Chapter Text
Samira didn’t go out often.
It was part of her personality by now, something that everyone knew about. She had proclaimed it too-loudly during PittFest, and a year on, she hadn’t quite managed to shake off that reputation.
She’d tried her best to accept invitations, and more often than not found herself hanging out with King, Santos, Javadi and Whitaker. Garcia often trudged along, endlessly complaining, even though everyone though knew she was secretly flattered every time. Sometimes she even managed to rope in Ellis.
They had a go-to bar, something Samira had always seen in movies and tv shows but never experienced in real life. She’d been too concerned with deadlines and applications and getting ahead, only raising her head occasionally and seeing she had been left behind. It hadn’t particularly cut deep until last year, when she realised she missed having inside jokes, the feeling of bass reverberating against her spine, feeling light. She liked the hospital, and the challenge of figuring out exactly how a patient could be helped, reading in between the lines to find out what others had missed. She liked being right. She liked being sure. She knew about the nickname, knew what it meant in this cutting edge environment, one where you were constantly operating with limited time, resources, energy.
So Samira had decided not to let that bother her. She’d improved, always operating on instinct, but trying her best to move faster, to delegate when she could. And make time for the people who kept showing up for her.
For tonight, it meant drinking a little bit more than she should, and enjoying the feeling of warm, sticky skin, relishing the too-warm interior of the bar, feeling of peoples moving to the beat, loud voices and even louder, off-pitch singing. It meant moving her lengthy limbs to the rhythm, sharing glances with strangers, and aggressively shouting the words to her favourite songs. It made her feel alive, even though exhaustion felt heavy in her bones, even more than usual.
They paused to breathe, drink water and all but collapsed into their booth, against worn down cushions unpretentious and welcoming. Dr. Walsh sat at the table, expression unimpressed, but a small not-quite-smile tugging at her lips as Garcia and Ellis ribbed each other.
She never came to these things; in the year or so that Samira had decided to change her ways, she could count the times she had graced them with her presence on a single hand. This was the third time - not that Samira was actively counting - that she had sat down with them, yet just like the first time, Samira felt her heartbeat stutter at the sight of her.
Hair loose, curling from the humidity, down to her shoulders, a casual white shirt and green corduroy jeans spread in a way that went straight to her core, Dr. Emery Walsh cleaned up well. Samira tried hard not to think about the way her sculpted arms were crossed against her chest, the way she was leaning back against the booth, and focused instead on her ice cold drink, grateful for the beads of condensation against her sticky fingers.
She wished her fingers were sticky from other reasons. Emery Walsh-related stickiness.
In her defense, Samira had tried to get rid of this inane crush. Often times, she had no time to daydream about the dark-haired attending, and she would let her mind wander only when she was close to falling into a dream-less sleep, or when she would meet her striking gaze across the ER, as the surgeon dealt with a patient, as she argued with Abbott. She’d observe how Dr. Walsh, always calm and self-assured Dr. Walsh, would raise an unimpressed brow at interns, residents and attendings alike, usually uttering something devastating. She’d feel how her gaze lingered on her for a second too long, before she’d turn her heels and exit a room. This often left Samira wondering if she hadn’t gotten over the pigtail catheter thing, if she delegated her undoubtedly brief impressions of Samira into the same box she put Abbott, into a box of ‘uninteresting people who weren’t worth her time’.
Samira wanted to be worth her time. In so many different ways. Sideways, horizontal, against walls-
Dr. Walsh yawned.
Ever so composed, she raised a hand, causing a tinge of concern to flutter in Samira’s chest at the obvious exhaustion the dark-haired surgeon was displaying.
“Are we boring you, Dr. Walsh?” Garcia teased, bumping her shoulder with Dr. Walsh’s, who weakly shrugged, a small smirk seemingly escaping her.
“Little bit,” Walsh responded, nonplussed. “Haven’t been sleeping well. You’re not helping.”
“I can tell. You look exhausted, dude.” Parker informed her.
Walsh’s eyes suddenly met Samira’s, whose widened and looked away. Samira tried to tune back into the conversation Victoria was having with Mel, but caught Trinity’s expression from across the table, who was looking at her like the cat who got the cream. Samira felt her cheeks burn, but alcohol had clearly impeded her brain-to-mouth filter.
