Archive of Our Own

The cocktail never happened.

Not that night, anyway.

Trinity Santos had been running on adrenaline and shame for the past two hours, the image of that scalpel tumbling through the air replaying behind her eyelids every time she blinked. She'd spent the rest of her first shift in a state of hypervigilance, double-checking every instrument she touched, handing off sharp ones like they were live explosives, and stealing glances at Dr. Garcia's foot whenever she passed.

The bandage was still there, a small square of white against the worn leather of her shoe. Garcia hadn't mentioned it again. Hadn't held it over Trinity's head. Had just kept working with the kind of steady competence that made Trinity feel like she was doing something right.

She wasn't even supposed to be there, really. Garcia was a surgeon, the kind who got paged when things went sideways, who descended from the OR like a force of nature, assessed the situation in three seconds flat, and either took over or disappeared back upstairs. She wasn't a fixture in the Pitt. She was a specialist. A consultant. A name Trinity had heard whispered with reverence during her surgery rotation.

Garcia's coming down.

Thank God, Garcia's on call.

Don't fuck up in front of Garcia.

By 6pm, Trinity had started to believe she might actually survive this. She'd placed an IV on the first try. She'd correctly identified a tension pneumothorax before Dr. Robby could.

Then the sirens started.

The first wave was a code yellow. Trinity didn't know what that meant until she saw the charge nurse's face go pale. Then came the announcements, clipped and urgent. Multiple casualties. Mass casualty event. Active shooter at the PittFest music festival.

After that, everything became a blur of blood and shouting and the relentless rhythm of compressions. Trinity lost track of time. Lost track of which patient was which. Lost track of how many bodies they wheeled in, how many they lost, how many they saved.

She just moved. Kept moving. Did what she was told and sometimes figured out what to do before she was told. At some point, she looked down and realized her scrubs were covered in blood. She kept moving.

At some point during the chaos, Garcia appeared. Trinity didn't see her arrive—she just looked up and there she was, gloved and gowned, directing traffic in Trauma 2 like she'd been there the whole time. Her voice cut through the noise, calm and absolute.

"Santos. With me."

Trinity moved before she could think, falling into step beside Garcia as they assessed a patient. Garcia's hands moved with surgical precision, even in the chaos of the ER, and Trinity found herself watching them—the certainty of every movement, the confidence, the way she seemed to see everything at once.

"You're staring," Garcia said without looking up.

"Sorry." Trinity felt heat crawl up her neck. "I was just—you make it look easy."

Garcia's eyes flicked up, something unreadable in them. "It's not."

"I know."

"Good." Garcia turned back to the patient. "Then you're not an idiot. Now pack that wound while I get central access."

Trinity moved. And for the next four hours, she moved with Garcia, following her from trauma bay to trauma bay, anticipating her needs, handing her instruments before she asked, learning the rhythm of her work. It was like nothing Trinity had ever experienced—like being plugged into something larger than herself, something electric and terrifying and absolutely necessary.

She forgot about the scalpel. Forgot about her first-day jitters. Forgot about everything except the patient in front of her and Garcia's voice in her ear, guiding her, pushing her, demanding more than she thought she had to give.

It was midnight when the trauma bays finally fell quiet. The last patient had been stabilized, transferred to the ICU, or wheeled down to the morgue. The Pitt had that hollow, exhausted silence that follows catastrophe—the beeping of monitors somehow louder now, the fluorescent hum almost deafening while the night shift crew were just getting started.

Trinity found herself walking toward the locker room without really deciding to. Her feet moved on autopilot, carrying her past empty gurneys and abandoned coffee cups, past a cluster of nurses sitting in silence, past a social worker crying quietly against a wall.

She pushed open the locker room door, and there was Doctor Garcia.

The surgeon sat on the wooden bench in the center of the room, her back against the lockers, her head tilted up toward the ceiling. Her shoes were off, set neatly beside her. The bandage on her foot was still there, slightly askew now, the edges dark with dried blood.

She looked older than she had eighteen hours ago. They all did.

Trinity hesitated in the doorway. "I can come back."

