Chapter Text
Friday, February 13th
8:49 am
Santos is halfway through pulling out a protein bar, looking at the board, when Dana interrupts, phone still in hand: "16 year old male, FOOSH injury, deformity to left wrist."
Sending Trinity one of her looks, she cocks her her head and nods towards the room.
"No time for brerakfast, kid." Trinity exhales once, already moving.
The kid is sitting stiffly on the gurney, skateboard propped against the wall like evidence. His face is pale, lips pressed together in a way that suggests he’s trying not to cry in front of strangers.
It sends a slight pang to her heart.
“Hi,” Santos says, voice even, trying to sound calming. “I’m Dr. Santos. What happened?”
“Rail,” he says, immediately defensive. “Not stairs.”
She knows nothing about skate boarding but snorts despite herself. “Of course it was.”
She examines the wrist carefully. There’s obvious dorsal displacement, swelling already blooming, skin intact but stretched tight. Neurovascular status intact, fingers pink, cap refill brisk.
Good.
===
“X-ray confirms what we’re seeing,” she says a few minutes later, images glowing on the screen. “Distal radius fracture. We’re going to numb it, put it back where it belongs, and splint it.”
His eyes widen. “You’re gonna, like, move it?”
“Yes,” she says, without apology. “But I’ll talk you through it. You’re going to be okay afterwards.”
She injects lidocaine for a hematoma block, waits, checks sensation. Everything goes smoothly: she feels the bone slide home under her hands, the way it always does when things go right.
Meanwhile, she gets him to recommend her some starter Skateboards. A task he takes very seriously.
She splints, wraps, documents.
“Next time, wear a helmet,” she tells him sternly as she steps back. “And careful on the rails.”
His mother thanks her like Santos just saved his life. Santos nods, already halfway gone.
===
9:28 am
The next patient smells faintly of lavender and liqorice. Middle-aged woman, abdominal pain since yesterday, now sharp enough that she’s guarding reflexively.
Santos listens. Migratory pain. Nausea. Low-grade fever. She palpates slowly, watches the flinch, the involuntary catch of breath.
“McBurney’s point is tender,” she murmurs to Samira. “Let’s get labs and a CT with contrast. Start IV fluids.”
The CBC comes back with a leukocytosis that doesn’t surprise her. The CT confirms it: appendix enlarged, thickened wall.
“It’s appendicitis,” Santos tells the patient gently. “You’ll need surgery, but we caught it before it ruptured.”
It wont be Yolanda answering the page today, but at least she's going to see her later. Well, it's never Yolanda anwering anyway. That's Garcia.
Who made it very clear to separate work from... the bedroom.
And by now Trinity definetly can seperate the two from each other. It just takes her a moment.
Yolanda has the rare day off and is going to do some long overdue chores. That's what she told her at least. It really is none of Trinity's business what she does in her free time.
The woman infront of her cries, a messy mix of relief and fear. Santos waits it out, hands folded, unhurried.
Then she remembers Robby's speech about patient satisfaction scores.
“You did the right thing coming in early enough,” she says. “That matters.”
It feels a little stilted, but the woman relaxes and nods.
Trinity sighs quietly .It's somehow so much easier with kids than adults.
She briefly runs everything by Robby, who signs off on it.
Surgery is paged. Antibiotics started. Another problem identified, named, contained.
===
2:32 pm
By the time the STEMI rolls in, Santos still hasn’t eaten anything more substantial than half a protein bar crushed in her pocket.
The man is diaphoretic, clammy, clutching his chest with both hands. His pain is textbook, crushing, radiating.
“EKG now,” Santos says, already reading his face.
Inferior ST elevations glare back at her from the monitor.
“Okay,” Robby says briskly. “Nitroglycerin if systolic stays above a hundred. Oxygen. Let's start a line.”
The room snaps into motion. Santos stays by his side, fingers resting lightly on his shoulder as if that alone could keep his heart in rhythm.
“I don’t want to die,” he whispers.
“You’re not,” she says, because right now that’s the job—to say it like she means it. “We’re moving fast.”
Cath lab is activated. He’s wheeled out alive, talking, cursing softly at the IV. Santos allows herself exactly one breath of relief.
Afterwards she manages to sit for a bit in the hub and wolves down the last part of her protein bar.