“What?”
“Nothing. Nothing new, that is,” Trinity said, knowing. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing, like you said. I’m way too tired for any sex-related activities.” Samira retorted. It then dawned on Samira that these words were uttered during a particular lull in the table’s conversation. She’d also spoken louder than she had thought. Mortification oozes through her veins as Trinity looks like she’s trying very hard not to laugh, and Samira feels everyone’s eyes on her.
“Are you now?” Came Dr. Walsh’s amused response, cutting through the awkwardness.
“Aren’t you? Isn’t everyone?” Samira spluttered, very obviously deflecting.
“Doctors don’t sleep nearly enough,” Ellis swooped in mercifully, causing other people to nod their heads in agreement.
“They’re too busy saving lives and having unauthorised sex,” Trinity agreed, immediately causing Garcia’s eyes to firmly stay fixated to the ceiling.
“Give me strength-”
“We’re not in Grey’s anatomy,” Victoria deadpanned, “And besides, I would quite honestly rather choke than to do… with any one of you.”
“You wish you could tap that, Javadi,” Parker sassed, causing laughter to erupt at the table.
“No, but honestly, sleep is so important. We keep drilling our patients about it, while not adhering to that ourselves,” Mel commented, making a face.
“I feel like I’m wired all day, but when I get home, it’s hard to slow down. It’s hard to relax, in a way,” Javadi rattled furiously.
“Personally, I like to pass out as soon as my head hits the pillow,” Trinity said, unfazed. Her gaze narrowed to Samira, mischief dancing in her eyes. “But I know some people like to cuddle.”
“You a cuddler, Dr. Mohan?” Ellis’ voice teased.
“I-”
“Found that out the hard way,” Trinity supplied.
“Trinity,” Samira narrowed her eyes.
“Can you believe some people get paid to do that for a living?” Whitaker added. “Not that I would know why, of course.”
“You seem to know an awfully lot about that, Whitaker,” Trinity purred. “How come?”
Thankfully, the conversation shifted away from sleep deprivation, and Samira felt herself exhaled, cheeks still warm. Despite the ribbing, Samira knew that Trinity’s concern was shining through. She’d kept her up to date with her attempts to meditate, practise yoga, using a white noise machine to fall asleep. None of these things were working reliably so far, and the end of her fourth residency year was approaching. Every night, it often felt as if though she was drowning in her own mind. Like a ritual, she would furiously try to shut her eyes, feel overheated and move to the cool spot within her sheets, sigh, and then inexorably give up, scrolling her phone until she passed out. Part of her New Year’s resolutions have been to find a better routine and stop overextending her body - that came with less double shifts, but still felt like her brain hadn’t gotten the memo to slow down.
“You alright there, Dr. Mohan?”
Dr Walsh’s voice cut the hazy sluggishness of Samira’s thoughts. She stood above Samira, hand in her pockets, nose already red from the cold, scarf held from the other hand. Samira shivered, in a way completely unrelated to the cold, sitting on the steps, unable to drum up an answer.
Was she alright?
Walsh misinterpreted her reaction and stepped closer, amused expression gone.
“I’m not cold,” Samira assured her. “I’m just waiting for my rideshare, it’s taking forever.”
Walsh said nothing, but glanced at Samira’s phone, held between weak fingers. She truly was a slight, her attire impeccable on her frame. Samira wanted nothing but to be buried into her chest, seeking warmth and comfort, for her to wrap her into weathered brown leather jacket. She didn’t say any of these things, and just stared up at her without talking, a little longer than it was socially acceptable probably. But Walsh stared back, expression unreadable, as the silence grew between them.
“I’ve drank a bit more than I wanted,” Samira admitted, like a secret. She tried to fashion her voice into a whisper, but it came out too loud, again.
“I know,” Walsh responded, amusement flickering in her expression. She didn’t smile, though, not fully. “I can take you home, if you want.”
“I want,” Samira said too-quickly. “But I doubt that it’s in your way. Also, my rideshare should be here in fifteen. I really don’t mind waiting.”
“I’ve only had a lemonade,” Walsh said, her voice not leaving much room to argue. “I can drive you. It’s not a problem.”