Garcia didn't open her eyes. "Sit down, Doctor Santos. Before you fall down."

Trinity sat. The bench was hard, the metal lockers cold against her back, but she didn't think she'd ever been so grateful to be off her feet. She stared at her own hands, still faintly pink at the cuticles no matter how many times she'd scrubbed.

They sat in silence for a long moment. The ventilation system hummed. Somewhere down the hall, a phone rang unanswered.

"I never got you that cocktail," Trinity said finally. Her voice came out rough, scraped raw from shouting over sirens and screaming.

Garcia let out a breath that might have been a laugh in another world. "Been a little busy."

Trinity managed a weak smile. "I was going to buy you the best old fashioned of your life. Now you'll probably just want to go home and sleep for a week."

"An old fashioned does sound good," Garcia said quietly. "Maybe after I sleep for a week."

The silence that settled between them was different now. Less charged. Two people who had been through the same fire, sitting in the ashes afterward.

"You were good tonight," Garcia said.

Trinity looked up, startled. "What?"

"Don't make me repeat myself." But there was no bite in Garcia's voice. She opened her eyes, staring at the ceiling tiles. "I've been doing this a long time. I've worked with a lot of residents. Most of them freeze the first time they see something like tonight. You didn't." Garcia nodded slowly, then looked away. "You have good instincts, Santos. Don't let anyone train them out of you."

"I don't plan to."

"Good." Garcia reached down, picking up one of her clogs and inspecting the hole in the top. She ran her thumb over the edge of the cut, then looked at Trinity with a raised eyebrow. "You know, I've been wearing these shoes for three years. Toughest shoes I ever owned. And you took a scalpel to them on your first day."

Trinity winced, the earlier embarrassment flooding back. "I am so sorry about that. I was trying to hand it to you and—"

"I know." Garcia's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I was there."

"I'll buy you new ones."

"No." Garcia shook her head, setting the clog back down. "I'm keeping these. First day of the new resident who dropped a scalpel on my foot and then helped me work a mass casualty event without losing her mind. That's a story worth keeping."

Trinity stared at her. "You're not mad?"

"Mad?" Garcia let out a short laugh, finally letting some of the exhaustion show. "Santos, I've had residents do a lot worse. I've had one faint into a crash cart. I've had another try to put a chest tube in upside down. A little nick on the foot? That's just Tuesday."

"Upside down?"

"That's a story for another time." Garcia leaned back against the lockers again, her eyes drifting closed. "Assuming you stick around."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"We'll see. Most residents don't last a month in this place."

Trinity thought about the past eighteen hours. The chaos. The blood. The sound of the mother screaming when they told her about her daughter. The way Garcia's voice had cut through all of it, steady and sure.

"I'm not most residents," Trinity said.

Garcia's eyes opened again. She studied Trinity for a long moment, something shifting in her gaze—respect, maybe, or recognition. Or something else entirely that Trinity was too tired to name.

"No," Garcia said quietly. "I don't think you are."

The silence that followed was different. Heavier. Trinity was suddenly very aware of how close they were sitting on the bench, of the fact that they were alone in the locker room at midnight, of the way Garcia was looking at her like she was trying to figure out a puzzle.

Trinity should have looked away. She didn't.

"You should go home," Garcia said finally, but her voice was softer now, almost reluctant. "Get some rest. Tomorrow's going to be another long one."

"What about you?"

"I have a few things to finish up. Then I'll go home."

Trinity wanted to argue. Wanted to tell Garcia that she'd been working just as hard, that she needed rest too, that the hospital would survive without her for a few hours. But she knew it wasn't her place. Garcia was her senior—not her direct boss, but close enough. And Trinity had already crossed enough lines today.

She stood up, her legs protesting after hours of standing. "I still owe you that drink."

Garcia looked up at her, and there it was again—that something in her expression that Trinity couldn't quite name.

"You're determined about that."

"I don't like being in debt." Trinity shrugged, trying to seem casual. "And you saved my ass tonight. Multiple times."

"You saved a few asses yourself."