She’s documenting, catching up on charts when the overhead speaker crackles.
“All units, stand by. Mass casualty incident reported downtown. Bus versus pedestrians. Unknown number of victims. ETA ten minutes.”
Everything inside her tightens.
Dana and Robby barks orders. Bays are cleared. People put on their vests. Stretchers line up.
"Call your loved ones now."
She pretends to ignore how everyone at least reaches for their phone. But what's she going to do? Text Huckleberry who's sleeping right now?
And Garcia is probably coming in anyw—
"Listen, everyone!" It's Dana again.
How long has she been just standing around?
Get it together, Santos.
Colours and zones are designated and called out. Santos doesn’t hesitate. Yellow zone is where she’s needed.
===
6:19 pm
Slowly, the flood recedes.
No more sirens. No more stretchers crashing through the doors.
The red zone quiets first. Yellow follows, settling into the low hum of monitors and exhausted breathing.
Dana checks the board, and lets out a long breath, eyes wide. “No fatalities.”
For a heartbeat, no one speaks.
Santos leans against a counter, suddenly aware of the ache in her calves, the stiffness in her neck. Her scrubs are smeared with blood that isn’t hers. She feels hollowed out and fiercely, painfully relieved.
They clean. Restock. Reset the room inch by inch, dragging the ER back toward normalcy.
At the sink, Santos scrubs her hands until they sting, watching diluted blood spiral down the drain. She catches her reflection in the mirror: eyes sharp, jaw set, exhaustion etched deep.
Still got it, she thinks, giving her mirror image a tired smirk.
She steps back onto the floor, bracing for whatever comes next.
===
Blood has been wiped from the floors, gurneys pushed back into something resembling order, but the air still hums with leftover adrenaline.
Everyone's voices are a little sharper.
Santos moves through it like she’s still braced for impact, shoulders tight, jaw locked, fingers a little clumsy on the keyboard as she signs off orders that should have been done twenty minutes ago.
She’s charting one of the yellow-zone patients—open tib-fib, ortho admit, antibiotics timed and documented—when triage flags another arrival.
“Eleven-year-old female,” the medic says, already sounding apologetic. “Ankle injury. Vitals stable.”
Santos looks up. Blinks.
Normal. This is what normal looks like again.
“Send her to three,” she says, because no one else is claiming her. The machine keeps moving.
The girl comes in perched on the gurney, sneaker half unlaced, ankle already swelling in a soft, angry ring. Her hair is pulled into a messy braid that’s coming undone near her ear. She’s pale but not crying. Her hands are folded very neatly in her lap.
One of the medics walks by, carrying a bike, pointing vaguley towards the ambulance bay.
"Hi, I'm Dr. Santos." She pulls the door close behind her. "What's your name?"
"Charlie—"
"Charlotte Victoria"
The child and the father speak and the same time. He sends her a look, obviously taking control of the situation, while the girls clasps her hands again.
"I'm David." Thankfully he doesn't go for a handshake, just an awkward nod. He seems to be in his very late-thirties, wearing a light beige jacket over a dark shirt that's at least one size to small. Attentive eyes follow Santos around the room, lingering above a five-day beard that looks, admittedly, fairly kempt.
More than the girls hair. Although she did just have an accident.
“She rolled it getting off her bike,” he says quickly. “She wasn’t going fast. Just misstepped. No head injury. No loss of consciousness. She’s tough, though. Didn’t even cry.”
The girl shrugs like she’s been coached to. Santos clocks it, the way she clocks everything around girls that age.
“Hey,” Santos says gently, crouching to eye level. “We are going to treat you, and make the pain a little better, okay ?"
The girl nods and whispers back. "The one in my ankle?"
Santos nods. "Do you have any other pain?" Charlie quickly shakes her head.
"Okay. Was that your bike outside?” Santos asks.
Charlie nods. A corner of her mouth twitches.
“Pretty cool. Alright,” Santos says. “I’m going to take a look at your ankle. You tell me if anything hurts, yeah?”
She touches carefully. Lateral malleolus tender.
Some swelling, but no obvious deformity. The range of motion limited by pain, but present. It’s likely a sprain, maybe an avulsion fracture if she’s unlucky.