“Dr. Walsh-”
“Come on, Samira.”
With that, she turned on her heel, and started walking in the direction of her car, not even glancing back to see if Samira would follow. If she had, she would have seen Samira smile to herself, struggle to get up, tug her skirt back down, and practically run after her.
— — —
Emery did not know what possessed her to allow Samira Mohan into her car.
The lie settled in her mouth but she seemed unable to swallow it, to make it real- Emery knew exactly what had enabled her to say these words. Samira, with unfocused eyes and a devastating pout, had been quietly muttering curses at her phone in a way she couldn’t help but fall further enamoured by. She’d been spellbound, earlier, by her open expression, slightly more done-up face, and her flustered response, ‘Aren’t you? Isn’t everyone?’
Emery didn’t make it a habit to hang with residents, never mind drink with them, but Garcia had managed to worm herself into her life, and more worryingly, into her conscience, guilting her into coming along. She’d mentioned that the bright eyed, curly-haired resident would be in attendance, like it was the only motivating factor Emery could be persuaded by. As the night progressed, Emery had found herself glad indeed that she had come along. It was a good distraction, she’d figured at first, having a work crush. It passed the time, spiced up her otherwise dreadfully boring interactions, but what had otherwise started as an absentminded thing had quietly amounted to something a little bigger, something that Garcia had immediately picked up and never ceased to tease her about.
“You should ask her out,” Yolanda had said one night, as they were finalising case notes in her office.
“Ask who?” Emery had said, not looking up from her screen.
“Dr. Samira Mohan,” Yolanda uttered. It took a lot from Emery not to react to the name, but she must have let something transpire, taken the bait somehow.
“Don’t-”
“You really like her,” Yolanda murmured, amazed. “I thought I was just imagining things.”
“You are,” Emery had snapped. “Now, get back to work. I’m tired and I want to go home.”
Garcia had smirked at her like she’d won something, but stayed silent, not pressing her on the topic. Emery had, over time, noticed that Mohan usually kept to herself. She had seen and interacted with her regularly on cases, especially when the fourth year resident picked up night shifts. Despite her infamous pace - on which Emery had privately disagreed with Robby before and after PittFest - the senior resident somehow always managed to investigate symptoms that others missed. When Surgery was paged, and Emery strolled down to the chaos of the Pitt, Dr. Mohan always appeared, calm and concise, combining her instincts with undeniable knowledge. If anything, Emery respected that. They’d butted heads a couple of times, but it always felt that there was an undercurrent of understanding between them, that they were fighting to the very last second to find the best solution for their patients.
The few times Emery had tagged along to one of these bar nights, though, Mohan had seemed brighter, but not as loose-limbed as she was now, babbling some nonsense about a case she’d worked on today. Her cadence was rapid and lower than usual, and Emery was struggling to follow it, albeit content that Mohan was here, in her car, rather than a random rideshare’s sticky backseat. Whatever. They were coworkers, she reasoned, it was the right thing to do.
Never mind the fact that when she had arrived earlier in the night, she’d glanced at the curly-haired woman and immediately ordered a soft drink. Just in case.
“I want to sleep,” Mohan declared, looking very much wide awake as she stared down the road before her.
“We’re almost there,” Emery responded, her voice too gentle. She cleared her throat. “You’ll be able to sleep soon, I promise.”
“I can’t sleep,” Mohan told her, matter-of-factly.
“What do you mean?”
It hadn’t come as a surprise to Emery when Santos had teased Mohan about being sleep deprived - all residents were, it unfortunately came with the territory. With furious shifts and chronic understaffing, work-life balance was hard to achieve at this stage, and Emery disliked it immensely. But the cuddler thing? That definitely came as a surprise, one she tucked away for later, to dissect in private.
Emery’s eyes had narrowed without her knowledge, at the implied statement that Santos and Mohan had slept together in the past, before she caught Garcia’s raised eyebrow.
“It’s always been platonic,” Yolanda had supplied, a little later, privately. “They’ve had sleepovers. Nothing sexual. I checked.” She’d patted her on the shoulder before she’d left the bar with a hand in the over-confident resident’s back pocket.
Disgusting.
Emery had felt relief at her friend’s statement, and hated that she cared.