"That's not the same and you know it." Trinity grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. "So. When you're ready to collect. Al's Bar. Corner of Penn and Liberty. I'm buying."

Garcia watched her for a long moment, and Trinity could swear she saw something flicker in her eyes—interest, maybe. Or amusement. Or something else entirely.

"Al's," Garcia repeated.

"You know it?"

"I know it." Garcia's mouth curved into a small smile. "Fine, Santos. When I'm ready to collect. Don't hold your breath."

"I'm a patient person."

Garcia laughed—a real laugh this time, low and surprised, and Trinity felt something warm settle in her chest at the sound. Garcia shook her head, still smiling. "Get out of here. Before I find something else for you to do."

Trinity grinned, something light breaking through the exhaustion. "Yes, ma'am."

She was halfway out the door when Garcia's voice stopped her.

"Santos."

Trinity turned back. Garcia was still sitting on the bench, her clogs back on now, her hands resting on her knees. In the dim light, she looked almost soft. Almost.

"Good work tonight," Garcia said quietly. "Really."

Trinity felt something catch in her throat. "You too."

Garcia's eyebrows rose. "I don't need your approval, resident."

"No," Trinity agreed, because she was tired and brave or maybe just stupid. "But you're getting it anyway."

She didn't wait for a response. She pushed through the door and walked down the empty hallway, her heart beating a little faster than it should have been, the exhaustion lifting just enough for her to feel something else underneath.

Something she didn't have a name for yet. Something that had started with a dropped scalpel and turned into something else entirely when Garcia had looked at her and said you were good tonight.

She had survived her first day.

She had made it through a mass casualty event without falling apart.

She had caught the attention of Yolanda Garcia—surgeon, legend, the most competent person Trinity had ever met.

And somewhere in between the blood and the chaos and the quiet of the locker room, something had shifted. Something Trinity wanted to explore, slowly, carefully, one day at a time.

She was looking forward to tomorrow.

Three weeks.

Three weeks of twelve-hour shifts and stolen glances. Three weeks of Trinity learning the rhythms of the Pitt, of earning her place, of watching Dr. Robby nod at her with something approaching approval. Three weeks of Yolanda Garcia appearing in the trauma bay like a force of nature, paged down from the OR when things got complicated, and Trinity's pulse doing something inconvenient every time she walked in.

Three weeks of Trinity telling herself she was imagining things.

The way Garcia's eyes lingered on her a beat too long after she answered a question correctly. The way Garcia always seemed to find her in a crisis, pulling her into the most difficult cases instead of reaching for a more senior resident. The way her voice softened when she said Santos, just slightly, just enough for Trinity to notice.

Three weeks of almost.

Almost asking her to coffee. Almost saying something in the elevator. Almost reaching out when they stood shoulder to shoulder at the nurses' station, reviewing a chart, close enough that Trinity could smell whatever subtle thing Garcia wore—something clean and sharp, like cedar and winter air.

She never did. Garcia was a surgeon, twelve years her senior, her superior in every way that mattered. Trinity was a first-year resident who had introduced herself by dropping a scalpel on the woman's foot. There were boundaries. There were protocols. There was a very long list of reasons why this was a terrible idea.

She told herself that every time Garcia looked at her.

It didn't help.

It was a Tuesday when Garcia finally collected.

Trinity had just finished a twelve-hour shift that should have been eight, a complicated GSW keeping her two hours past her scheduled end. She was exhausted, her scrubs stiff with dried sweat, her feet screaming inside her sneakers. All she wanted was to change into her street clothes and collapse into bed.

She was halfway to the locker room when her pager went off.

She stared at it, something sinking in her chest. GSW inbound, ETA 4. Trauma 2. Need all hands.

She was off. She was supposed to be off. Her shift had ended, her notes were signed, her patients handed over. She could ignore it. She could keep walking, change, go home, let someone else handle it.

She was already turning toward Trauma 2 before she finished the thought.

The bay was chaos when she arrived—nurses prepping, respiratory setting up, Dr. Robby's voice cutting through the noise. Trinity slipped into the rhythm automatically, grabbing gloves, positioning herself where she was needed.