Santos orders an X-ray, already half a step ahead, even as her brain feels like it’s wading through fog.
She's somehow still a bit in survival mode—assess, decide, move on—and she hates that she can feel it flattening the room.
From outside, Robby’s voice cuts through.
“Why the hell are we taking regular patients already?” he snaps. “Have you seen this place?”
Dana answers, tired but firm. “Management declared us reopened twenty minutes ago. We don’t get a choice.”
Santos closes her eyes for half a second. Opens them again.
===
The X-ray comes back clean. No fracture, just a sprain.
“Good news,” Santos says, forcing warmth back into her voice. “Nothing broken. We’ll wrap it, give you crutches, and you’ll be good as new in a couple weeks.”
The father exhales loudly, relief spilling out of him. “See? I told you.”
Charlie doesn’t smile.
Santos hesitates, just a fraction. “Anywhere else hurt?” she asks again, keeping her tone casual. “Knees, hips, stomach?”
The girls pauses. Her eyes flick to the man standing at the foot of the bed. Back to Santos.
“No,” she says.
The pause sits heavy in Santos’s chest.
Fuck it.
She steps out and flags Robby, who looks like he’s been held together by caffeine and stubbornness alone. His scrubs are rumpled, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
“Can you do a quick double check?” Santos asks. “Peds ankle. Clean X-ray. I just—”
He sighs, already moving. “Fine.”
Inside the room, Robby’s demeanor shifts instantly.
He chats with the father while he looks at the ankle, and then the rest of the kid, asks about motorcycles when the man mentions his. They bond easily, laughing in that low, tired way old men do when they're amongst each other.
Santos watches from the corner, arms folded too tight across her chest.
“What’s your favorite color?” she asks Charlie suddenly.
She blinks, surprised. “Green.”
Santos smiles and files it away. "Mine's purple. Or maybe blue." She adds and the girl gives her a tired nod in response.
Robby signs off on the discharge. RICE protocol. Follow-up if swelling worsens. All by the book.
A few minutes later, when the father steps out to the bathroom, Santos slips back in before she can talk herself out of it.
She pulls a roll of bandage from the supply cart, bright green with cartoon frogs on it.
“For you, if you'd like?” she asks and when Charlie nods, she starts wrapping it carefully around Charlie’s ankle. “Upgrades the whole situation.”
The girl's shoulders relax instantly. She grins, small and shy.
“You know.. he’s not my dad,” she says quietly, like she’s confessing a secret. “He's my mothers new boyfriend. He says I should call him that, though.”
Something tightens behind Santos’s ribs. She did check, he's on file, though.
“Do you want to?” she asks gently.
Charlie shakes her head. Hesitates. "He..." Her hand drifts to her stomach, fingers splaying protectively—
The door opens.
“There you are,” the man says cheerfully. “All set?”
Charlie drops her hand. The moment collapses.
Santos steps out, heart pounding. She finds Robby at the desk, tries to explain—her words tumbling over each other, gut instinct fighting for air.
“Something’s off,” she says. “I can’t prove it, but—”
Robby doesn’t wait for her to finish. He turns, brushing past the monitors and cluttered supply carts, and gestures for Santos to follow.
She huffs a frustrated breath and keeps pace, boots scraping softly on the tile. The hallway is quieter than the bay, the chaos muted here.
“Look,” he starts, voice low but firm, pulling her around the corner near the supply room so no one else can hear.
“I know what you’re thinking. I see it in your eyes. But you’re wasting everyone’s time on speculation. Especially when we're still... shouldn't be taking patients in at all.”
His hands flex at his sides, knuckles white against the exhaustion that already weighs heavily on him.
Santos opens her mouth, but he cuts her off before she can get a single word in.
“No,” he says, sharper this time. “Listen to me. This is not about ignoring you. It’s about reality. Medically? There is nothing. Nothing abnormal, nothing that warrants keeping a patient here or calling child protection based on intuition alone. I can’t, and I won’t, make a call based on hunches.”
She stares at him, throat tight, the tension in her shoulders burning. She wants to argue, to make him see how something about Charlie’s posture, the hesitation, the way she guards her stomach—how it sets off alarms in her chest—means something is off.
“Santos,” he says, almost pleading, "This is a situation where you don’t have proof."