“I want to,” Mohan continued, oblivious to Emery internal monologue. “All the time, when I’m out of the hospital. But I can’t. My brain won’t stop.”
That, Emery could relate to. She’d never previously struggled with sleep, able to function on a couple of hours without an issue. Recently though, staying asleep had begun to be a problem. Her brain kept screaming at her, replaying patients she hadn’t been able to save, and other unpleasant scenes she would’ve rather not relive. As Emery stops at the red light, she turns over to check on Mohan, who’s eyes are already on her. She looks smaller, her makeup smudged a little from where’s she’s rubbed it. Dark circles adorn her big brown eyes, and Emery turns hers back to the road, pressing on the gas pedal again.
“I’m struggling to sleep too,” Emery revealed, surprising even herself. “It’s not as easy as people make it out to be. But you should talk to someone about it, Dr. Mohan. It can have damaging-”
“Long term effects, I know,” Mohan interrupted, stifling a yawn. “I’m a good doctor. I’m just a good insomniac, too.”
There’s a silence between them as Emery registers what she’s said, heart squeezing a bit.
“We’re almost there-”
“Does it help when you sleep with someone?” Mohan inquired. Emery felt her eyes on her and tightened her grip on the wheel.
“Dr. Mohan, I’m not sure that’s appropriate,” Emery said pointedly, heart racing. They’re adults, her brain supplied unhelpfully, and not at work. It’s unfamiliar territory, and Emery responds on instinct, not wanting to get too close. Samira doesn’t even report to her, not directly. Still, she exhales when the younger woman interrupts her.
“I meant sleep sleep. Not the other thing,” Mohan rolled her eyes, unfazed. “I know it helped me before. Might help us,” she added. “Since you can’t sleep either.”
Emery had never been so glad to see a free parking spot. Hastily, she parked the car in front of Samira’s building, thanking the universe for her steady hands, unnerved by Mohan’s casual suggestion. She didn’t know what to make of it. Where to start.
“I don’t-”
“Would you? Want to sleep together?” the curly- haired woman pressed, looking very serious now, despite her looser-than-normal limbs.
Did she? Did she want to fall asleep at Samira’s side, a colleague she practically knew nothing about, not in the way it mattered? She didn’t quite know the answer to that.
“Are you propositioning me, Dr. Mohan?” Emery couldn’t help but ask, wanting to make sure she had correctly wrapped her head around Samira’s words.
“I am, but just to sleep. To try! As an experiment,” Mohan added, unbuckling her seatbelt. “Let me know if you want to be my sleeping partner, Dr. Walsh. For science!” And with that, she closed the door before Emery could interject.
A sleep deprived doctor was a dangerous thing, Emery reasoned on her way home, disconcerted. She shouldn’t even be entertaining this course of thought. But she’d tried pretty much everything - therapy, meditation, grey noises, melatonin gummies - none had worked as efficiently as when her ex-wife lay next to her, a lifetime ago.
Still, as she drove away, Emery concluded that Dr. Samira Mohan was full of surprises, and it would do little good for Emery to hold her to her inebriated suggestions.
— — —
It was no less than a week later when Samira found, the hard way, that she hadn’t been as subtle in her avoidance of a certain short-haired, short tempered surgery attending as she’d previously thought.
It came, as it often did, as a run-into her in an elevator, at 3:20 something in the morning. Samira had just stopped the doors with her foot, stepping into the elevator, out of breath. As always, Dr. Walsh, bore her trademark unimpressed face, eyes trained on a chart, but her aura somehow felt tenser than usual. She briefly looked up at Samira’s entrance, nodding slightly in recognition, before going back to what she was reading.
“Dr. Walsh,” Samira breathed, embarrassment flickering in her chest. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for bringing me home the other day.”
“Of course,” Walsh responds, barely glancing up from her chart.
“I also wanted to apologise for what I said.”
“You have nothing to be embarrassed about, Dr. Mohan,” Walsh finally looked up, meeting Samira’s eyes. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this. I’ll do it.”
“You’ll do it?” Samira repeated, afraid she was getting this wrong. The doors opened, and Walsh made a move to exit, stopping the elevator with her foot.
“I’m happy to host,” Walsh continued, voice casual. “My house is not too far from yours.”