And then Garcia was there.

Trinity didn't see her arrive—she never did—but suddenly she was at the head of the bed, her hands already moving, her voice already directing. She glanced up as Trinity stepped forward, and for a second, something flickered in her eyes.

"Santos," she said. "I thought you were off."

"I was." Trinity pulled on her gloves. "I'm not now."

Garcia's mouth did something that might have been a smile, but the doors burst open before Trinity could be sure, and then there was no time for anything but the work.

It was 9:00 PM when they finally stepped out of Trauma 2. The patient was stable, transferred to the ICU, a bullet fragment removed from his liver by Garcia's steady hands. Trinity had assisted, had held retractors and passed instruments and watched Garcia work with the same awe she'd felt on her first day.

Now they stood in the empty hallway, the chaos of the trauma bay reduced to the quiet hum of the hospital at night.

"You should have gone home," Garcia said. She was stripping off her gloves, her movements economical, precise.

"You paged me."

"I paged everyone." Garcia dropped the gloves in the bin, finally turning to face Trinity. Up close, Trinity could see the exhaustion etched into her face—the shadows under her eyes, the tension in her jaw. She'd been in surgery for most of the day before this, a liver laceration that had taken six hours. She should have gone home hours ago.

"You didn't have to come," Garcia continued. "Your shift was over."

"I know."

"So why did you?"

Trinity considered the question. Considered the truth.—I don’t think I can say no to you.—But then went with the easy answer.

"It's what we do," she said. “And also, I don’t usually pass up on seeing you.”

The silence that followed was loud. Trinity watched Garcia's expression shift, something moving behind her eyes that she couldn't quite read.

"Santos—" Garcia started.

"I owe you a drink," Trinity interrupted, because she was tired and brave and maybe just stupid enough to finally say it. "Three weeks ago. You said you'd collect when you were ready. Are you ready?"

Garcia stared at her. The hallway was empty, the nurses' station down the hall abandoned for the moment, the quiet pressing in around them.

"You're asking me out," Garcia said slowly.

"I'm asking you to let me buy you that drink I owe you." Trinity held her gaze. "What happens after that is up to you."

Another long silence. Trinity could feel her heart beating in her throat, could feel the weight of everything she was risking—her professional reputation, her working relationship with one of the best surgeons in the hospital, the fragile respect she'd spent three weeks building.

"You're a first-year resident," Garcia said.

"I'm aware."

"You dropped a scalpel on my foot."

"I'm never going to live that down, am I?"

 “You're dangerous.” Garcia said in a whisper.

"Am I?" Trinity's voice was softer now. "Well, you did call me spicy on the day we met. But I swear I'm just asking for a drink. One drink. And then if you want to pretend this never happened, I'll never mention it again. I'll go back to being a competent resident who only drops things on your feet occasionally. But if you don't—"

She stopped, because Garcia had moved closer, close enough that Trinity could feel the warmth of her, could see the way her chest rose and fell a little faster than it should.

"If I don't?" Garcia asked.

Trinity swallowed. "Then maybe we could have some fun. I'm not—I know I'm the resident and you're—" She gestured vaguely. "You. I know what's at stake. I'm not asking for anything you can't give."

Garcia studied her for a long moment. The hallway was silent, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, and Trinity had never been more aware of another person in her life.

"You're serious about this," Garcia said. It wasn't a question.

"I've been serious about this since you mentioned it."

A surprised laugh escaped Garcia, breaking the tension. "I should have yelled at you that day. I should’ve made you fear me."

"You should have." Trinity smiled, something loosening in her chest. "But you didn't." She took a breath. "And it wouldn’t make me fear you, but it would make me feel other things. So yes, I'm serious."

Garcia was quiet for a long moment. 

"Al's Bar," Garcia said. "Corner of Penn and Liberty."

Trinity's heart stuttered. "Yeah."

"One drink," Garcia said. "We see what happens."

"That's all I'm asking for."

Garcia nodded slowly, then stepped back, the professional mask sliding back into place. But her eyes were different now—softer, somehow, and something else that made Trinity's pulse quicken.

