Chapter Text
Samira Mohan is in her own personal version of hell.
She realizes this far before she opens her eyes.
Hell, as it turns out, smells faintly like laundry that’s been left in the washer for too long and something citrus that tried–and miserably failed to be clean. Her head pounds in slow, vindictive waves, the kind that feels deserved. She’s naked in a man’s bed, which would be less alarming if the bed itself weren’t so aggressively disappointing.
The fitted sheet is a pilled mess beneath her legs, dragged halfway off the mattress and bunched beneath her lower back like sandpaper. There is no top sheet, instead a navy blue comforter that is far too thin to be intentional, draped across her hip at an angle. Her cheek is pressed into a pillow that has long since given up on structural integrity, painfully flat like it lost the will to exist sometime around 2014.
An Adam Sandler movie is playing on a tv that is entirely too close to the bed. The volume is low but persistent, dialogue leaks into the room in soft, idiotic bursts. Beside her, the man whose name is either Ryan or Ryland snores heavily, and this is the last possible way she wants her morning to begin.
Samira keeps her eyes closed for one more second, conducting a rapid internal assessment the same way she would with a patient.
Headache: severe.
Nausea: pending.
Regret: acute and fully conscious.
She finds her phone on a nightstand covered in empty cool mint zyn cans. She finds that it’s on ten percent, because what else could possibly go wrong this early in the morning?
When she met Ryan–or Ryland–last night, he had seemed functional. That’s the word she lands on. Functional in a navy blazer, functional in the way he talked about trading like it was something he was confident in, functional in the way men sometimes look under dim bar lighting when the music is loud and your judgement is swayed by the amount of margaritas you’ve had with the addition of tequila shots courtesy of Trinity Santos being a bad influence.
Nothing about this is functional.
Carefully, with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb, she begins to untangle herself from the situation. One leg free, then the other. The comforter slides off of her as the mattress creaks, she pauses and holds her breath.
Ryan/Ryland only snores louder and rolls into the warm space she’s left behind, face smashed into the flat, yellow pillow.
Unbelievable.
Samira swings her feet to the floor and immediately kicks over an empty Gatorade bottle while Adam Sander screams on the tv. It skids across the hardwood with a plastic scrape that sounds deafening in the quiet room.
She freezes and waits, hearing nothing.
Just snoring. Adam Sander. The low hum of a life she has no desire to be a part of.
Moving quickly now, she scans the disaster radius for her clothes. They’re tangled in a small depressing pile of his own. She pulls everything on with efficient, practiced motions, fingers slightly clumsy from dehydration but she’s far too determined. Bra clasped. Zipper up. Hair…unfixable, but at least contained.
Her purse is by the door, thank god. She grabs it like a life raft.
All she wants is to go home to the only man she’s ever truly loved. A man who has never disappointed her, never lied to her, never once left a fitted sheet in such a horrible condition.
A man who no longer has a pair of testicles.
Basil is probably sprawled on her made bed, belly up as he dreams of breakfast. The second she’ll open the door, he’ll be waiting and scream at her for crimes related to breakfast timing. Basil, who was neutered at six months old and has been emotionally stable ever since. Basil, who expectations are clear, whose love is uncomplicated, whose automatic litter box is clean.
Yes. Home. Basil. Water. Darkness. Silence.
Instead, Samira checks the time again and feels a different kind of dread settle in.
Cycling class is in twenty-three minutes.
She could skip it, and no one would know or care.
But she would know, and somehow that’s worse.
Samira opens the apartment door and steps into the hallway and hopes that this place isn’t far from where her car is parked, stashed with a change of workout clothes for situations like this.
Ryan/Ryland keeps snoring.
Adam Sandler keeps talking.
And Samira Mohan walks towards the elevator, already planning on how much water she can drink before she throws up on a stationary bike.
***
Bad Bunny is unforgiving at six in the morning.
