Archive of Our Own

Yolanda's apartment is warm just like it always is, with a radiator that runs a little too enthusiastically and the frequent use of the kitchen that heats the entire place up. Trinity would find it suffocating most of the time—or at least use it as an opportunity to walk around the place naked—but in the winter, when she can watch snow flurry down from the large-paned windows in Yolanda's living room, the temperature envelops her in something that manages to be grounding.

Yolanda closes the door behind them with her hip, locks it, then turns and finds Trinity already halfway down the hall like her body is on autopilot. She's gone through her routine mechanically—step out of her shoes, hang up her bag, then keep moving.

"Hey," Yolanda calls after her softly, and Trinity stops short because her voice always manages to do that to her, reeling her in like a fisherman to a siren on the water, and she is hard-pressed to ignore it. "You hungry?"

Trinity should say no. She should say she's tired and then go disappear into the shower for an hour and pretend her skin isn't crawling. But Yolanda has been looking forward to this—she can tell. She always gets this quiet brightness when they have a night with nothing scheduled the next day. Trinity hates herself for wanting to take it away.

"Yeah," she lies, because it's easier. "A little."

Yolanda seems to brighten even further, like it's Christmas Eve and she's been given permission to open a gift early. Trinity doesn't understand how something so simple—especially about her—can make her so happy. "Why don't you go shower while I get dinner started?"

Trinity's mouth opens and for a brief second, nothing comes out. It's not that she doesn't have words. She has too many words, stacked in her throat like plates she's afraid to drop—a series of things she would love to vomit at Yolanda's feet, purging them from her body so that she doesn't have to carry them around anymore. But that's not what she asked. Trinity swallows hard, choking down her desire to be difficult. Now is not the time for complaints. Instead, she forces a weary smile, and hedges, "You don't have to do that."

"I want to," Yolanda insists, like it's the simplest thing in the world. She steps closer to her just so that she can press a soft kiss to Trinity's forehead, lingering long enough that both of their eyes flutter closed. Then, Yolanda's fingers squeeze insistently at her waist. "Shoo."

Trinity goes because she always goes when Yolanda tells her to, and because it's easier than standing still under that kind of warmth and letting it do what she intends for it to do. Right now, she does not feel like she deserves to melt under the soft light that Yolanda always manages to shine on her.

In the bathroom, she strips out of her scrubs mindlessly and tosses them into the hamper, not particularly worried about whether she'll get them back from Yolanda in time for her next shift. Yolanda does laundry religiously on her days off and if Trinity is over, it's often done before she even wakes up, like some kind of laundry fairy floated through in the middle of the night.

Trinity stares at herself in the mirror for a moment, hair escaping its tie and under-eye bags so dark that she actually grimaces when she sees them. She's quite a sight; she doesn’t understand how Yolanda can even bear to look at her. There are fading half-moon crescent bruises on her forearm from where she dug her nails in earlier under a desk at noon when everything had started to go to shit. She turns the shower on hot until the mirror fogs up, clouding her reflection, and then steps under the water like she can steam the day right off of her skin. She presses her forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall and lets the spray batter against her tense shoulders. Everything hurts.

She counts her breaths without meaning to, a grounding technique she learned from her sports psychologist in middle school, and never quite learned how to stop doing it. On the fourth inhale, the memory tries to slip in sideways—the feeling of being trapped in a small space suddenly so visceral that it wraps around her ribs and squeezes—and Trinity jerks back as if someone touched her. The bathroom is empty and she knows it. She turns her face into the spray and forces herself back into her body.

When she finally shuts the water off, she's wrung-out and a little steadier, like she also was tossed into the hamper and went through a spin cycle in Yolanda's ridiculously fancy washing machine. She towels off, drags on the softest lounge clothes she can find in Yolanda's dresser, and ties her hair up again with hands that still don't feel like they belong entirely to her.

By the time Trinity wanders out to join her, Yolanda is at the oven in a tank top and yoga pants, stirring something on the stovetop with one hand and checking something on her phone with the other. Dinner already seems to be mostly done, if the pan cooling on the counter is any evidence.

"Smells amazing," Trinity says and her stomach grumbles in agreement even if she’s not particularly keen on eating—or doing anything, really.

Yolanda glances up and smiles automatically. "You're back," she states the obvious but her words are pitched up as if Trinity's presence is genuinely wanted. Trinity has to keep reminding herself that it is, that she wouldn't be here if Yolanda didn't want her here. "Was starting to think you'd drowned in there. I made chayote soup since you seemed to like it last time."

Trinity's eyes immediately sting but she refuses to cry over something so simple. God forbid somebody do something nice for her after a hard day. Still, she can't help the immediate instinct to say, "You didn't have to do that."

Yolanda makes a small, thoughtful sound as she clicks the burner off. "You say that a lot." Trinity laughs weakly, like it's a joke. Yolanda steps in closer and slides her hands around Trinity's waist, forehead resting against Trinity's shoulder for a second. "You don't have to earn dinner, Santos. It’s just food.”

The words land straight in the soft part of Trinity's chest, tearing through layers of stubborn fascia and bone to hit her beating heart. Damn Yolanda and her perceptiveness. Trinity shudders against her for a second before she pulls herself together. "I know," she says stubbornly.

And she does know, technically, the way she knows the mechanism of a medication even if her brain doesn't quite trust it not to screw up her patient in a different way. She knows Yolanda loves her. She knows they are dating, after several months of back and forth where neither one of them really knew what the other was thinking. Yolanda calls her her girlfriend without hesitation. They both keep an extra toothbrush in the their bathrooms and Yolanda buys Trinity's favorite tea for when she's pulling a late night. And still, underneath all of that, there's the old, unkillable belief that insists to Trinity that if she is not useful, she is not worth it.

Yolanda kisses her cheek like she hasn't just tried to completely shatter Trinity's worldview with a singular sentence. "Go sit. I'll plate it up."

"I can help," Trinity says automatically, because the idea of sitting while Yolanda does everything for her makes guilt prick hot at the base of her skull like some relentless parasite squirming it’s way up her spinal cord and through her foramen magnum.

"Mm." Yolanda's fingers tighten at her waist and they sway together on sore feet, relishing each other’s touch. "You can help by letting me take care of you tonight."

Trinity's smile feels like it might crack and then fall directly off her face. "That's not fair," she practically whines, hoping it comes off as teasing instead of deeply insecure.

Yolanda raises an eyebrow, amused. "No?"

"It's not fair that you're good at everything," Trinity mutters, but her voice wobbles on the last word, betraying her. “I'm useless in the kitchen."

Yolanda's expression softens. "Baby," she says, voice lowering into something that makes Trinity's skin crawl. "You're tired and I had a relatively easy day—what's fair is me pulling a little more weight tonight. As for the cooking, you're plenty good at other things." Yolanda winks at her on the last sentence like she has said something salacious but they both know it's to lessen the blow of the words so that Trinity can't refute them.

Trinity nods like she understands. She doesn't, though, not in a way her brain truly believes. Still, she forces herself to step back from her touch, eyes hunting for something that still needs to be done. "Okay. I'll set the table."

And Yolanda lets her with a sweeping gesture towards the cabinets like shes saying be my guest.