"I need to change. And I need at least an hour to decompress before I'm fit for human company."

"Take two. I'll be there."

"You're very annoying."

Trinity grinned, something bright and reckless surging through her. "Maybe I'm just determined about things I want."

Garcia rolled her eyes. "Go home, change. Rest. I'll see you there."

"Deal."

"And Santos?"

"Yeah?"

A small smile, just a hint of it. "Don't be late."

Trinity was not late.

She was, in fact, forty-five minutes early, even though she changed clothes three times, paced in her apartment, and tried to convince herself that she wasn't completely out of her mind. She ended up in jeans and a simple black shirt, her hair loose, her heart pounding in a way that almost made her wake Whitaker up for a wellness check. 

Al's Bar was quiet when she arrived—a Tuesday night, just a few regulars at the bar and a couple playing pool in the back. Trinity took a seat by the bar, ordered a club soda she had no intention of drinking, and waited.

She didn't have to wait long.

Yolanda walked in at exactly eleven o'clock, and Trinity's breath caught in her throat.

She was out of her scrubs for the first time that Trinity had seen outside of brief glimpses in the locker room. Dark jeans, and a brown sweater that softened the sharp lines of her, her hair loose around her shoulders instead of pulled back. She looked younger like this, or maybe just less like a trauma surgeon and more like a woman who had finally taken off her armor.

She spotted Trinity immediately, and something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe, or nerves, or something in between.

"You're early," she said, sliding into the booth across from Trinity.

"I wanted to get a good seat."

Yolanda's mouth curved. "It's a Tuesday night at Al's. There are seventeen good seats."

"Then maybe I just wanted to see you walk in."

The words came out before Trinity could stop them, and she felt heat rise to her cheeks. But Yolanda didn't laugh. She just looked at Trinity for a long moment, something warm and unreadable in her eyes.

“So,” she said, eyes flicking up again, steady and intent, “is this just for the view, or do you actually plan on talking to me?”

Trinity leaned forward slightly, mirroring her without thinking. “I’m talking to you now.”

“Barely.”

“Give me a second,” Trinity said. “I’m still adjusting.”

“To what?”

Trinity let her gaze drag—deliberate, unhurried—from Yolanda’s eyes to the curve of her shoulder, the soft fall of her hair, and back again.

“To you not being in scrubs.”

Yolanda didn’t look away. If anything, she leaned in a fraction more, voice dropping just enough to feel like a secret.

“And?” she asked.

Trinity tilted her head, considering her like a problem she was about to solve.

“...It’s distracting.”

That earned her a real smile—quick, sharp, and gone just as fast.

“Good,” Yolanda said, settling back again like she’d just won something. “I was aiming for that.”

Before Trinity could respond, she lifted a hand slightly, catching the bartender’s attention with an ease that suggested she’d already clocked him minutes ago.

“Another club soda,” she said, then, without looking at Yolanda, added, “and an Old Fashioned.”

There was a small pause beside her.

Trinity didn’t turn her head. She didn’t need to.

The shift in the air was enough.

When she finally looked back, Yolanda was watching her differently now—less guarded, more… something else. Softer, but sharper underneath.

“You remembered,” Yolanda said.

It wasn't a surprise. Not exactly. Something quieter. More precise.

Trinity shrugged, like it cost her nothing. “Of course I did.”

The drinks arrived. Yolanda took a sip of her old fashioned, and Trinity watched her for a moment before picking up her own drink.

"So," Trinity said, "do you have a life outside the hospital, or are you like this all the time?"

Yolanda raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"Intense. Composed. Like you're about to grade me on something."

"I am grading you."

Trinity laughed. "That's not reassuring."

"It's not supposed to be."

Yolanda took another sip of her drink, and Trinity noticed the way her shoulders relaxed just slightly, the way the sharp focus she carried in the trauma bay softened into something more human.

"What's the verdict so far?" Trinity asked.

Yolanda considered, her fingers tapping against the glass. "You're persistent. You're nervous but you hide it well.

Yolanda took another sip of her drink, and Trinity noticed the way her shoulders relaxed just slightly, the way the sharp focus she carried in the trauma bay softened into something more human.