“Dr. Walsh,” Samira interjected. “I’m-”
“Your boards are coming up soon, Dr. Mohan,” Walsh stated, more serious now. “You can’t continue like this. I’m speaking from experience, here. You’ll burn out.”
A pager beeped loudly between them, and Samira mentally cursed it for its less than ideal timing.
“We can discuss terms at a café, or something, when you’re free. Or my house, whatever you would prefer. Let me know if you’re still interested.”
Dr. Walsh’s eyes trailed down before moving back up to meet Samira’s, an amused smirk playing on her lips. “You should get that.”
And with that, the surgeon turned on her heels.
— — —
“Don’t you have better things to bother your interns with?” Was the first thing out of Mohan’s mouth as she promptly sat down.
After little deliberation, they’d decided to meet in a standard coffee shop, conveniently located at a midway point between their houses. Mohan looked frazzled, more so than usual, in a way that suggested to Emery that she was approaching her wits’ end.
“Not really, no,” Emery responded, smiling into her cup. Well. At least the coffee shop had decent coffee.
“You don’t think getting your intern to corner me into the staff lounge, slipping me a piece of paper with your number on it and them asking me to burn or shred it after I got it was a little extreme?”
“Not really, no,” Emery repeated, amused. Let it be known that Emery Walsh was fun. Fun-adjacent, in any case. “My phone number is a precious commodity. I don’t just give it out to anyone.”
“So, I’m special, then?” Dr. Mohan drawled sarcastically. Her hair was down today, and Emery was trying very hard to not let it affect her. She was experienced and well lived, for goodness sake. And apparently, not immune to the charms of Dr. Samira Mohan, who was just as captivating and beautiful outside of the ER.
“Shall we discuss terms?” Emery was not subtle as she changed the subject, figuring that Mohan would appreciate a straightforward discussion. Emery was straightforward, after all. Known for it, even.
(She had prepared key points and potential responses Mohan might come up with the night before, cursing herself for even resuscitating this drunken suggestion in the first place.)
“Not subtle,” Mohan rolled her eyes. “But yes.”
A pause. Emery waited, enjoying Mohan’s thinking face, then immediately stopping that. If this were to work, she thought, she had to do away what that stupid, prepubescent, inappropriate infatuation. What was it her niece had said recently?
A crush is just a lack of information.
“We don’t know each other very well.” A very valid point, raised by an extremely competent doctor. Emery said none of this out loud.
“Do you find that necessary for us to pursue this experiment?”
“Has anyone told you you’re very guarded, Dr. Walsh?”
“All the time,” Emery answered, nonplussed. “It’s one of my most admirable qualities.”
“Answer the question, Dr. Walsh,” Mohan pressed.
“I think you can call me Emery. To answer your question, yes, I’ve been told so numerous times before. Some people find it sexy,” Emery shrugged. She watched, satisfied, as a blush slowly creeped onto Mohan’s face. “What do you want to know?”
“Basics. Are you a morning or night person?”
Emery raised an unimpressed brow, and Dr. Mohan actually let out a short, adorable chuckle.
“Right. Quite obvious, with the night shifts and all. I’m more of a morning person, myself.”
“What’s your favourite season?” Emery found herself asking.
At this, Mohan paused, tilting her head to the side as she thought about it.
“Definitely spring,” she decided, her smile wide and bright. Emery almost swore at the sight. “What’s yours?”
“I like spring too,” Emery spoke quickly, tracing the tip of her napkin with more pressure than necessary. “Are you having second thoughts about this?”
Mohan looked at her intently then, too focused, like she was trying to figure her out. Emery had seen it in action before, on whatever patient had crossed her way, but never had it been raised at her. It was devastating, actually, but all Emery could think about was how she’d been too blunt, too defensive.
Often, Emery thought she had overgrown the overthinking she’d been plagued with when she was younger, and it wasn’t often she still berated herself over it. Age had mellowed that one out, experience had buffed it down to a smooth, small stone.
But as Mohan stayed silent, pondering over her words, Emery found its weight in her chest a little heavier than usual.
“It’s helping me,” Mohan finally uttered, voice a little quieter.
“Helping you?” Emery prompted, matching her tone.