They eat at the small table, fit for two, by the window that Yolanda usually sits at in the mornings to drink her coffee and watch the sunrise. Yolanda's food is as good as it smells, warm and savory, a side of cornbread perfectly browned that Trinity resents on principle. Yolanda had cooked more than she had let on. Trinity takes careful bites and tries to make light conversation, urging her face to match what she's saying even though it's mostly rebelling against the casualness she’s forcing.

"So," Yolanda drawls after a lull, "how was your day?"

Trinity's spoon pauses halfway to her mouth. Her brain runs through answer options the way it runs through differential diagnoses. She could tell the truth and risk being too much, lie and risk being found out, or deflect and risk Yolanda's disappointment. "Fine," she says, landing on perfectly neutral.

Yolanda's eyes narrow and she sets her spoon down. "Fine?"

Trinity takes a bite of bread that now tastes like ash despite how good it was three seconds ago. "Busy."

"Busy," Yolanda echoes again. She reaches across the table and nudges Trinity's wrist with the tips of her fingers. "You're so tense, somebody might mistake you for a floorboard."

Trinity realizes she's been holding herself like Yolanda might reach across the table and slap her at any moment. She forces her shoulders back and tucks a leg under herself on the chair like that might give the illusion of being more chill than she actually is. "It was just some ED bullshit, y'know? But nobody got blood on me so I can't complain too much."

Yolanda watches her for a long moment which makes Trinity's skin prickle like she’s actively being burnt under a magnifying glass from light refracted into a direct point onto her. Then Yolanda nods and lets it go, for now, but her foot finds Trinity's ankle under the table and wraps around it.

They eat almost peacefully after that. Yolanda tells her about a lead surgeon with three small kids who accidentally shuffled a Backyardigan's song into the playlist mid-surgery and Trinity laughs for the first time in hours, head thrown back and shoulders shaking in a way that relieves the tension headache building at the back of her skull. Yolanda's face positively lights up at that as if she's proud of herself for perfectly curating the recap of her day to allow for this moment.

When they're done eating, Yolanda gets up and reaches for the bowls automatically. "I'll do the dishes," Trinity interrupts, standing up abruptly and stealing them from out of Yolanda's grasp before she can fully take a hold of them. If she doesn't do something, she's going to dissolve into that awful helplessness that makes her want to crawl into her own eye socket and hide behind her optic nerve.

Yolanda starts to protest, then pauses like she's reevaluating the situation, which honestly might be worse. "Okay," she says, words perfectly level. "If you really want to."

"I do.”

Yolanda gives her a skeptical look that says everything she's thinking without actually speaking. Then she kisses Trinity's temple and moves aside. "I'll put away the leftovers."

Trinity carries the bowls to the sink, turns on the water scalding hot, and starts rinsing. She focuses on the physicality of each motion—soap, sponge, and the slick glide of ceramic under her hands. It's simple and something she can do right.

She is halfway through the pile when Yolanda settles a container of soup in the fridge and leans against the counter with watchful eyes. "Are you sure you don't want help?"

"I've got it," Trinity insists, refusing to look up at her. "Go sit."

Yolanda's mouth curves into a natural smirk that sends sparks skittering low in Trinity's stomach. "Telling me what to do in my own apartment? Real bold, Santos."

Trinity's lips twitch despite herself. "Someone has to be."

Yolanda heads to the couch, very obviously reluctant, and Trinity can feel her attention over the half-wall between the living room and kitchen. Usually, Trinity utilizes the open concept of the apartment to ogle Yolanda while she cooks but being on the other side of that attention makes her skin crawl, especially when she knows she's right on the edge of losing her shit. Distracted, she rinses a glass baking dish—a nice rectangular one with little blue designs on it. It's heavier than she expects and slick with soap. Her fingers are wrinkled from the running water and her grip is not quite what it should be after a long day of using her hands for more focused tasks. The dish shifts in her hands as she moves to put it on the other side of the sink with the other clean dishes.

She sees it happening, feels it happening, and still can't stop it. The dish hits the edge of the sink and tips, slipping from between her fingers and hurtling towards the ground and she jumps back on instinct to avoid letting the damn thing break her toes. Glass explodes across the floor with a resounding bang. For a half-second, the world does a strange stutter—sound arriving late, then too loud, then muffled, like Trinity's brain is trying to decide whether to let it in at all. She jerks back on instinct. The motion is too fast, too sharp, and her heel catches on the wet edge of the kitchen mat. Her balance goes at the same time as her knees buckle.

Trinity's body pitches sideways, knees hitting tile hard enough that pain streaks up through her hips. Her palm slaps down to catch herself, and instead of smooth, familiar kitchen tile, she lands on something jagged. A shard of glass bites into the meat of her hand. The cold shock of it is worse than the actual pain. It suddenly feels like her lungs have been ripped out of her body and tossed outside into the snow. She makes a sound in the back of her throat, trying to swallow a scream and choking on it, heart sprinting in her jugular.

Trinity stares at the glittering mess in front of her, a thousand sharp points catching the kitchen light and throwing it back at her like little taunting imps. The blood welling in her palm looks too bright against the slate-gray tile. She should move. She should clean it up before Yolanda sees, before she has to deal with it, and before she realizes Trinity can't even wash a fucking dish without making things worse like always. Her chest heaves, lungs refusing to do their job. Her vision narrows until the kitchen is a tunnel and she's at the far end of it, trapped behind her racing thoughts.

"Trin? Everything okay?” Yolanda's voice comes from far away then closer, footsteps that echo up through her ear canal in a haunting staccato beat. "Trinity, fuck, what happened?"

Trinity just keeps staring at the mess and the blood sluggishly creeping out of her palm and down the side of her hand. "I'm sorry," she whispers, words strangled.

Yolanda appears at her side, eyes scanning the floor, then landing on Trinity's hands. "Oh, you're bleeding. Hold still."

Trinity's mouth opens, but what comes out is a raw, humiliating sob. It surprises her how immediate it is, like her body has been waiting for an excuse to lose its shit. "I'm sorry," she manages again, louder this time, like saying it enough times could rewind time. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

"Hey." Yolanda reaches for her, then stops, careful not to step on the glass. "Look at me, baby, come on."

Trinity tries. She tries so hard. Yolanda's face is right there and still it feels blurred. "I didn't mean," her breath catches, "I swear, I didn't—" Her heart is sprinting and her skin is itching. There is blood sliding down between the webs of her fingers. The room feels wrong—too big and too small at the same time. The glittering scatter of glass somehow resembles a thousand tiny eyes that all saw her fail.

Yolanda makes a small sound—almost a hum—and it's soothing in a way Trinity hates, because she wants to be soothed and she hates that she wants it. "I know." Yolanda's eyes lift to Trinity's face and stay there, refusing to let the mess be the most important thing in the room. "I know you're sorry. It’s okay, it was an accident."

Her words hit Trinity right in the ribs and detonate something old and rotten. Her brain doesn't care that Yolanda is kind. Her vision tunnels. She becomes acutely aware of every point of contact—tile against her knee, the sharp sting in her palm—and at the same time she's suddenly not in her body at all, like she's hovering a foot above it watching a grown woman cry on the floor over a broken dish. "I—" Trinity's teeth chatter once, hard. "I can't breathe." It wasn't what she wanted to say but it's what her mouth manages to produce.

Yolanda's face changes into that focused, clinical softness Trinity has watched her use on patients in triage. "Okay," she says, voice low and even. "We're going to fix that. You're safe. I know it doesn't feel like it but you are breathing."