"I'm not nervous."

"You've been drumming your fingers on the table since you sat down."

Trinity looked down. Her hand was, in fact, tapping a restless rhythm against the wood. She flattened her palm, forcing it to stop.

"I'm not pretending. I'm performing confidence." she said. "And I’m also trying to figure out how someone who looks like you is sitting across from me without a line of people waiting to buy you drinks."

Yolanda's eyebrows rose. "Someone who looks like me?"

Trinity held her gaze. "You know exactly what you look like."

"Do I?"

"You walked in here like you owned the place. Hair down. That sweater." Trinity gestured vaguely. "You knew what you were doing."

Yolanda's mouth curved, slow and dangerous. "And what was I doing?"

"Making it very hard for me to focus."

Yolanda laughed, low and surprised. "You're doing fine."

"I'm trying."

"I can tell." Yolanda's eyes flicked down to Trinity's hand, still flat on the table. "The drumming gave you away."

Trinity let her fingers spread, moving just enough to brush against Yolanda's wrist. "And what does that tell you?"

Yolanda didn't pull back. Her pulse jumped under Trinity's touch. "That you want to be touching me."

Trinity's breath caught. She let her fingers linger a moment longer before pulling back, just enough to leave space.

"And what do you want?"

Yolanda's eyes met hers, dark and steady. "Right now? I want to know what you do when you're not trying to impress people."

Trinity grinned, something loosening in her chest. "That's a very polite way of changing the subject."

"I'm a very polite person."

"You're anything but polite."

Yolanda's smile sharpened. 

Trinity leaned back, pretending to think. "Okay. When I'm not trying to impress beautiful surgeons, I'm usually studying or failing to cook dinner. That’s all I really have time for."

Yolanda's eyebrows shot up. "Failing?"

"I set off my smoke alarm three times last week making pasta."

"That's not cooking. That's boiling water."

"Exactly. I can't even do that right."

Yolanda laughed, and Trinity felt it everywhere. "What do you usually eat?"

"Takeout. Ramen. Protein bars. Whatever's in the vending machine."

"You're a doctor."

"A resident. There's a difference. Residents survive on caffeine and shame."

Yolanda shook her head, still smiling. "Your turn. What do you do when you're not terrorizing residents?"

Yolanda considered, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. "I walk my dog. I read. I try to remember what day it is."

"What do you read?"

"Medical papers."

"That's not reading. That's work."

"It's relaxing."

"You're a psychopath."

Yolanda's eyes glinted. "I cook, too. And don't set off smoke alarms."

Trinity groaned. "I walked into that one."

"You walked into a lot of things tonight."

"Like what?"

Yolanda didn’t answer right away.

She took a slow sip of her drink instead, eyes dropping to the amber liquid like it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the room.

There it is.

Trinity smiled, small and sharp. “Wow.”

Yolanda glanced up. “What?”

“That was impressive,” Trinity said. “I almost didn’t notice you dodging the question.”

“I didn’t dodge anything.”

“You absolutely did.” Trinity ticked it off on her fingers. “Deflection, redirection, sudden interest in your drink—honestly, it’s a solid technique. Very good, Doctor Garcia.”

Yolanda huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Are you always this annoying?”

“Only when people are being suspicious.”

“I’m not suspicious.”

“You are,” Trinity said easily. “But it’s fine. I get it.”

“Oh, do you?”

“Yeah.” Trinity leaned in slightly, voice lowering just enough to pull her back in. “You don’t like talking about yourself. You like controlling the conversation. You ask the questions, keep things your way, keep people at arm’s length—”

Yolanda’s eyes narrowed, but there was no real heat in it. Just awareness. “You’re very confident for someone who set off a smoke alarm while making pasta.”

“And yet,” Trinity said sweetly, “I’m still right.”

A pause.

Yolanda studied her, something quieter settling in her expression. “You think you have me figured out.”

“I think you’re easier to read than you want to be.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“So I’ve been told.” Trinity shrugged. “You gonna prove me wrong, or are we sticking with ‘I read medical journals for fun’ as your personality?”

