maya had changed into her Station 19 uniform — navy pants, a black department t-shirt clinging to her damp skin, and her duty jacket half-zipped overtop. She looked paler than usual. Or maybe that was the overhead light catching the sweat on her temple.
Her bag was slung over one shoulder. Her movements were tight, efficient. Like going through the motions was the only way to stay upright.
“You’re really going in,” Carina said, not a question.
Maya didn’t look up as she tugged on her boots. “I told you I have a double.”
“You also have a fever. Probably over 102.”
Silence.
“I can’t stop you,” Carina continued, voice softer now, “but please tell me you’re not going to run into fires today.”
That got her a glance.
Maya looked at her, jaw tight. “It’s kind of in the job description.”
Carina stepped closer, careful not to push. “Maya, you can’t think straight like this. You’re burning up. What if something happens?”
“I’ve worked sick before.”
“But not like this.”
“I’ll push fluids. I’ll be careful. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
The words came out sharper than Carina intended, but they hung there, unchallenged.
Maya shifted her weight, clearly unsteady on her feet for just a second. Her hand gripped the back of the kitchen chair to steady herself. She tried to hide it, but Carina saw. She saw everything. The trembling in her fingers. The way she blinked hard, like her eyes wouldn’t focus properly. The quiet wheeze under her breath that had only gotten worse since waking up.
Carina walked forward, holding out Maya’s mug. “At least drink something. Eat a piece of toast. Anything.”
Maya hesitated for a moment. Then shook her head.
“I don’t have time.”
She reached for her keys on the table, brushing past Carina without so much as a touch. Her fingers slipped as she tried to grab them, keys clattering to the floor.
They both stared at them.
Carina bent down first, picked them up, and held them out.
Maya didn’t take them right away.
Her eyes flicked up, met Carina’s. There was a flicker of something raw behind them — shame, maybe. Or exhaustion. Or both.
“I can drive you,” Carina offered, gentle.
“No.”
“I’m not trying to baby you.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You just don’t want help. From anyone.”
Maya’s mouth tightened. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
Another beat of silence.
Maya finally took the keys. “I have to go.”
Carina didn’t answer. Just stepped back and let her pass.
Maya opened the door. The sound of traffic filtered in from the street — life moving on, oblivious.
She didn’t look back.
Didn’t say goodbye.
Didn’t say I love you.
And Carina didn’t stop her.
The door closed with a gentle, final click.
Carina stood frozen in the center of the kitchen for a long moment, staring at the empty space where Maya had just been. Her hand still held the black Olympic mug, its contents steaming quietly in the morning light.
She didn’t know whether to scream or cry.
Instead, she placed both mugs on the counter, grabbed her phone, and stepped into the bedroom.
She sat down on the bed and opened a blank message.
To: Bambina 💙
Please come back home.
She stared at the screen. Her thumb hovered over the send button. Then she erased it.
Typed again.
Please be careful.
Erased that, too.
In the end, she typed only:
Let me know when you get there.
She sent it. Three dots appeared. Then disappeared.
Carina didn’t move.
In the bathroom, she rinsed off quickly and changed into her scrubs. The ones she always wore on OB call days — grey pants, navy top, the stethoscope her brother once gifted her draped around her neck. Her routine was muscle memory. She didn’t have to think about it. That was the point.
Her shift started in 25 minutes.
She didn’t even feel present in her skin.
As she pinned her badge to her top, her eyes drifted to the dresser. Maya’s badge still sat there — left by mistake, probably. Her name glared up at Carina from the plastic:
LT. MAYA BISHOP STATION 19 – SEATTLE FIRE
Carina picked it up, fingers trembling slightly, and placed it beside Maya’s phone charger.
Maybe she’ll come home for it, she thought.
Maybe.
Outside, the city moved like nothing had changed. Commuters walked. Buses hissed at red lights. Grey Sloan towered in the distance.
Carina sat in her car for a full two minutes before starting the engine.
Her chest ached. Not in a metaphorical way — an actual physical tightness had settled between her ribs. Anxiety blooming into something sharp and full.
Maya had gone to work with a fever and a limp in her step.
She hadn’t said goodbye.
Carina hadn’t told her she loved her.
Now all Carina could think about was how easy it was to leave the house, thinking there would be more time. More words. More chances.
And how suddenly, cruelly, there might not be.
Maya knew something was wrong the moment she stepped into Station 19. Not with the building. With herself.
The fluorescent lights felt too bright. The sound of Andy calling out good morning made her flinch. Her stomach churned at the smell of last night’s chili warming in the kitchen. Her head pounded with every step, a deep, dull throb that radiated behind her eyes like a warning signal on repeat.
But she kept walking. Straight-backed. Eyes forward. Just like always.
“You look like crap,” Jack said, not unkindly, as she passed him near the locker room.
“Thanks,” she muttered, trying to smile. “It’s called firehouse chic.”
He blinked. “Seriously though, you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? You’re kinda…pale. You’re sweating and it’s not even 7:30 yet.”
Maya sat down heavily on the bench in front of her locker. “Just didn’t sleep much.” She didn’t look up to see if he believed her.
Andy appeared in the doorway a moment later, holding a coffee. “Brought you the good stuff. It’s got honey, lemon, and a shot of espresso because I love you and I think you’re about five minutes from a collapse.”
Maya accepted it with a grunt of thanks. “You’re both so dramatic.”