Logically, Trinity knows that. Still, her trachea feels like it has constricted so much that not even a single molecule of oxygen can pass through it. The sob that rips out of her is humiliating—like she's twelve again and doesn't know what to do to keep herself from getting hurt. She folds forward over her own knees, shoulder shaking, palm held out in front of her like it belongs to someone else.

Yolanda stays where she is—close, but careful not to be too close. Her eyes flick over the shards, then back to Trinity, then to the path between them like she's mapping out a safe route in her head. She makes a decision. "Okay." She stands up out of the crouch she had settled into. "I'm going to grab the broom and a first-aid kit. I'm going to be right back. Don't move, okay?"

Trinity nods too fast. A frantic yes that means nothing, just whatever response keeps Yolanda from being mad. Yolanda steps back along the same safe line of tile, disappears for maybe three seconds, and returns with the little white box she keeps under the bathroom sink and the broom she keeps in the hallway closet. Trinity makes a sound low in her throat. She tries to curl her injured hand into itself and hide the shame it brings—she can never do anything right.

"Let me see," Yolanda says gently as she approaches and Trinity belatedly realizes she's put on her slippers so that she doesn't have to worry about stepping on glass.

Trinity flinches. "It's fine. It's not—"

"You're bleeding."

Trinity's breath comes in short, ugly bursts. She completely ignores the argument about her bodily safety, instead insisting, "I ruined it."

Yolanda's eyebrows furrow, eyes tracing where Trinity’s gaze has landed. "The dish?"

Trinity's laugh breaks into a sob and her shoulders start shaking, tears dripping down her chin and into her lap. Her shirt was already wet from the water splashing onto her while she was doing the dishes and this certainly isn't helping. "Everything.” Any other time and she would feel melodramatic about this but right now, it truly does feel like she ruins everything she touches.

Yolanda's expression softens so much it almost hurts to look at, knowing she doesn't deserve any of the compassion aimed at her. "No, mi vida, no." She sets the first-aid kit on the counter within reach, then looks around the kitchen like she's assessing supplies in a poorly stocked trauma bay. She reaches over and yanks the drying towel off the oven handle. "Okay. I'm going to give you this. Can you press your hand into it?"

Trinity listens, mindlessly taking the cloth and ignoring the stinging pain as she holds it to the wound, but she also keeps talking, words spilling from her mouth. "I ruined it," she says, the words tumbling out between little gasps. "I ruined dinner and I— god, I'm so stupid, I'm so—"

"You didn't," Yolanda says firmly. She reaches up and pops the first aid kit open, digging around for the materials she needs. "Put your palm facing up. Let me see."

Trinity removes the towel and holds her hand out like a child showing a parent a disappointing report card. Blood drips onto her sweatpants and she hardly even registers it. At least the black fabric won’t stain.

"Nothing is ruined besides a ten-dollar casserole dish," Yolanda says, voice even as she examines the cut. "Glass stuff breaks. People get hurt. We can take care of it, no problem.”

Trinity shakes her head, tears coming faster. Her throat still feels like it's being strangled by a professional athlete, unbearably tight all away around. "You shouldn't have to."

Yolanda looks up sharply, and Trinity flinches before she can stop herself, hand pulling half an inch out of her grasp. Her expression changes—hurt flickering, then understanding. “Hey, none of that." She shifts her grasp on Trinity's hand, her fingers encircling her wrist to keep her in place. "I'm not going to do anything you don’t want me to."

Trinity's breath hitches on a sob. She squeezes her eyes shut like she can hold herself together by force. When she opens them, Yolanda is still looking at her with an overwhelming amount of care. She doesn't deserve it and she has no idea when Yolanda is going to realize that.

Yolanda's free hand comes up slowly, giving Trinity plenty of time to refuse, and brushes a tear from her cheek with her thumb. "Trinity," she says, so patient and so calm that it's almost enraging to Trinity who feels like she's been untethered in endless space. "It was an accident. I'm not mad."

Trinity laughs, ugly and broken, because of course, Yolanda isn't mad. Yolanda is never mad at her. She is patient and kind. Yolanda doesn't need her. Trinity's vision tunnels. The edges of the room blur once again. She hears herself speaking like she's a little bit outside her own body and someone else is talking through her mouth, “I can't do anything right."

Yolanda's face tightens with something akin to grief. "That's not true."

Trinity laughs once, broken. "I'm a terrible cook. I'm—" her voice cracks, "I'm always tired and I'm always— something. I can't just be normal. You do everything. You cook and you clean and you remember things and you—" She looks at her bleeding hand and her words turn into a sob again. "And I'm just taking up space."

Yolanda opens her mouth, then closes it, like she's choosing her words with explicit caution. She takes Trinity's hand gently by the wrist, lifting it so Trinity can't hide it like she was starting to try to do. "Okay," she says. "We're going to clean this first. Then we're going to talk. Deal?"

Trinity can't make herself answer, so she nods, a jerky little motion. Yolanda starts dabbing Trinity's cut with wet gauze. Trinity flinches, the sting sharp, and her body tries to recoil even as the pain anchors her into the moment. Yolanda holds her steady without being forceful, murmuring, "I know, I know," like Trinity is something worth the reassurance and not a problem that keeps compounding into other problems. The running water from the faucet they never turned off is loud. Trinity's stomach turns. She sways, head tipping back against the kitchen cabinets. Her ears are ringing.

"Trinity." Yolanda's voice cuts through, immediate. "Eyes on me."

Trinity forces her eyelids open.

Yolanda's eyes are steady, so warm and so serious. "It’s just," she says. "You're safe."

Trinity's breath shudders. Tears slide down her face, hot against clammy skin. Yolanda presses a clean gauze pad lightly against Trinity's palm to sop up the rest of the bleeding, then starts dabbing antiseptic on the cut. Trinity hisses, her knees jerking back and scattering glass as her movement jostles them.

"I'm sorry," Trinity whispers because it's the only thing that's continually looping in her brain. She's so fucking sorry.

Yolanda pauses then continues her movements, voice decidedly even as she asks, "For what?"

"For," Trinity's mind blanks, searching for what thing feels most important right now, "making you do this."

Yolanda's jaw sets. "You're not making me do anything. I'm here because I love you."

The words hit Trinity like a wave and the room tilts off its axis once again. Her body tries to reject it like an allergen. Love is conditional, it’s always been conditional. Her breath catches and her chest seizes on her next inhale. "Oh—" she gasps. "I can't—"

Yolanda moves instantly. She sets the antiseptic down and cups Trinity's face with both hands, fingers cradling under her jaw. She's so warm. "Breathe with me," she says. "Look at my mouth, copy me. In through your nose."

Trinity tries. The inhale comes too fast and sharp, a hiccup of air escaping out of her mouth.

"That’s okay," Yolanda says, unflinching. "Try again. Deep breath in."

Trinity inhales, having a frustratingly hard time through all of the congestion that's built up from crying. Yolanda just nods and smiles encouragingly, like Trinity has accomplished some Herculean task.

"And out," Yolanda prompts, exhaling out of her mouth exaggeratedly so Trinity can mirror it. Her breath flutters Trinity’s eyelashes.