Not yet—
"And until you do, you act like you would with every other patient: treat what’s present, chart it, and move on.”
She chews the inside of her cheek. Her chest tightens. She wants to speak. She wants to argue. To say, “But I think, he—”
He shakes his head. “Don’t. Because thoughts and feeling aren't evidence. You’ve got a sharp mind and a good eye, Santos. But instincts are not actionable. They’re not the same as medical findings. You didn't double check for skate board boy earlier, did you?”
The words echo around her, each one pressing harder. Of course she didn't, he seemed okay. She feels the familiar sting in her chest—the sharp, helpless feeling that comes from knowing someone she respects, someone with authority, is admonishing her.
He straightens, brushing his hands against his scrubs.
“Innocent until proven guilty,” he says again, slower but louder this time.
“I know that's hard" the 'for you' is implied but unspoken "but it works this way around. You act when there’s evidence. Until then, you stay professional. You don’t make the call based on fear and ruin...” He stops.
And ruin a man's life with allegations. Sure.
Her jaw aches. She wants to speak. To tell him how often she’s right about what she sees, how much she hates being right, how much she doesn’t want to be. But he isn’t waiting for her.
“Your shift is over anyway,” he says, gesturing toward the lockers down the hall. “Go home. Eat. Sleep and reset.”
Her legs feel like lead. She wants to argue, to protest that she can’t just leave Charlie in that room, that the bandage alone isn’t enough.
But the firmness in his eyes, tired, but disappointed, reminds her of her place. It had taken this long to get him to treat her normally, after she'd exposed his golden boy.
Wouldn't want to go through that again.
Before she can speak again, he walks away.
Santos exhales slowly, muscles releasing tension she didn’t know she was holding. Her fingers brush her badge and stethoscope, clinging to the tools that feel like the only tangible control she has.
She turns her gaze back down the hall, toward Charlie’s room.
The door is closed. She catches sight of the soft green of the bandage wrapper—the little frog sticker she placed with care.
Nothing else.
The room looks empty now, the bed made, the small pile of linens where the nurse’s cart had been. The kid's absence leaves a hollow ache in her chest.
Santos leans against the wall, hands pressed flat against the cool tile, letting herself feel the exhaustion settle deep.
She had seen something, but she couldn’t act. She had wanted to, desperately, and couldn’t.
She watches the green wrapper crumple slightly as the airflow from the vent brushes it.
Her eyes close for a moment, takes a long, grounding breath, counting it out in the rhythm of the fluorescent lights flickering faintly overhead.
One, two, three… She leans her forehead against the wall, feeling the tension in her neck, the ache in her calves, the burn in her hands from gloves and procedures and adrenaline.
And then, slowly, she steps away. Feet heavy but moving, scrubs rustling softly as she makes her way toward the lockers.
She still has somewhere to be tonight.
Trinity reaches the locker, fingers fumbling briefly with the combination, and lets the last weight of the day settle over her. Her reflection in the polished steel is a pale, tired girl with wide, wary eyes.
===
8:43 pm
The sentence rolls around in her head later that evening.
Innocent until proven guilty.
It’s still echoing when she rings the bell at the fancy penthouse complex, all sleek glass doors and brushed metal, the kind of building that smells faintly like artificial vanilla and money.
Everything here is designed to look untouched, unused, like no one ever sweats or bleeds or brings in dirt on their shoes.
She greets the doorman, Gus, because of course Garcia has a doorman. By now, they’re fairly well acquainted, and Trinity appreciates that he has never once acknowledged the various states she has arrived in or left here in.
Sometimes in the middle of the night.
Never in the morning.
He gives her a curt nod and tips his hat.
“Evening, Gus,” she mumbles, already moving toward the elevator.
Innocent until proven guilty.
Is there even such a thing as an innocent man? Like—fully? Uncomplicatedly?
The elevator doors slide shut, and Gus in his ridiculous uniform disappears behind tinted glass. Maybe him. Or Huckleberry.
Otherwise, the list is fairly short, as far as she’s concerned. Even most doctors—who swear to do no harm—simply don’t realize how their behavior, learned or deliberate, hurts the women around them.
Patients.
Colleagues.