“Okay,” Andy said slowly. “Well, you know we love dramatic exits around here, so try not to pass out mid-rescue.”
“I’m fine,” Maya repeated.
But her hand trembled slightly as she brought the cup to her lips.
The klaxon sounded at 9:12 a.m.
“Four-alarm structure fire. Abandoned apartment complex in Belltown. Possible squatters. High probability of collapse.”
Maya’s body surged into motion before her brain had time to argue. She was already suited up and at the truck, adrenaline cutting through the fog of her fever like a razor. For a moment, she almost felt normal.
Almost.
But her chest still ached. Her head still spun. And her hands — she couldn’t stop the shaking.
As they rolled up to the scene, smoke billowed thick into the morning sky, turning it a sickly gray. The building looked worse than the dispatch had suggested: top floors already collapsing inward, windows shattered, flames punching out through the roof like fists.
“This place is a death trap,” Andy muttered beside her.
Maya nodded grimly. “But if someone’s inside…”
“I know.”
Beckett barked orders from the front of the truck.
“Gibson and Montgomery, you’re clearing the south stairwell. Bishop, take Squad 1, head to the third floor. Get in, check for squatters, and clear out.”
Maya hesitated. “Sir, the third floor is already buckling—”
“You have your orders, Lieutenant.”
She bit back the response that rose in her throat. Because she knew the truth: challenging Beckett in the middle of a four-alarm wouldn’t get her reassigned. It would get someone else sent in instead. And that wasn’t a risk she could take.
So she nodded.
And ran straight into hell.
The heat hit her like a wall.
Maya coughed into her mask, the air already thick with soot and smoke. The third floor groaned beneath their boots, warped floorboards curling from the flames below. Her vision blurred, then doubled, then righted itself. She blinked hard. Once. Twice.
They moved quickly, shouting out for anyone inside. Her radio crackled with static and half-caught voices. Her breath rasped inside her mask. Her head pounded so hard it felt like her skull would split.
“There’s movement in here!” Travis shouted, pointing toward a side room. Maya followed.
It was empty. Just an overturned mattress and scorched floorboards.
Then came the crack.
Loud. Sudden. Violent.
“BACK!”
The floor split beneath them.
Travis dove out of the way. Maya spun to run — too late.
The wood crumbled under her feet. She went down.
Pain.
White-hot, blinding pain shot through her leg, her ribs, her skull.
Maya tried to scream and couldn’t. Her lungs seized against the smoke.
She was pinned. Something heavy across her leg. Blood in her mouth. She could feel some kind of pressure in her back. Her radio lost. Her vision narrowed to pinpricks of light.
She reached for her belt, fumbling, dizzy.
Her phone.
One percent battery.
She tried Carina first.
No answer.
Voicemail.
She swallowed, breath ragged, her voice shaking.
“Hey…”
She coughed. Blood on her lip.
“If you’re hearing this, I guess you didn’t want to talk to me. That’s okay. You’re probably at the hospital, saving someone. You’re always saving someone.”
A beat. A painful breath.
“I think this is it for me. We got called to a fire — Belltown. I knew it wasn’t safe. I should’ve said no. I didn’t. And now…”
Her voice cracked.
“I don’t want to die, Carina. I don’t. But I’m scared. And I need you to know something. I need you to know… I didn’t go in because I thought I could be a hero. I went in because I didn’t want to be a burden again. I didn’t want to let anyone down.”
Her breathing hitched.
“I thought — maybe if I could be strong one more time, I’d still be worth it. Still be worth you.”
The fire crackled louder. Something nearby collapsed. She flinched.
“I love you, Carina. So damn much. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry if I don’t make it home. You made me feel like I could be loved even when I didn’t believe it. You were the best thing I ever had.”
The phone slipped from her fingers.
Outside, Andy’s radio crackled. “Where’s Bishop?!”
“She didn’t come out—”
“She was right behind us!”
Andy’s blood turned to ice.
She ran straight to Beckett. “Maya’s still inside.”
“We’re calling it,” he said flatly.
“The hell we are.”
“She didn’t follow orders. I’m not risking anyone else—”
“She followed your order!”
Jack stepped in. “Andy—”
“No. Not this time.” Andy turned back to Beckett. “You want to pull rank? Go ahead. But we’re not leaving her in there.”
Ben was already pulling his gear back on. “We’re going in.”
“Anyone who defies this call will be suspended,” Beckett barked.
Andy looked him dead in the eye. “Suspend me.”
She turned. “Let’s move.”
They found her in the rubble.
Unconscious. Burned. Bleeding. Barely breathing. Impaled.
Ben dropped to her side. “She’s got a pulse, it’s thready. We need an airway, now!”
Andy’s hands shook as she helped clear debris from Maya’s chest. Her gear was torn, her face soot-streaked and bloodied, her leg twisted at an unnatural angle, and the worst of it all was the rebar that had entered her midsection and exited her back.
“Let’s get her the hell out of here!”
“We have to be extremely careful not to jostle the rebar,” Andy could barely get the words out.
Carina was finishing a consult when her phone buzzed. Voicemail - Bambina 💙
She pressed play. As Maya’s voice played through the receiver, the world dropped out from under her. She sank to the floor of the supply room, her chest heaving with silent sobs.
Jo found her minutes later, curled into herself on the floor of the supply room, her phone clutched in a white-knuckle grip. Carina’s entire body shook with uncontrolled sobs.
“Carina?”
“I think Maya’s dead,” Carina whispered.