Trinity's exhale shatters into another sob, an endless cycle of breathing and then crying and then breathing again. Yolanda doesn't let go. She keeps her hands on Trinity's cheeks as if trying to prove that she's here and not going anywhere. "Good," Yolanda whispers. "Again."

Trinity tries to follow, but the panic keeps surging, thoughts spiraling into everything she's done wrong since she stepped into this apartment. She doesn't deserve this kindness and she never really has. "I'm sorry," she says again, because it's the only thing she really knows right now. "I'm so sorry, Yolanda. I swear I'll go just give me a second, I—"

"Hey," Yolanda cuts her off, fingers tapping lightly against Trinity's cheekbone. "Why would I want you to leave? Shit happens."

Trinity shakes her head violently. "I'm not—" she gasps, "I'm not allowed to—" She can't bring herself to finish what she wants to say.

Yolanda's brows knit, tone very careful when she prompts, "Not allowed to what?"

The words are right there, jagged and sharp, and Trinity doesn't want to say them. Saying them would make them more real than she's ready to admit. Trinity's gaze drops to the floor. She feels herself sliding sideways—fog creeping in to protect herself from her own brain. She doesn't want to think anymore.

Yolanda notices immediately and is having none of it. "Santos," she says, firmer. "Stay with me." Trinity blinks, slow. Her head feels full of cotton. Her hands are numb except where the one stings. Yolanda moves her hands down to rest on Trinity's knee and she startles, not realizing they had ever left her face. "Can you feel that?"

Trinity nods faintly. "Okay. Press your knees into my hands." Yolanda demonstrates by shoving her hands firmly against her kneecaps. "As hard as you can. Try to push me away."

Trinity presses. The pressure is real and the feeling of Yolanda is solid. Her muscles tremble.

"Good," Yolanda murmurs. "Again. Push."

Trinity does, harder this time, knees digging into Yolanda's palms. The action drags her down into her body—right into the ache in her knees where she hit the tile and the sting in her hand and the damp chill of her clothes. It is not pleasant, but it is here, and here is where Yolanda is so it's enough.

Yolanda watches her face like she's reading vitals off of a monitor, tracking the EKG lines in search of an answer. "That's it. You're with me."

Trinity's mouth moves before her brain catches up. "I'm—" She swallows. The word fine tries to leap out on reflex and she bites it off. "I'm okay." Which is true, objectively.

"Yes," Yolanda says softly, "you are."

Trinity's breathing is still wrong, shallow and a little too fast, but it's at least breathing. She focuses on Yolanda's hands on her knees and the steady heat of her body close enough to feel without crowding her against the sink cabinets.

Yolanda holds her there a beat longer, then shifts her gaze back to the wound. "I'm going to finish taking care of your hand, alright?" Trinity nods because nodding is easier than thinking. "Good." Yolanda's voice stays gentle, but there's a thread of distance in it now like she's forcing herself to think clinically. She reaches behind her without looking and clicks the faucet off. The sudden quiet is so abrupt that Trinity's ears ring in its absence. Trinity drags her gaze up, eyelids heavy, and locks onto Yolanda so that she doesn’t have to look at the mess she made.

"You're going to need a couple of steri-strips," Yolanda says, half to herself. "They probably won't last long considering it's your palm but this also isn't deep enough for stitches, so—"

"I'm fine," Trinity blurts automatically, too fast and too loud. The thought of taking all these resources is nauseating. The most she deserves is a Band-Aid to hide the damage she did to herself.

Yolanda pauses and looks up. "Trinity." Her tone is serious which is almost worse than her being angry. “You are allowed to be hurt. And you are allowed to let me help you."

Trinity's eyes fill again—how embarrassing. All she can do is whisper a thick, "Okay."

Yolanda closes her eyes for a second, like she's gathering patience to give Trinity something sturdier than just reassurance. When she opens her eyes, they're sadder than Trinity has seen them look in a long time and her stomach hurts with the realization that she caused that. Silently, she takes Trinity's hand back in hers, checking the bleeding. Then she begins laying out the steri-strips in neat little lines about an eighth of an inch apart. "Hold your hand still for me," she murmurs, gentle but unmistakably firm.

Trinity nods, jaw trembling. She hadn't realized she'd started pulling back. She wants to curl up into herself and make herself smaller than the mess she made. Yolanda places the fourth strip, then a fifth, then presses a folded gauze pad over it all. Her thumb brushes the heel of Trinity's hand, careful to avoid the actual injury, and she lifts her gaze just long enough to check Trinity's face.

"Still with me?"

Trinity swallows hard. Her vision is still a little off—like the world's edges have been smeared—but Yolanda is sharp in front of her, the only thing that feels real in the entire room. She nods.

"I'm going to wrap this,” Yolanda starts narrating, like she knows Trinity needs something tangible to hold onto right now. “Then we're going to get you off the floor and I'm going to sweep up the glass. You don't have to do anything else right now except breathe."

Trinity's mouth twitches, the ghost of a bitter laugh. "Yeah, I think I've had enough floor time for today."

Yolanda's eyebrows lift a fraction, and for a second there's the faintest edge of a smile like she's relieved Trinity still has access to her humor. "Mm," she hums. "More than your fair share." She wraps the bandage around Trinity's palm with a gentleness that makes her eyes burn. When she finishes, she cradles her wrapped hand in both of hers for a second and presses her lips to Trinity's knuckles.

Trinity sucks in a shaky breath, suddenly very conscious of this entire situation. She's taking up space. She's bleeding on Yolanda's kitchen tile. She's crying over a broken dish like a child.

And Yolanda hasn't once flinched. "Alright," she says softly. "I'll get the glass away from you first then we can get you up."

"I should—"

"No." Yolanda's voice doesn't rise, but it's unyielding in a way that makes Trinity's stomach clench. "You're bleeding and your knees took a hit. You're going to let me do this."

Trinity nods, helpless. Yolanda stands, careful with her footing in the slippers, and grabs the dustpan along with the broom. She moves with deliberate slowness, narrating softly as she sweeps the nearest shards away from Trinity's legs. Her wrapped hand throbs in a steady pulse that's almost helpful—pain that belongs to now, not then. The tile is cold through her sweatpants. Her knees aches, bruises surely blooming under the skin. She wants to disappear. She wants to rewind time to the moment before her fingers slipped and be someone who doesn't break things just by touching them.

Yolanda's broom scrapes gently over the tile. The sound is grating and only serves to repeatedly remind her of her mistakes. Trinity can’t help the wince that settles across her face.

"Hey," Yolanda says immediately, glancing back at her, gaze steady. "It’s okay."

Trinity's mouth opens on reflex. "I'm sorry," she tries for the hundredth time.

“You don’t need to be.”

Trinity clamps her jaw shut. Her teeth click once, betraying her stun. Yolanda keeps sweeping. She corrals the biggest glittering shards into the dustpan and carries them to the trash like this is all normal. She's still narrating the whole time, low and calm, keeping Trinity tethered to her voice. "I'm going to toss this. We’re almost done."

Yolanda leaves and then returns and does one final pass just to be sure. Then, she kneels a purposeful amount of distance away and keeps her body between Trinity and the remaining mess. Yolanda's hair has fallen a little loose from its tie, a curl clinging to the side of her neck from where she has started to work up a sweat. Trinity's brain latches onto it like a lifeline, something small and real and present. She loves this woman, and she’s trying to trust her.

Yolanda extends her hands, palms up. "Can I touch you?"