Yolanda’s mouth curved, but she didn’t take the bait—not fully.

“I told you what I do.”

“No,” Trinity said, softer but more precise now, “you told me what fills time.”

That landed.

Yolanda’s fingers stilled against her glass for half a second.

Trinity didn’t miss it.

“Big difference,” she added, almost casually.

Yolanda exhaled through her nose, leaning back like she needed the space. “You always push this much?”

“Only when it’s working.”

A beat.

“…It’s not.”

Trinity smiled. “Sure.”

Yolanda shook her head, but there was a hint of a smile there now—reluctant, but real. “You’re relentless.”

“I’m interested.”

“In what?”

Trinity held her gaze, not backing off this time. “You.”

That did something.

It was subtle—just a flicker—but it was there. A shift. A crack in the composure.

Yolanda looked away first.

Progress.

“I’m not that interesting,” she said, quieter now.

“Yeah, you keep saying that,” Trinity replied. “And I keep not believing you.”

Silence stretched between them, softer now but heavier underneath.

Yolanda traced the rim of her glass again, slower this time. Thinking.

Then, like she was giving something up—just a little—

“I cook,” she said.

Trinity blinked. “You already said that.”

“I cook when I can’t sleep,” Yolanda clarified, still not looking at her. “It… helps.”

Trinity’s expression shifted—less teasing, more intent. “Helps with what?”

Yolanda’s mouth twitched. “There you go again.”

“Yeah,” Trinity said. “I’m consistent.”

Yolanda glanced at her, something almost amused, almost fond flickering through. “You don’t let anything go, do you?”

“Not when it matters.”

“And this matters?”

Trinity didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

Another pause.

Yolanda held her gaze this time, longer than before. Measuring. Deciding.

Then she took a breath.

“It helps me slow down,” she admitted. “After days like… the ones we have. It’s quiet. Controlled. No one bleeding, no one dying, no one—” She cut herself off, shaking her head slightly. “It’s just… simple.”

There it was.

Not everything. But real.

Trinity didn’t ruin it by pushing right away. Just nodded, softer now. “That makes sense.”

Yolanda looked at her like she didn’t quite expect that response.

“What?” Trinity said, catching it.

“I thought you’d make a joke.”

“I can,” Trinity said. “Give me a second.”

That got a quiet laugh out of her.

Then Trinity leaned in again, just a little, the edge slipping back into her voice. “So you stress-cook and pretend you’re not interesting.”

“I don’t pretend.”

“Mm.” Trinity tilted her head. “You just strategically omit.”

Yolanda smirked. “You’re exhausting.”

“Yet, you’re still here.”

“Barely.”

“Liar.”

Yolanda’s smile deepened, despite herself. “Careful.”

“Or what?”

Yolanda’s eyes dropped—brief, deliberate—to Trinity’s mouth, then back up again. “Or I might stop being polite.”

Oh.

Trinity felt that, a spark low and immediate—but her grin only widened. “You keep saying that,” she murmured. “I’m starting to think it’s an empty threat.”

Yolanda leaned in just slightly, closing the distance she’d been so careful to keep all night.

“Keep pushing,” she said quietly, “and find out.”

Trinity didn’t move back. Didn’t even think about it.

“Yeah,” she said, just as quiet, “that’s kind of the plan.”

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then Trinity tilted her head, eyes flicking—quick and deliberate—to Yolanda’s mouth and back.

“Still being polite?” she asked, like she was genuinely curious.

Yolanda gave her a look—half warning, half amused—and leaned back, finally putting a little space between them again. “There are rules, Santos.”

“Yeah,” Trinity said. “I know.”

“And you’re ignoring them.”

“I’m… selectively acknowledging them.”

“That’s not better.”

“It’s more fun.”

That got the smallest smile out of her.

Yolanda picked up her drink again, taking a slow sip, like she was buying herself a second. “Are you always like this?”

“Charming? Yes.” She smirked.

“Infuriating.”

“Also yes.”

Yolanda shook her head, but she was still smiling. “I should have shut this down in the hallway.”