The bass rattles through the black light room, pulsing in time with the synchronized misery of twenty overachievers who paid food money to feel like this. Sweat drips down Samira’s spine and gathers as the base of her neck, sliding between her shoulder blades. Her thighs burn and her head still throbs, but it’s dull now and metabolized into something cleaner.
The gym sits in Shadyside, all glass frontage and valet parking, tucked between boutiques that sell candles for forty dollars and denim for three hundred. It smells faintly of eucalyptus and expensive ambition. Samira comes here because it’s close, because it’s efficient, and because she likes the discipline of it all. There’s something satisfying about earning the body she lives in.
Up front, Stacey is a hurricane in neon leggings.
“Turn it up!” She shouts over Bad Bunny, like the music isn’t already drilling into her skull. “You did not wake up this early to coast!”
Samira doesn’t coast. Coast isn’t in her language.
By the final sprint, her lungs feel scrubbed raw, but the nausea is gone. The regret has been wrung out of her in steady rotations. When the light shifts warmer and the music finally drops, the room exhales at once.
“Good work, Samira!” Stacey says as she hops off the bike, grinning and energized in a way that feels chemically unfair.
“Thanks,” Samira says between gasps, wiping the back of her neck with a soft towel. She grabs a complimentary water bottle from the fridge lining the wall in the front, watching the sun slowly rise beyond the windows.
“Oh–hey,” Stacey adds casually, glancing over the tablet on the counter. “There’s something weird with billing. Your payment didn’t go through this cycle. It’s probably just a card glitch, though.”
Samira pauses, pulling the water away from her lips.
“What?”
“It’s fine,” Stacey waves off dismissively. “Don’t stress it. You’re here every week. We’ll sort it out.”
Heat creeps up Samira’s neck, sharper than the cycling burn. She is not someone whose payments “don’t go through.”
“That’s weird,” she says evenly. “Let me check my account.”
“Seriously, don’t worry about it,” Stacey replies, already moving on to the next person. “See you tomorrow.”
Samira nods and fishes her phone out of her gym bag, hellbent on checking her account when she sees two texts from Dr. Robby.
Any way I could get you in an hour early?
We’re slammed over here.
The timestamp is twelve minutes ago and Samira lets out a sharp exhale. She texts back immediately.
I’ll be there ASAP.
She leaves the gym, the air outside crisp in her lungs. Her car smells faintly of last night's perfume and something citrus from a forgotten hand sanitizer. She rolls down the windows and by the time she pulls into the row of townhouses she calls home, she’s fully awake.
Her front door opens to immediate outrage.
Basil is waiting as she predicted, a massive orange ball of fury. His flat Persion face tilts upward, mouth open in a long, borderline operatic scream that suggests abandonment, betrayal, and quite possibly famine.
“I know,” Samira says, stepping inside. “You’ve suffered greatly.”
He circles her ankles like a judgment cloud, white tail high. He is, objectively, a very large baby. A very food motivated, dramatic baby.
Her townhouse is quiet in the way she prefers. Big windows spill morning light across warm hardwood floors. Plants line the sills, monsteras and trailing pothos. Soft artwork decorates the room. Everything has a place and everything is intentional. It’s her sanctuary.
She drops her gym bag and quickly prepares Basil’s breakfast.
“Last night was a lapse in judgement.” She tells Basil as she rips open a can of wet food. “You are correct to resent me.”
He winds tighter around her legs before she sets down the bowl and his screams fall quiet.
She showers quickly and pulls her hair back after tossing on scrubs. The mirror gives her back a version of herself that is composed, sharp, and fully capable. No trace of her blunder of an evening left.
By the time she grabs her bag and checks her phone again, she’s Dr. Mohan.
The trauma center is packed, the place smelling of antiseptic and adrenaline.
“Thirty two year old male, fall from second story window,” the paramedic rattles off as they wheel in the patient. “Possible alcohol involvement. Deformity to the left forearm. Complaining of abdominal pain. BP is down.”
“Got it,” Samira steps in, already moving.