It should be an easy, automatic response. Trinity's chest spasms anyway, her body bracing for the wrong kind of contact even when her brain knows better. Yolanda doesn't move closer. She just waits, giving Trinity the space to choose. Trinity nods in one single upwards motion.

Yolanda's hands settle gently on Trinity's knees—one on each, warm through the fabric. "Now we're going to get you up, okay? Take it slow."

Trinity's throat works. "I can—"

"I know you can," Yolanda says, and there's a certainty in it that makes Trinity want to fold herself in half. "But I'm going to help anyway."

Inexplicably, Trinity wants to start bawling again. She scrubs at her face with her both hands, smearing drying tears across her cheek. The motion makes her palm sting and part of her feels like she deserves it.

Yolanda's gaze flicks to the bandage, reaching a hand up to wrap her fingers around Trinity’s elbow. "Easy. Can you put your good hand on the cabinet behind you? I'm going to help you up. We're not rushing."

Trinity does what she's told because following instructions is easier than being a person with her own thoughts and opinions. Her fingers press against the cabinet."Good," Yolanda praises quietly, like Trinity is doing something brave instead of something humiliatingly easy. "Up on three."

Yolanda counts them down and then they rise together. Trinity's knees protest immediately, pain flashing bright enough to make her hiss. She sways and Yolanda's hands tighten, bracing her without her touch bruising. "We'll check those knees out. Sit,” Yolanda commands, helping rotate Trinity towards the nearest stool.

"I'm fine."

Yolanda's eyebrow lifts and Trinity's protest fizzles in her throat. She lets Yolanda guide her to the small kitchen island and sits her down onto one of the stools surrounding it. It's infuriating how safe she feels in Yolanda’s arms—how her body wants to slump into it, surrendering entirely to Yolanda’s will.

Yolanda crouches in front of her, knees cracking. "Let me see."

"It's just—"

"Trinity."

Trinity huffs but isn’t really in a spot to be defiant so she lifts her pant legs a few inches. There's already a blossoming purple patch over both kneecaps, the skin tender and slightly reddened from impact. Yolanda's face tightens with concern in a way that makes Trinity's stomach drop. “It's not that bad," she says fast, because it feels like an accusation even though it isn't. “I've had worse."

"I know," Yolanda says softly and somehow that’s worse. She reaches out carefully, and brushes two fingers near the bruise on the left, her leg that took the brunt of the damage, without pressing directly on it. "Does this hurt?"

"Yes," Trinity admits, because lying feels impossible with Yolanda this close.

Yolanda nods, like she expected that. "Okay. We'll ice them in a minute."

Trinity swallows, choking on the shame of it all. "I'm sorry."

Yolanda stills, eyes flicking up to her face. "For the dish?"

"For—" Trinity's mouth trembles and her tongue feels like it’s been injected with lidocaine. She tries to shape the words into something reasonable. "For being like this."

"Mi vida,” she trails off like she doesn't have the words to continue. Her expression is cracked wide open, so outwardly heartbroken.

Trinity flinches at the tenderness in the nickname and drops her eyes to her lap so that she can avoid any of the softness aimed at her that she doesn’t deserve. Her good hand fidgets with the hem of her shirt. She feels downright disgusting.

"Talk to me," Yolanda urges. "What's happening in your head right now?"

Trinity can't make herself meet Yolanda's gaze. "You cooked," she murmurs, "and I couldn't help. And then I broke it. I break everything. And at a certain point, it starts to feel like proof."

For a second, Yolanda doesn't answer. She stays kneeling in front of Trinity, one hand still lightly cupping the side of Trinity's calf below the bruising knee, the other resting against the edge of the chair as if she's grounding herself too. "Proof of what?" she asks after a suffocating beat of silence.

Trinity's self-deprecating laugh catches and tears itself into something uglier before it can even become a full sound. She presses the heel of her good hand to one eye as if she can physically stop herself from crying any harder. "That I'm—" She stumbles on the words she wants to say and then tries again. "That I'm too much work. I'm not worth any of this."

Yolanda goes very still. Trinity knows anger. This isn't it. This is the kind of stillness Yolanda gets when she's standing over a gurney and somebody reads a result that is concerning enough that all of her attention sharpens into a singular point. Her expression gentles, somehow, even as the line of her mouth firms. “Look at me."

Trinity wants so desperately to ignore the command. Looking at Yolanda means there will be no hiding behind sarcasm or a well-timed deflection or a joke about how dramatic she's being. But Yolanda waits, and waits, and Trinity has already taken up too much of her patience tonight to refuse. Slowly, she lifts her head. Yolanda's eyes are dark and steady and unbearably kind.

"Do not," Yolanda levels, "ever mistake the things I do because I love you for some kind of burden you've tricked me into carrying."

The words hit hard enough that Trinity almost physically recoils. Her chest gives a painful little flutter. "I'm not—"

"Yes, you are." Yolanda's tone doesn't sharpen. If anything it gets quieter, which somehow makes it harder to wriggle away from. "Maybe not on purpose. But you're taking everything I do for you and turning it into evidence against yourself."

Trinity blinks rapidly at her. The room feels thick and cottony at the edges. "That's not fair."

Yolanda's mouth twitches. "No, it's not. You're right." The answer is so immediate and so undefensive that Trinity's brain stutters over it. Yolanda leans back slightly on her heels. "You had a bad day, I made dinner, you got hurt, and somehow you're sitting here convinced I've discovered some terrible secret flaw in you."

Trinity's face burns. The argumentative instinct is second nature at this point when she says petulantly, "I mean, that is kind of what happened."

Yolanda lets out a breath through her nose. "No, mi vida, what happened is you dropped a dish."

"It wasn't just the dish."

"I know it wasn't."

Being understood so quickly and completely makes something inside Trinity crumple all over again. She wants to tuck the ugly, shaking parts of herself away where Yolanda can't keep seeing them. "I just," she says, and the words feel clumsy and childish and nowhere near enough for the size of what's pressing against her ribs. "I can't ever tell with this stuff. What's normal, what's not. What's me being tired and what's me being," she gropes uselessly for the right term and comes up with nothing gentler than absolutely, positively broken. She doesn't dare say that to Yolanda's face though. The silence manages to say enough.

Yolanda's eyes don't leave her face. "Being hurt?"

Trinity's head bobs into the slightest nod. Yolanda studies her for a long moment, then rises in one smooth movement. For one awful second Trinity thinks she's leaving the room and her stomach drops straight through the floor, but Yolanda only crosses to the freezer, pulls out an ice pack, wraps it in a thin dish towels, and returns. She crouches again, slower this time, telegraphing every step of what she's about to do. "I'm going to put this on your knee," she warns. "I only own one so you’ll have to swap it between both knees."

Trinity nods. The cold bites through the fabric of her sweatpants even through the towel, enough to make her hiss. Yolanda keeps one hand over it to steady it in place and says, very softly, "I know."

Trinity stares down at the sight of her hand—smooth palm, short clean nails, and the tendon at her wrist flexing faintly—surgeon's hands that can split a chest open. Some hideous, aching tenderness rises in Trinity so abruptly it almost feels like bile creeping up the back of her throat. Trinity stares at Yolanda's hand until the lines of it blur. The room is still doing that strange drifting thing where the depth feels impossible to grasp. Still, her body is steadily coming back to itself, sensation returning in staggered waves. It's all too much and not enough. Trinity can feel how deliberately Yolanda is not crowding her with reassurance she can't handle right now. It shouldn’t matter and yet it means so much that Trinity wants to cry again. Instead of doing something embarrassing like continuing to dehydrate herself in front of Yolanda, she flatly jokes, "I'm making a really strong case for why people shouldn't let me near their kitchens."