With a ding, the elevator arrives, catapulting her straight into the reality of another tax bracet. Doors slide open smoothly to reveal and empty hallway, illuminated immmediately by the motion sensor lights.
Innocent until proven guilty is what they said about Coach Thomas, too.
("You can call me Tommy when it's just us.")
And that other thing—in doubt, for the accused.
Because the accuser was an angry, gangly teenage girl, elbows out, taking up too much space. She bites her tounge, trying to will memories away.
Not here, not now.
Trinity’s fingers shiver slightly as she raises her hand to knock.
Calm down, Santos—
But the door is flung open before her knuckles connect, before she can take another steadying breath.
She barely has time to drop her bag before the door slams shut behind her and she’s pushed back against it. Lips find her neck immediately, that familiar spot that usually makes every coherent thought dissolve into bliss.
It doesn’t today.
She closes her eyes anyway, tries to focus on what she came here for. Stress relief. Casual and intense at the same time. Something contained, something wordless.
But her next few breaths don’t make it as far into her lungs as they should, while Yolanda seems hell-bent on sucking the life force out of her like a vampire.
With a lot of courage, and some regret, Trinity frees one arm and knocks twice on Yolanda’s shoulder. Thankfully, she’s always quick to respond to safe words and tap-outs.
Otherwise, Trinity wouldn’t be able to do this in the first place.
Yolanda pulls back immediately, breathing hard, eyes dark. She steps aside and gestures vaguely into the apartment.
“Sorry,” she says, reaching for Trinity’s jacket and hanging it properly. “Come in. I—I didn’t even let you get a word in.”
“Yeah.” Trinity swallows and tries to chuckle at the same time, producing a strange, broken sound. Normally, there’s at least a little bit of small talk before they get to it. If only to suss out who’s in for what that night.
“Good evening to you too,” she adds, finding some of her composure once her shoes are off.
The apartment is immaculate in that curated way: neutral tones, low lighting, expensive furniture that looks like it’s never been fully relaxed into.
To Trinity, it feels less like a home and more like a well-designed pause between shifts. Orderly and controlled. Very Garcia.
Very different from the Santos-Whittaker abode. But Yolanda wouldn't know.
Slightly rosy-cheeked, Yolanda smirks at her. “I could really use some distraction today. My day was hell.”
Mine too, Trinity almost says. Instead, she nods and offers a sympathetic smile.
But it really must've been something, if it prevented Garcia from coming in for the MCI.
“I—” She gestures vaguely, buying herself time. She does want this. Just not right this second. The problem is figuring out how to slow it down without stopping it entirely. “Actually.” She ruffles her hair and looks away. “Could I take a shower first? I feel… kind of gross.”
She bites her lower lip, bracing for a jab or denial. She does feel gross. Just not for the reason Yolanda thinks.
“Of course.” Yolanda steps aside immediately. “You know where everything is, right?”
There’s no snark to it, no edge. The hungry immediacy from earlier has mostly dissipated.
Trinity gives her thankful nod and disappears.
===
After scrubbing herself red in a hot shower, one that definately takes long enough to kill any remaining momentum, Trinity steps back into the steam-filled bathroom. It’s the fanciest one she’s ever used, all marble and indirect lighting.
She's almost surprised Yolanda didn't put away her two dollar shampoo, standing in the corner of the shower looking as much out of place as Trinity feels.
The mirror is completely fogged over, but she doesn’t bother clearing it to inspect herself.
She pulls on her boxers and one of Yolanda’s shirts she finds folded nearby.
She’s learned recently that this does something to the other woman.
Sure enough, when she steps back into the hallway and then into the bedroom, Yolanda’s expression shifts—intense, unreadable at first, before sharpening into something focused and hungry.
She goes to speak, then stops when she clocks the shirt.
Trinity swallows. The heat and water helped a little. Her head isn’t completely quiet yet.
But quiet enough, she decides.
===
“Do you want to take charge tonight?” Yolanda murmurs between kisses, mouth so close to Trinity’s ear that she can feel the heat of her breath.
It’s once in a blue moon that Yolanda asks for that. So usually, it’s a privilege. Usually, it’s incredibly hot.
Tonight, Trinity doesn’t want to think.
She pulls back slightly, breathing hard, and shakes her head. “No. I’m sorry.”