“Helping me see you as Emery, not Dr. Walsh. Not someone who could end my career before it’s even started, from what I suggested under the influence. Sleeping is intimate, Dr. Walsh. So yes, the questions are helping me. And they’re helping you.”
And so Emery understood. Samira’s blatant avoidance, her fear when they’d met in the elevator. It hadn’t been easy for Emery to get to where she stood now, but Samira’s case was another instance entirely. Disregarding how they existed within the hospital wasn’t going to do them any favours, and the last thing Emery wanted was to brush Samira’s concerns aside. They did need to talk terms, talk this out like adults, wording their concerns out loud.
“I understand,” Emery said, candidly. “This is a little unconventional. But I promise, this is not going to change the way I view you as a colleague. I’m professional, Dr. Mohan, and so are you. Companionship might be something we both need, and given our profession, it’s not always something that’s easily found. Keep the questions coming, and I’ll do my best to answer them.”
“You can call me Samira,” Moha-Samira smiled, with a decisive nod. It took a lot of self-control for Emery not to react to this.
— — —
They settled on a trial run.
With no stakes, no hard feelings if it didn’t work out.
Despite issues around their schedules, they settled on meeting at Emery’s house at the end of a night shift they both had.
Samira felt fatigue in her bones as she carefully listened to the directions, heading further into a familiar neighbourhood. She hadn’t even toured apartments in this area when she’d first moved, as they’d been extremely out of her price range. But she double checked the address with the one Emery had sent her previously, and it matched the imposing townhouse she was currently parked in front of.
She didn’t have anything to lose, Samira reasoned, grabbing her small overnight duffel. Only her reputation and dignity if anyone found out about this. Sex would be easier to explain than whatever they were currently planning to do. As if the universe had a strange sense of humour, the fatigue in her bones urged her forward, remnants of snow crunching under her feet as she made her way up the small steps.
“Hey again,” Emery greeted at the door. She was dressed in comfy-looking clothes, hair looking slightly damp and expression tired.
“Hi,” Samira greeted back, smiling gratefully as Emery let her into a checkered-floored foyer. There was a small, oval mirror above an elegant shoe-rack where she left her beat-up sneakers. “Thank you for having me.”
“Slippers if you want them,” Emery pointed to reserved, navy slippers, which Samira privately appreciated - the floor was already cool under her socked feet.
“Don’t mind the mess,” Emery threw over her shoulder as she walked back into her living room. Samira followed her, taking in the expansive space, tastefully decorated interior. It was absurdly warm, far from the clinical, minimalist image Samira had slowly been imagining. Emery’s townhouse was painted with warm colours, held a nice mix of antiquities and modern touches, but most of all, was littered with books.
Medical journals and fiction and newspapers and recipe books were found across the spaces, and as Emery made her way to the kitchen, Samira found herself growing at ease. Emery seemed to love books. That, she was familiar with. That, she could understand.
Emery stood on her toes as she grabbed two mismatched mugs. “I thought we could put all of the science on our side,” she explained at Samira’s questioning look, as she poured hot water over tea bags. “I'll make us some herbal infusions, and I’ve set up the guest bathroom, if you want to take a shower?”
Samira’s heart warmed at the gesture. She’d never been good at going to sleep without having washed the day off, and was grateful for the chance to gather her thoughts under the shower spray. Emery’s water pressure was good, of course, but then again, she hadn’t struck her as the sort of person who would settle for anything mediocre. A fluffy towel had been waiting for her alongside pyjamas and (expensive) toiletries when she’d entered the bathroom, and the lovely, woodsy scent that diffused inside Emery’s home was present there too.
“Your water pressure is excellent,” Samira praised as she rejoined the living room. Emery was curled up in the side of her oversized couch, round glasses perched onto the top of her hair as she stared into space, seemingly lost in thought. As Samira sat across from her and picked up her mug, she barked out a laugh.
“It’s the little things in life,” Emery drawled.
“Wise words,” Samira hummed. Emery’s eyes snapped to hers, like she knew exactly what Samira meant by that.
“Not that old,” she sniffed.
“I didn’t say anything,” Samira smiled.
“Didn’t have to. Now come on, let’s go to bed.”