"I let surgical interns near people's abdomens," Yolanda retorts. "I think I can survive you near a casserole dish."

Trinity's mouth opens in reflexive protest, "That's different."

"Mm."

"It is,” she insists. “Interns are supposed to be bad at things for a while. You don't date them."

Yolanda's expression doesn't harden. If anything, it gets sadder. She keeps the ice pack steady against Trinity's knee and tilts her head just slightly, studying her with infuriating patience. "I dated you as an intern."

Trinity looks away. The kitchen suddenly feels too bright and too open. Every overhead light reflects off the tile, the countertops, the little remaining glitter of microscopic glass that Yolanda will probably continue to find for weeks to come no matter how carefully she sweeps. Her breathing has mostly leveled out, but it still doesn't feel automatic. Every exhale has to be shepherded out of her body like she's coaxing a frightened thing out from under a bed.

Yolanda waits. She's good at waiting, Trinity thinks bitterly. She's good at not filling every silence with her own discomfort and not demanding things. She's good at things in general—at surgery and cooking and remembering what stupid, little things Trinity likes. She’s good at loving her in ways Trinity still cannot quite understand.

Trinity stares at the granite countertop and says, as steadily as she can manage, "That's kind of my point."

A beat of silence, then, softly, "Explain it to me."

"You do all of this.” Her good hand lifts vaguely, encompassing the apartment and everything that comes with it. "I come over here practically brain dead from work and you cook me soup from scratch and remember what I liked from one random night three weeks ago and then I break your dish and bleed all over your floor and—"

"You got hurt," Yolanda corrects quietly, even though she was obviously making a point to avoid interrupting.

Trinity laughs under her breath, humorless. "See? That, that’s exactly what I mean."

Yolanda's brows draw together. "How is me caring that you got hurt a problem?"

"Because it shouldn't have to be your problem." Yolanda opens her mouth, but Trinity barrels on, because if she stops now she'll never get any of it out. "You had a good day," she insists. "You were happy. You were looking forward to tonight and then I came in here like I always do—weird and all in my head. I couldn't even manage dinner. You made all of that and I just sat there."

"You ate it."

"That's not exactly worth much."

"It is to me."

Trinity lets out a short, disbelieving breath and looks anywhere but at her. Yolanda doesn't push yet. She shifts slightly on her heels and re-centers the ice pack on Trinity's knee. The cold has sunk deeper now, dulling some of the ache.

"Tell me about work," Yolanda says after a long moment. It wasn't what she was expecting and suddenly Trinity's whole body goes rigid. "You don’t owe me an explanation but I do think you walked in here carrying something heavy enough that dropping one dish turned into the end of the world."

Trinity presses her lips together. The familiar reflex to brush it off and run away at the first opportunity rises up fast and habitual. Instead, because Yolanda is kneeling in front of her with an ice pack on her knee and a bandage on her palm, and a casserole dish in pieces in the trash, Trinity says nothing. The silence stretches.

Yolanda doesn't break it. She just waits with the kind of stillness that asks for honesty without requiring it. And because Trinity has already cried, already bled, already made a humiliating spectacle of herself on the kitchen floor, some mean little part of her brain decides there's nothing left to preserve. "It was shitty," she says at last.

Yolanda nods once, succinctly. "Okay."

"Okay."

"Shitty how?"

She looks down at her wrapped hand. The white gauze is already faintly pink where blood has seeped through in a tiny crescent near the heel of her palm. "There was this kid," she says, and immediately regrets it. Maybe this wasn’t the best place to start.

Yolanda's face changes—a subtle sharping of attention. Trinity rushes ahead before she can lose her nerve. "Fourteen, I think. Came in with abdominal pain and vomiting. Mom and Dad kept talking over her. They kept saying she was dramatic, and had a low pain tolerance, and was always making things bigger than they were." The room feels a little farther away again, but not in the same panicked way as before. "She had an ovarian mass."

Yolanda goes very still.

"They'd been ignoring it for months," Trinity says. "Because apparently teenage girls are all liars until proven otherwise." Her voice sharpens on the last sentence. "While we were waiting on imaging, the mom started bitching about how this always happens when she has plans. That she always knows just how to ruin a day." The words hang there for a beat. "I wanted to drag both of them into traffic. But I didn't. I was professional. I did my job. I got the labs, got the imaging, got GYN down there. I did all the things we're supposed to do." Her fingers knot in the hem of her shirt. Then, dismissively, she says, “She was fine. Or, she will probably be. They took her up for a biopsy."

Yolanda's voice is quiet when she finally speaks, "And?"

Trinity's mouth twists into a sneer. "And it was 11 A.M. so I didn't have a choice, I just took another fucking patient."

Something flickers across Yolanda's face and Trinity keeps going because she's in it now and stopping would somehow be worse. "And then I had a trauma patient with a drunk boyfriend who kept trying to answer questions for her too. And then a guy screamed at me because his wait time was too long and called me a frigid bitch. And by hour eleven I wanted to claw my skin off and by handout, I was already dreading coming here because—" She cuts herself off abruptly.

Yolanda waits a beat. Then, very softly, "Because?"

Trinity closes her eyes and drives a truck through it. "Because I didn't want to ruin this too."

The kitchen hums around them and the soft traffic noise from six floors below suddenly rushing into her ears. Ordinary apartment sounds that do not care whether Trinity is unraveling in the middle of them. When she opens her eyes again, Yolanda is still there.

"My love," Yolanda says, voice unbearably gentle, and there's no reprimand in it, which is the thing Trinity feared most. "You cannot ruin an evening by being here."

Trinity's laugh is tiny and brittle. "Seems like I gave it a pretty good shot."

"The dish is not important."

"It sorta feels important."

"Only because your entire nervous system is currently lying to you." That gets a startled breath out of Trinity that almost qualifies as a laugh. Yolanda's mouth softens at one corner, encouraged. "Better?"

"Marginally."

"I'll take marginal." She shifts, rising from her crouch just enough to sit in the stool beside Trinity instead of on the floor in front of her. She keeps one hand on the ice pack, steady against Trinity's knee, and reaches across with the other to touch the side of Trinity's neck lightly, so careful Trinity almost doesn't feel it at first.

"Can you look at me?" Yolanda asks.

Trinity does. Up close like this, Yolanda's face is all the small details Trinity has memorized and still never seems to tire of—she probably never will. The faint crescent scar near her chin form doing something reckless as a child and the line that appears between her brows when she's worried and the softness around her mouth right now, gentled by overwhelming concern. "I need you to listen to me."

Trinity braces instinctively. It must show on her face, because Yolanda's thumb strokes once against the side of her neck in a small correction. "I'm not upset, this is not a lecture."

Trinity’s stomach swoops unpleasantly. Yolanda sees it because of course, she fucking sees it. "I mean it," she insists. "You're not in trouble for being upset or having a hard day or, god forbid, needing me. And I don't only love you when you're useful."