Her throat goes dry as she swallows again, but Yolanda just nods and dives right back in.
Holding her firmly by the hips, she guides Trinity back to the bed, laying her down carefully.
“I enjoy taking care of you just as much,” Yolanda says quietly. “Don’t worry.”
Trinity lets out a relieved breath that turns into a moan as a hand lands at exactly the right spot.
As Yolanda leans back briefly to pull off her own shirt, Trinity catches a glimpse of something on her lower hip—a faint, yellowish bruise.
It’s nothing out of the ordinary for someone working around OR tables and clumsy people in corridors all day.
But it triggers something anyway.
A memory, hazy. Under harsher light than this.
Behind a door in the ER.
Trinity frowns.
Had it been a trick of the light?
Or were there very faint bruises on Charlie’s flank?
Hidden by her hand?
The tone matches.
But children play all the time.
They fall all the time, too.
She could’ve gotten that by herself.
If it was even there.
It’s not there. Because you didn’t put it in the chart.
Because you didn’t see it.
Breathing is becomg really hard, she realizes from somewhere distant. The lights dim, too.
"It’s your fault."
Your fault?
"You're trouble."
Making probelms where there are none.
Innocent until proven guilty.
"Don’t accuse him, Trinity."
Her mother's voice mixes with another.
"Trinity?"
Is it dark, or are her eyes shut?
Can't open
The dark at the edges close in, uncomfortably fast as her hands clutch at nothing.
Her limbs feel too far.
control floats away. taking her ability to breathe.
She’s at home now. Again. With him.
Maybe he's touching her right now.
Your fault.
Green bandage.
Or was it blue?
Leave your baggage at the door.
"Trinity."
Something grabs lightly at her arm.
Squeezing.
Squeezing.
Then a scent.
Noise, muffled as if through deep fog.
“Trinity, hey.”
Slowly, she forces her eyes open—then closes them again immediately when she realizes where she is.
Fuck.
With whom.
Still reeling from the panic, she feels another wave cresting, just because she wasn’t supposed to see that.
You're trouble.
It’s not what they do.
Never.
I don't do messy.
She hates crying in front of people. Has maybe done it twice in her life. So the fact that this is happening in front of Garcia feels monumental. Wrong. Uncontained.
“Trinity,” Yolanda’s voice comes again, closer now. “Open your eyes again, please.”
Trinity flinches before she can stop herself. The contact lands wrong, too sudden, too close, and her first instinct is that Yolanda too has crossed into something else, something she hadn’t agreed to.
Her shoulders lock. The room tilts again, sharper this time, like punishment for almost trusting it.
Green bandages with frogs.
Her's had been blue. Put on by him. Matching the leotard.
Yolanda doesnt withdraw, but she doesnt move closer either. Her hand stays exactly where it was, neutral, deliberate.
“I’m not going to rush you, or touch you” she says, quietly. “Just breathe with me if you can.”
It’s grounding. A little steadier.
Okay.
Yolanda doesn’t crowd her. That, more than anything else, registers through the static in Trinity’s head.
She’s there, close enough that Trinity can feel her warmth, the subtle shift of the mattress, but she doesn’t pin her down, doesn’t demand eye contact or explanations.
One hand rests lightly on Trinity’s forearm, firm but not gripping, like an anchor you’re allowed to swim around.
“Hey,” Yolanda says again, voice low. “You’re here. You’re safe.”
Trinity’s breath stutters on the inhale. Her chest feels too tight, like her ribs have shrunk without telling her. The room pulses oddly, edges blurring in and out.
Safe?
“I... I can’t—” The words fall apart before they make it all the way out.
“That’s okay,” Yolanda says immediately. “You don’t have to.”
She shifts slightly, slow enough that Trinity can track the movement. “Look at me for a second. Just a second.”
Trinity manages it, barely. Yolanda’s face is closer than it usually is at this angle, stripped of the usual sharpness, the teasing edge. There’s concern there, unguarded and a little helpless.
“Good,” Yolanda murmurs, like Trinity’s done something difficult and brave. “Now breathe with me, okay? In through your nose.”
She demonstrates, exaggerated just enough to be followed.
Trinity tries. Fails. Tries again.
“That’s fine,” Yolanda says. “Out through your mouth. Slow.”