Dr. McKay falls into step on the other side of the gurney as they reach the bed. “On my count. One, two–”
They transfer him cleanly and the patient lets out a disoriented moan, blood matting in his hairline.
“Sir, can you tell me your name?” Samira asks, voice calm and controlled as she cuts away fabric and assesses his pupils.
“Ethan.” He manages to slur out.
“Ethan, I’m Dr. Mohan and this is Dr. McKay. You took a pretty nasty fall, but we’re going to get you fixed up.”
His left forearm is clearly deformed–a midshaft angulation. Likely radius and ulna fracture.
“Let’s get him splinted and order imaging,” McKay suggests. “We need a FAST exam too.”
“On it.” Mateo’s voice rings through the room.
Samira aligns his arm with practiced precision before applying a temporary splint to stabilize the fracture. Ethan lets out a moan of pain as she adjusts the angle.
“I know,” she murmurs. “Almost there.” She raises her voice slightly. “Can we get morphine in here?”
She supports the limb while Mateo secures the padding.
Behind her, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.
“Morning, Dr. McKay, Dr. Mohan.”
She doesn’t look up immediately. “Dr. Abbot.”
Jack Abbot steps to the side of the bed, eyes working over the monitor before it flickers down to her hands. He takes in the splintering job, the repositioned arm.
“Nice reductions.” He notes. “That’s cleaner than most orthos I’ve seen before coffee.”
Samira glances up at him, a brow lifted. “Well. My morning can’t get much better.”
McKay snorts softly.
Jack huffs a laugh, low and warm. “Careful. It’s not even eight.”
He shifts focus back to Ethan. “BP is still soft. I’d get another line in and push some fluids.”
“Got it,” Samira answers, already reaching. She threads the IV in quickly, taping it down.
McKay looks up at Dr. Abbot. “We’re ordering CT head, abdomen, pelvis.”
“Sounds like you don’t even need my help,” he answers, visibly impressed. His eyes flicker over at Samira. “You heading into O’Malley’s later? Wing night.”
O’Malley’s is two blocks from her townhouse with dim lighting, cheap beer, and by far the best wings she’s ever had in her life.
“Wings sound amazing,” she replies, not looking up from Ethan. “So most likely.”
“Good.” She can hear the grin in his voice. “See you there.”
The patient groans again as Jack helps adjust him for transport and McKay mutters something under her breath about men and windows and darwinism.
Jack laughs outright at that before disappearing to the locker room to get his things and head out for the day.
For a beat, it’s just the steady beeping of monitors and the hum of fluorescent lights.
McKay looks over Samira like she’s trying to find something hidden. “So,” she breathes. “How’d last night go?”
Samira doesn’t blink. “Already forgot about it.”
“Mm-hmm.” McKay’s tone says she doesn’t believe that for a second. “You and Trinity out in the wild always concerns me.”
“It was uneventful.”
Which is a lie. Navy comforter. Flat pillow. Adam Sandler.
As they wheel Ethan toward imaging, the memory hits her abruptly.
It was Ryland.
Not Ryan.
Ryland.
***
Later that evening, Samira trades scrubs for black leggings and a soft charcoal crop top, comfortable and minimal. Her day has been a twelve hour clusterfuck of human errors. She wants grease, salt, and shitty beer.
The walk to O’Malley’s is quiet, the neon shamrock hung above the door flickers, one petal burnt out completely. Inside, it smells like fryer oil and beer and faintly of cigarettes, despite the ruled out indoor smoking there over fifteen years ago.
Jack is in his usual seat at the bar, and her usual seat next to him sits empty.
She’d stumbled into Jack there a couple of months before out of pure coincidence. She’d been craving wings. Their eyes had met across the bar in mutual recognition, the kind that said, you too? They don’t text, let alone have each other's numbers. There’s no coordination. Sometimes she comes and he’s not there. Sometimes he is.
Jack shifts slightly as she slides onto the stool beside him.