Something hot and devastating hits behind Trinity's eyes. She looks down immediately. Yolanda's hand cups the side of her face and gently brings her back. "Nope, eyes here."

Trinity obeys before she can think better of it. Yolanda searches her expression like she's trying to find the exact right incision line—where to cut between her intercostal spaces so the pressure drains without doing more damage. "I know you were taught that your worth lives in what you can do for other people," she continues quietly. "And that makes this feel like a performance. But I promise you I’m not asking for that.”

Trinity doesn't ask how Yolanda knows. Yolanda is observant and Trinity is not as subtle as she likes to think she is and there have been nights when a hand caught her wrist too fast during something perfectly consensual and she went cold all the way through. And there have been mornings when Yolanda found her in the bathroom staring at herself like she'd been assembled incorrectly. And there have been offhand things said that Trinity thought were jokes but Yolanda's eyes had honed in on her each time she said them.

Trinity swallows. Her voice comes out rough and humiliatingly small. "I hate when you can tell."

Yolanda's expression crumples just a little, like she's the one who's done something wrong. "Baby."

"No, I do." Trinity laughs wetly and wipes at her face with the back of her hand. "I hate that you can look at me for, like, ten seconds and figure out something I've spent years trying to forget about."

Yolanda's thumb brushes just below her eye, catching an errant tear. "I'm not trying to invade your privacy."

"I know."

"I'm trying to learn how to love you as best as I can."

That is worse, somehow. Trinity's face twists before she can stop it. A sob tries to come up and she clamps down on it, but the effort makes her chest hitch in a painful, ugly way. Yolanda leans forward and presses her forehead to Trinity's temple, not quite a hug, but just enough contact to affirm I'm here, I'm here, I'm here. Trinity closes her eyes. For a few seconds, they stay like that, suspended in the overheated kitchen with the wreckage of the night mostly contained to one tied-off trash bag and one wrapped hand and the pounding ache behind Trinity's sternum.

"Talk to me," Yolanda murmurs against her hair. "Because I think you've been trying very hard not to say something that you’re scared of."

Trinity lets out a slow, shaky breath. Her voice is garbled with emotion when she speaks. "I don't know how to do this part."

"Crying in my kitchen?"

A tiny, watery laugh escapes her despite herself. "Being loved when I'm so fucking bad at it."

Yolanda leans back enough to see her face again. "How are you bad at it?"

Trinity gestures helplessly as if to say, use your goddamn eyes. "This isn't proof enough?"

Yolanda studies her. "Do you think this is inconvenient?"

Trinity gives her a look because duh.

Yolanda does not back off, always so unyieldingly stubborn. "Answer me."

"Yes," Trinity finally says, because lying under direct examination has never been her strength. Especially not when in comes to Yolanda.

Yolanda nods once, like she expected nothing else. "Okay. Then I need you to hear that I disagree."

"That's very gracious of you."

"I'm serious."

"I know."

Yolanda shifts fully onto her own stool now, swiveling it so their knees are almost touching. She reaches up to tuck a piece of hair behind Trinity's ear, one hand still on the ice pack even though Trinity realistically could hold it herself. "Can I tell you something without you interrupting me to argue?"

"That depends on how objectively wrong you plan to be."

Yolanda's mouth actually twitches into a fond smile this time. It's a relief to see because maybe she hasn’t managed to completely ruin the best relationship she’s ever had. "No interrupting."

Trinity huffs, tired all the way into her bones and not bothering to hide it. "Fine."

Yolanda takes a breath, and when she speaks her voice has gone low and deliberate, into the exact cadence she uses when she’s trying to get through Trinity’s thick skull. It’s a specific tone she hasn’t ever heard her use on anyone else. "You are not useless to me because you don't cook," she says, starting to tick things off her fingers. "You are not a burden because I made dinner after you had a bad day. You are not failing at our relationship because I am better at some things than you are. I do these things for you because I love you."

She keeps going, “And since apparently we are having the world's most emotional conversation in my kitchen, I'm also going to reiterate to you that you take care of me all the time."

Trinity frowns. "But—"

"That was an interruption."

She snaps her mouth shut.

Yolanda's gaze sharpens with fond exasperation. "You keep electrolyte packets in your bag because you know I’m dehydrated after long surgeries. When I had that awful fight with my sister, you sat on my bathroom floor at one in the morning and let me rant until I got it out of my system—which we both know takes longer than it should—and then you made me brush my teeth before bed anyway."

Trinity opens her mouth and then closes it, remembering she had promised not to interrupt.

"When I had the migraine from hell in November," Yolanda continues, "you stood in line at that twenty-four-hour pharmacy in the rain because they were out of the dissolving tabs at the one near me. You fix the weird issues on my laptop because I don’t know how to. You always notice when I'm overcommitting before I notice it."

Trinity's brain has completely stopped working.

Yolanda's eyes stay on hers. "That is you caring. You care. Even when you aren't performing it in some neat little way that is easy to identify."

Trinity stares at her. The room has suddenly gone very quiet. Some stupid, stubborn part of her still wants to say that's different. Those things are small. Those things don't count. But the words won't quite form, because Yolanda is looking at her like she means every syllable and Trinity is too exhausted to keep manufacturing counterarguments at full speed. So instead she manages, faintly, "I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to all that." Trinity's eyes flood again like the little traitor her body is. At what point is she simply going to run out of liquid to expel?

"Oh, baby." Her hand comes up to once again cup her jaw. "Come here."

This time when she leans in, Trinity goes. She tips herself sideways, slow and shaky and embarrassed, until her forehead finds Yolanda's shoulder and she leans in as much as she can without falling straight off of her stool. Yolanda takes her weight as if there had never been any other possible option. One arm goes around her upper back and the other settles carefully around her waist. Yolanda just holds her.

Trinity's first full-body shudder tears out of her before she can stop it. Then another. Her face is tucked into the warm space between Yolanda's neck and shoulder. She can feel Yolanda's heartbeat there against her nose, steady and unhurried. It is mortifying how quickly her body wants to synchronize to that rhythm. She cries without drama for a minute, hot tears soaking into Yolanda's tank top while her muscles relax in minute increments.

Yolanda rubs a slow hand up and down her back. "That's it," she murmurs. "Let it out."

Trinity shakes her head once against her shoulder because she isn't sure what she's negating but Yolanda doesn't challenge it. She just keeps that same rhythm, smooth palm moving between Trinity's shoulder blades. After a while, Trinity's breathing evens enough that she can hear herself think again. Unfortunately, what she thinks is, I got snot on her shirt. She lets out a tiny, horrified sound.

Yolanda tilts her head, brow furrowing in confusion. "What?"

"I'm so gross."

Yolanda snorts, actual disbelief in it. "Because you cried on me?"

"My nose is running."

"I have seen intestines."

"That doesn't actually help the point you think you're making."

Yolanda's shoulder shakes once under Trinity's cheek, a silent laugh. "Well, it does to me."

Trinity stays tucked against her for another beat. Just long enough for shame to begin creeping back in around the edges now that the panic has burned itself down. Carefully, she straightens.

Yolanda lets her go without resistance, but not without checking her face as soon as there's space between them. "Where are you at?"

Trinity scrubs under her nose with the back of her wrist. "Better than the floor catastrophe we just had."

"Mm. We'll call it progress." She reaches down and lifts the ice pack away long enough to check the bruise. The skin around Trinity's kneecap has deepened into a mottled purple-red. "You're going to feel that tomorrow."