And somehow, it was that simple. Straightforward, but warm, like maybe Samira had made it a bigger deal than it had to be. Emery had done nothing but make her feel comfortable, and despite the nervousness at being in an unfamiliar place, with an unfamiliar person, Samira found herself exhaling a little bit. She followed Emery up the flight of steps, and into a expansive bedroom that smelled just like her. Emery’s bed was big and made, clad with fluffy-looking pillows, cream sheets and a matching olive green bedspread. At the foot of her bed was a matching green ottoman, onto a sprawling rug. Emery’s side was obviously the left one, where a water bottle and bookmarked novel rested, but she stood awkwardly, one feet rubbing the other, as she wordlessly waited for Samira to pick a side. Samira listened, amused, as Emery seemingly exhaled as Samira climbed into bed on the right side, setting her phone down on the nightstand. Dr. Walsh was cute, she decided, rubbing her feet underneath the covers. No one could ever know.
— — —
At first, they lay side by side, uncertainty floating between them, tension so thick it could've been cut with a knife. A tightness stemmed from the back of Emery's throat, spreading down to her limbs. She felt reckless, unnerved by the feeling of the woman laying right next to her. Samira lay, her breathing almost too shallow, stiffness emanating from her in steady waves. When had Emery forgotten to do this? To be reassuring and warm, to ensure that whomever lay next to her was comfortable.
All of a sudden, it felt too hard, like a bridge she couldn't bring herself to cross. It was easier to leave unknown women's houses in the dark of the night, with a small smirk and swagger, never to contact them again, citing work and life as impossible constraints to go over. It was easier than to stay still in the silence, feeling the heat of a body next to her, wondering, not for the first time, what on earth had possessed her to agree to this ridiculous initiative. For Samira, Emery found herself wanting to face those inner workings, to rewire them, so that the younger woman wouldn't restlessly be shifting around in her freshly laundered covers, eyes blinking open in the low lights. So that instead, she could be something, someone to lean on. For comfort.
She felt Samira turn to her side, an unexplainable, steady tug resulting in Emery shifting onto her hip bone, hands tucked beneath her too-heavy head.
"Do you ever feel like sleep is a battle you'll never be able to win?" Samira whispered softly.
In the low lighting, Emery forced herself to meet her warm gaze. As she spoke, Emery realised that this was the first time she had ever heard Samira whisper. Again, she did not want to get into how it made her feel.
(Unnerved. Tingly - in a good way.)
"All the time," Emery spoke back, surprising herself with the honesty of her question."I've always been an amazing sleeper. These last couple of months have been unusual for me."
"'Cause you're always good at everything," Samira smiled, a teasing lint to her voice.
"Because I'm always good at everything," Emery agreed, like a liar. She felt herself smile as a small chuckle escaped Samira.
Silence grew between them, in a way that should not have felt as comfortable as it was. Samira was a stranger, in her bed, her most sacred space; yet all Emery felt was the feeling of contentment, of her chest exhaling a little deeper.
"Do you-"
"Go to sleep, Dr. Mohan," Emery instructed without venom. She watched as Samira rolled her eyes before turning away from her, the sound of rustling sheets following her. She watched as Samira wrapped her arms around herself, unconsciously looking for comfort.
Before she could stop herself, Emery brought herself closer. As casually as she could manage, she wrapped her left arm around Samira's middle, bringing her closer to her own body. Immediately, notes of citrus and mellow florals assaulted her senses, and Emery actively refrained herself from burying her nose in thick, black curls, loosely tied back in a bun. Samira stiffened at first, but Emery brushed a careless thumb over the back of her hand and felt tension leave her shoulders.
"This okay?" Emery asked, voice quiet, hoping that she hadn't overstepped, hadn't frightened her.
"More than," Samira sighed, her entire body exhaling with her, bringing her closer still to Emery's overheating body. "You're super warm. I love that."
"Good to know," was all Emery said, finding Samira's weight against her comforting.
"Dr. Walsh?" Samira asked again, her voice already far away.
"I really think you can call me Emery at this point," Emery answered, eyes fixated on the ceiling.
"Emery," Samira mumbled.
"You're falling asleep, Samira," Emery murmured back, amazed.
Samira seemed to agree, failing to respond. As she breathed, steady and slow, Emery felt herself drift.