“Mohan,” he says in greeting.
“Abbot.” She exhales. “I’ve been thinking about these wings all day.”
He studies her for a second, then delivers, deadpan. “They’re out of inferno habanero.”
Her head snaps toward him. “What?”
“Whole batch got contaminated.”
She groans, her body going slack with disappointment. “You’re joking.”
He breaks, a quiet laugh under his breath. “I’m kidding.”
She exhales sharply and looks over at him. “That was not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
The bartender appears without prompt and sets her IC light bottle down in front of her. “Hey doc.”
“Hey.” She glances at the bottle and hesitates. “Can I get a water, too?”
Jack tilts his head. “You going soft on me, Mohan?”
“No,” she says evenly. “Just a rough night.”
He hums like he could ask more, but doesn’t. That’s one of the things she appreciates about Jack.
The bartender drops off her water and they both order a dozen of wings, hers inferno habanero, Jack’s spicy parm garlic, and a basket of fries with extra vinegar. They always split the fries. It’s never been discussed, just happened once and continued.
The jukebox in the corner switches tracks and The Rolling Stones roll through the bar, something warm and slow as someone breaks on the worn pool table. Samira’s body finally relaxes for the first time all day.
They talk about work and the window fall. Jack tells her about night shift, about how Dr. Langdon’s been lately and how helpful of an addition Mel is.
When the wings arrive, they’re blistered and glossy, still steaming. Samira takes the first bite and her eyes flutter shut.
“Worth the trauma.” She mutters.
By the time her basket is half empty and her untouched beer has gone warm, she’s thinking about her bed. Clean sheets. Her own pillow. Basil curled like a judgmental loaf at her feet until he got sleepy and wants affection.
They both set their cards down when the bartender swings back with the check.
A minute later, she returns with Jack’s receipt.
She looks over at Samira uncomfortably. “Uh. Your card didn’t go through.”
She blinks. Remembers earlier that morning. “Oh–wow. That’s weird. Sorry, let me grab another card.”
She reaches for her purse, irritation flaring through.
“I got it.” Jack says easily, handing his card back.
She pauses. “You don’t have to.”
“It’s wings, Mohan.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.”
The bartender shrugs and walks off with his card.
She pulls out her phone, thumbs moving quickly over her bank app. When it loads, the number on her screen makes her stomach drop.
-$10.43
That can’t be right.
She’s not really the best at checking her bank account, the money is always in there. Her inheritance handles her student loan payments automatically every month–unless–
Her breath staggers.
Unless it stopped.
She knows exactly why. A clause written years ago that never felt real because it never felt imminent.
Shit.
“You good?” Jack asks, noticing the shift.
“Yeah,” she says too quickly, locking her phone. “Just a really long day.”
He studies her, then nods.
“You working tomorrow?”
“I am.” She swings her purse over her shoulder. “You?”
“I’ll probably be in early tomorrow night.” He says.
She manages a small smile. “Thanks for the wings.”
“Don’t mention it.”
She steps out into the cool night air, the bar door shutting behind her with a heavy creek.
The walk home feels shorter than usual.
Ten dollars in the negative.
And for the first time, Samira Mohan feels something she hasn’t felt in years. Not regret, or embarrassment.
But pressure.
Her stomach flips unpleasantly. The inferno habanero staging a second rebellion beneath her ribs. Heartburn creeps up her throat and she presses a hand to her sternum as she crosses the street, the glow of O’Malley’s fading behind her.
She needs to call her mother.
But doesn’t.
Mostly because she already knows what she’ll hear.
You knew this was coming, Samira.
The trust freezes at twenty-eight if you’re unmarried.
It isn’t my rule, it’s in your father’s will.
The lawyer will tell you the same.
There’s nothing I can do.
A ring on her finger.
That’s the requirement. Not happiness. Not partnership. Just a ring.
Samira’s jaw clenches as she walks.