The third attempt makes it all the way through. Her lungs burn a little, but the air moves. That feels important.
“There you go,” Yolanda says softly. “Again.”
The panic doesn’t vanish. It loosens, though, just a fraction.
Enough that Trinity becomes aware of the way Yolanda’s thumb is moving, small circles against her skin. Enough that the room settles into something recognizable: bed, dim light, expensive furniture she’s sat on before without falling apart.
“You’re not... there,” Yolanda says quietly, like she knows exactly where Trinity’s head went. “You’re here with me. Nothing’s happening right now.”
Nothing she can see.
Trinity swallows. Her eyes burn.
“I’m sorry,” she says, the apology tumbling out on instinct. “I didn’t mean to—I shouldn’t have—”
“Hey.” Yolanda’s hand stills, pressure firming just slightly. “No apologies. Not for this.”
Trinity lets out a shaky breath that borders on a sob. She hates this part—the exposure, the way her body is betraying her in front of someone who is not supposed to see her like this.
They have rules. Unspoken ones, but solid all the same.
This isn’t part of the arrangement.
She focuses on Yolanda’s voice instead. Her cadence. The way it doesn’t rush her.
“Can you tell me five things you can see?” Yolanda asks.
Of course she's going to use protocol on her.
It feels almost childish, but she knows it works.
Trinity blinks, forces herself to comply. “The lamp. Your—your dresser. The window. The...” Her voice wobbles. “The stupid abstract painting.”
Yolanda huffs a soft laugh. “I hate that painting.”
“Then why do you own it?” Trinity asks weakly.
“Because someone told me it was an investment,” Yolanda replies. “Four things you can feel.”
Trinity shifts slightly. “The bed. Your hand. My feet on the sheets. The shirt.”
“Good,” Yolanda says. “You’re doing great.”
The praise makes something in Trinity’s chest ache in an unexpected way.
They sit like that for a while—time stretching oddly, folding in on itself. Yolanda keeps her grounded, naming things, breathing with her, never pushing for more than Trinity can give.
Eventually, the panic recedes enough that Trinity can sit up without the room spinning.
Exhaustion rushes in to fill the space it leaves behind.
For a brief, dangerous moment, Trinity lets herself lean into Yolanda’s presence. Lets her stay close. Lets herself be held in a way that is undeniably gentle.
It can’t last.
As soon as her hands stop shaking, reality creeps back in, sharp and unforgiving. This is not sustainable. Yolanda didn’t sign up for this, panic attacks, trauma bleeding into the neat compartment they’ve carved out together.
This is complicated. Messy.
Trinity is.
Yolanda explicitly doesn’t do messy.
“I need to—” Trinity clears her throat. “I should go.”
Yolanda frowns, then hesitates before she speaks. “You don’t have to leave. You can stay. We don’t—” She gestures vaguely. “We can just… sit.”
Trinity shakes her head, already pulling away. If she stays any longer, she might start believing the care is something it isn’t. Might want more. Might hope for it.
“I’m okay,” she says, even though the words feel fragile. “Really.”
Yolanda watches her carefully as Trinity moves toward the bathroom, like she’s afraid she might tip over again. Trinity closes the door gently behind her and leans against it, eyes squeezed shut.
Get it together.
She dresses quickly, too quickly, hands fumbling as she pulls on her jeans and sweater. When she steps back out, bag slung over her shoulder, Yolanda is still standing where she left her.
“Trinity,” Yolanda says. “Please. At least let me—”
“It’s fine,” Trinity insists, already moving toward the door. “I’m sorry. I really am.”
She turns quickly, missing the look on Yolanda’s face: concern edged with frustration.
The door falls shut behind her, the thud echoing with finality thorugh the hallway.
The elevator ride down is mercifully empty. Gus looks up when she passes, something flickering across his face at the sight of her red eyes.
“Good night,” he says gently, not asking questions.
“Night,” Trinity manages.
Outside, the air is cold and sharp, biting through her clothes. She pulls her jacket tighter around herself and starts walking, tears slipping free despite her best efforts.
Fucking hell.
The city hums around her, indifferent and alive, as she disappears into the dark.
Being alone again is relieving and terrifying at the same time.
Hopefully, Huckleberry is home.