"I feel it now."

"I know." She rewraps the ice pack and stands. "Do you want to move to the couch?"

Trinity thinks about standing again. And then about the couch, where there are fewer hard surfaces and no bright overhead light, and more room to curl up without feeling like a specimen under observation. "Yes, please."

Yolanda settles between her legs, one hand trailing her fingers down from Trinity’s shoulder to the bare skin of her forearm. "Do you want help, or do you want me to pretend like your knees aren’t beat to hell?"

Trinity cuts her a look. "The second one."

"I know you so well."

Even now, even wrung out and swollen-eyed and bruised, the fact that Yolanda can still thread humor so gently through the cracks in her makes Trinity’s heart ache. She stands cautiously. Her knees protest unsurprisingly, but less sharply than before. Yolanda keeps close without touching, one hand hovering near Trinity's elbow in case she wobbles. Trinity notices it and resolutely pretends not to.

They make it to the couch without much fanfare. Trinity folds herself into the corner automatically, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders and stretching her sore knees gingerly across the cushions. As soon as she's down, fatigue hits her like a ton of brick.

Yolanda disappears into the kitchen again. Trinity, eyes closed in relief, hears the muted sounds of cleanup—the scrape of a chair tucked in, the clink of cutlery, and the soft open-and-close of cabinets. Guilt prickles immediately. She opens her eyes and pushes herself up. "I can help."

"Absolutely not."

"It's your kitchen and my mess."

"Exactly. You already contributed blood to the project. We're square."

Trinity sinks back with a sigh. She watches from the couch as Yolanda moves through the kitchen in practiced loops—wiping down the counter, checking the floor one more time for any missed glass, and knocking out the broom bristles just in case.

Yolanda catches her watching. "What?"

Trinity shrugs, then winces because apparently every part of her is tense enough to object. "Nothing."

Yolanda raises a brow but otherwise doesn't comment. Eventually, she dries her hands on a dish towel and comes back to the couch. She sits close but not on top of Trinity, angling herself so that one thigh presses warmly against Trinity's uninjured leg. "Can I ask you something?"

"Dangerous opener."

"Humor me."

Trinity gives a tired huff. "Fine."

Yolanda tucks one foot up beneath herself on the couch. "When you dropped the dish and I came in, was it me you were scared of?"

Trinity's whole body freezes. The answer is so unbelievably complicated she doesn't even know where to start. But Yolanda doesn't look angry, even now. Trinity picks at the blanket seam. "Not you," she says at last, because it's the most honest answer she can manage. Yolanda waits. "Just the idea of what happens after I finally fuck up."

Yolanda's face changes in a way that makes Trinity want to grab the words back and hide them somewhere dark in the cavernous hole between her ribs. Real pain crosses her face for a breath, just for Trinity and her answer. “Okay," she says simply.

"I know that sounds fucked up."

"It sounds like a learned behavior."

Trinity laughs once, brittle. "Yeah."

A quiet settles between them. Yolanda reaches out, slow enough for Trinity to track it, and lays her hand palm-up on the couch cushion between them. Trinity looks at it, dexterous fingers and a faint callus at the base of her ring finger from years of work. A hand Trinity knows in so many contexts—threaded through her hair, spread over her lower back, braced on the mattress above her shoulder, holding a coffee mug, slicing a knife expertly through cilantro stems. She places her hand into it, a silent peace treaty.

Yolanda closes her fingers around Trinity's gently. "Thank you for answering me."

"I almost lied."

"I know."

Trinity gives her a narrow look. "That's annoying."

Yolanda smiles, small and sad. "Yeah, I’m sure."

Trinity looks at their joined hands and can't help but clarify, "I know you're not like them."

"I know."

"My brain just doesn't, apparently. Especially after a thirteen-hour shift."

"I know that too."

Trinity laughs under her breath, almost offended by how reasonable Yolanda insists on being. "You make it seem so simple."

"It's not simple," Yolanda says. "It's just true." Her thumb strokes once across Trinity's knuckles in a small, grounding movement. "I'm not asking you to stop reacting. I'm asking you to let me help."

Trinity's eyes burn all over again. "Just help?”

"Yeah." Yolanda tips her head and squeezes her hand thoughtfully. "That’s all I want."

That undoes her in a quieter way than the earlier panic, but maybe more thoroughly. She leans sideways until her shoulder rests against Yolanda's. Trinity can feel the crash setting in more fully now—her limbs heavy and her head hazy, in a post-panic fragility where everything is simultaneously too much and not enough.

Yolanda notices the way her eyelids have started to involuntarily droop and shifts to drape her arm more firmly across her shoulders. Murmuring into the quiet room, she neutrally asks, "Do you want to sleep here tonight?"

Trinity blinks herself more awake, clearing away the sludge in her brain to try and process the question. "Was there another option?"

"I don't know, babe, you could absolutely still be stubborn and decide you need to limp back to your shitty apartment to prove a point."

Trinity exhales a tired laugh. She mulls it over for just a second, a little nervous to forward my say what she wants but eventually, she forces herself to blurt, “I want to stay, if that’s okay.”

"I would love that."

Trinity closes her eyes. When she opens them again, Yolanda is smiling a small, private smile that she frequently gets when she's trying not to scare her off by celebrating too hard. It makes Trinity feel seen in a way that, for once, doesn't hurt.

Eventually, after Trinity has nodded off and shaken herself awake three times in ten minutes, Yolanda stands and offers her hand. "Come on. Let's get you to bed before adrenaline crash turns your brain into mush."

Trinity takes her hand and lets herself be pulled up. The walk to the bedroom is slow, Yolanda keeping pace beside her and clicking on the bedside lamp instead of the overhead as soon as they get through the door, bathing everything in amber. The bed is already half-unmade, comforter folded down, and one of Yolanda's various half-finished books face down on the nightstand. The ordinariness of it undoes Trinity a little, the fact that catastrophe can happen in the kitchen and the bedroom still looks normal and welcoming.

They climb into the bed on their respective sides—when they silently declared which was which Trinity can’t remember—and Yolanda stretches to turn off the lamp. They settle facing each other automatically. For a while, neither of them speaks. Trinity would almost things Yolanda had fallen asleep and that that’s it, this hellish night can just be a memory.

Then, Yolanda whispers, "Can I hold you?" The question is so quiet that Trinity would have missed it if they weren't an inch apart in the darkness.

Trinity's heart hums with a love so fierce it feels dangerous and all-consuming. "Please."

Yolanda slides closer, one arm curving carefully around Trinity's waist and the other resting lightly over the blanket near her ribs, contact broad and warm and easy to track. Trinity exhales into the space between them, sudden relief coursing through her now that she’s held in her arms.

Yolanda kisses her forehead. "Get some sleep, mi vida."

Trinity settles, curling forward so that her cheek rests against Yolanda's collarbone. Her hand throbs and her chest feels tender and overused, like some internal muscle has finally been asked to stretch past the point where it likes to stop. The emotion coursing through her is not pleasant. And yet, Yolanda's hand moves slowly over her back in that same grounding rhythm from the couch and Trinity lets her eyes close. She thinks, dimly, that tomorrow she will wake up embarrassed. She knows herself well and she knows her shame well. But maybe tomorrow there will also be Yolanda.