She’s seen her oldest sister, Anjali at the dining table with one baby crying in a high chair, one toddler demanding a sip of her drink, a baby screaming in her lap. All the while Vikram sits calmly at the other end of the table, eating his dinner while Anjali’s grows cold in front of her. He’ll offer her help in a half hearted tone, but the labor settles where it always has.
Samira does not want that life.
She doesn’t want to be dragged down by a man’s gravity. Doesn’t want to negotiate her ambition around someone else’s comfort. She became a doctor for a reason. She carved this life with discipline and debt and exhaustion. She refuses to shrink it to fit a ring.
And Kayva–
Her younger sister is getting married in a few months. Bright, effervescent Kayva, who laughs with her whole body. Samira worries about her in a way she doesn’t say outloud. She wonders if Andrew will cherish that brightness of hers or dim it slowly until Kayva starts apologizing for taking up space.
And Nila, sweet, reckless, Nila.
Samira always tells her the same thing. Stay in school and don’t ever look back.
She can handle this. She can adjust her student loan payments and cut back on nights out, she can sell a few bags. She gets paid in two days anyway. This is just a hiccup, not a collapse.
By the time she reaches her townhouse, she’s convinced herself of that.
She shuts the front door behind her and Basil greets her with a soft, indignant mew, winding around her ankles while his tail quivers.
“I know,” she says, crouching to scratch under his chin. “We need quality time.”
He headbutts her hand and purrs loudly. She checks his food supply and sees that breakfast is covered–but besides that, he’s out of luck.
She pulls out her phone and facetimes Nila.
It rings three times before the screen explodes into flashing lights and obnoxious EDM music.
“Nila,” Samira says flatly.
“Samira!” Nila squeals, grinning into the camera. There’s definitely a red cup in her hand. “Hold on–hold on–hold on–”
The screen jolts wildly as Nila pushes through bodies and noise. A door slams and the music dulls. She reappears in what is unmistakably a frat house bathroom. She pushes her hair out of her face and beams.
“What’s up?”
Samira laughs despite herself. “Why are you partying on a Wednesday?” She raises a brow. “Don’t you have an eight a.m.?”
I’m going,” Nila insists. “Promise.”
Samira gives her a scolding, but playful look as if she hadn’t overconsumed margaritas the night before and woken up in a strangers bed before saving multiple lives like it never happened the following morning.
Nila is currently a second year Pitt student, majoring in Computational Biology.
“Can I ask you for a favor?”
Nila’s smile softens. “Of course. What’s up?”
“Any way could let me borrow like two hundred bucks?”
Nila blinks. “Two hundred–why–”
And then her face shifts into understanding.
“Oh shit,” she says quietly. “The trust.”
Samira nods.
“It seriously froze?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t think that was serious.”
Neither did Samira, because Anjali got married at twenty four so it never affected her.
Silence stretches between them for a second, heavy but not judgemental.
“I can send it,” Nila says quickly, “of course, obviously. But you know Mom’s probably going to notice the transfer…”
“I know.” Samira presses her lips together. “I’ll deal with mom. I won’t ask again. I promise.”
Nila disappears, the screen blurring for a moment as the music beyond the bathroom door swells faintly. Samira’s phone buzzes.
Nila Mohan venmoed you $300
Relief hits her fast and humiliating all at once.
“Got it.” Samira says softly. “Thank you.”
“Don’t be dramatic.” Nila waves it off. “You’ve saved me how many times now.”
“Love you.” Samira smiles into the screen. “Don’t be late for class tomorrow.”
“Love you more.” Nila hesitates, then adds. “Don’t forget that mom and Kayva are coming to Pittsburgh next week.”
Samira’s eyes shut with a wince. She did forget.
“Yeah,” she huffs out a breath. “Can’t wait for that.”
The call ends and the house is quiet again. Basil hops on the couch and waits for her expectantly. Samira drops her phone to her side and sighs, three hundred dollars temporarily solving a problem that is not temporary at all.