“You really should have,” Trinity agreed. “That was your first mistake.”

“And this?” Yolanda gestured lightly between them.

“Second mistake,” Trinity said. “Big one.”

“Good to know.”

A beat.

Yolanda finishes her drink in one big final gulp and glances toward the bar, then at the clock.

And there it was—the shift.

Trinity caught it immediately. “You’re about to say you should go.”

“I should go,” Yolanda said, like she’d been caught mid-thought.

“Yeah,” Trinity nodded. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“Responsible adult with a job and self-control.”

Yolanda snorted. “That’s offensive.You’re basically calling me old.”

“It’s accurate.”

A small smile tugged at her mouth despite herself. “I do have surgery in the morning.”

“And I have a shift I’ll regret if I don’t sleep,” Trinity said. “So. Very tragic.”

“Tragic,” Yolanda repeated dryly.

Trinity slid her card across the table before Yolanda could reach for hers. “I’ve got it.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.” Trinity glanced up at her. “But I want to.”

Yolanda hesitated for a second—then let it happen, just this once. “Fine.”

They stood almost at the same time, a little awkward in that way that only happens when something actually went well.

They were closer now.

Yolanda adjusted her sleeve, like she needed something to do with her hands. “This was…”

“Your worst decision of the week?” Trinity offered.

“Top three,” Yolanda said.

“I’ll take it.”

Yolanda looked at her again, softer this time, less guarded but still very much herself. “I meant it. About this being… complicated.”

“I know,” Trinity said easily. “Good thing we kept it simple. We even made some room for Jesus."

Yolanda huffed a quiet laugh.

Then, like she remembered herself, she stepped back. “Goodnight, Santos.”

“Goodnight, Dr. Garcia.”

Yolanda turned—then paused, glancing back over her shoulder. “Try not to set anything on fire this week.”

Trinity grinned. “No promises.”

Yolanda made it to the door. Pushed it open, cool night air slipping in—and for a second, Trinity thought that was it.

One drink. Done. Responsible decisions. End scene.

Trinity grabbed her credit card and followed her out.

"Stalking me now?" Yolanda said without turning around.

"Relax," Trinity replied, falling into step beside her. "I'm walking in the same general direction."

"Which is?"

"Wherever you're going, apparently."

Yolanda shot her a look. "You're unbelievable."

"And yet," Trinity said lightly, "you keep engaging."

They reached the parking lot, streetlights casting that soft glow that made everything feel a little less real. Yolanda slowed near a dark Jeep, keys already in her hand.

"This is me," she said. A reminder. A boundary.

"Good to know," Trinity nodded, not moving away.

Yolanda turned to face her fully. There it was again. That hesitation. That almost.

"You should go home," Yolanda said.

"Probably."

"And get some sleep."

"Definitely."

Yolanda stared at her for a moment, something flickering behind her eyes. Then she let out a breath, stepped forward, and kissed her.

It wasn't tentative. It wasn't a question. It was Yolanda's hands on Trinity's face, Yolanda's mouth pressing into hers, Yolanda making a sound against her lips that was half relief, half surrender.

Trinity kissed her back immediately, her hands finding Yolanda's waist, pulling her closer. Yolanda came willingly, her fingers sliding into Trinity's hair, her tongue brushing against Trinity's lower lip. Trinity opened up for her, and Yolanda deepened the kiss like she'd been waiting for this for weeks.

Because she had.

Trinity's back hit the car beside them—not Yolanda's, some random sedan—and Yolanda pressed into her, her thigh sliding between Trinity's legs, her mouth never stopping. Trinity gasped, her fingers tightening on Yolanda's hips, pulling her closer, needing more.

"We should—" Trinity started, breathless.

"Shut up," Yolanda said, and kissed her again.

Trinity laughed against her mouth, and Yolanda smiled into it, and somehow that was better than anything. The way Yolanda's shoulders relaxed, the way her hands slid from Trinity's face to her shoulders to the collar of her shirt, pulling at it like she wanted it off.

"Your car," Trinity managed. "We should—your car."

Yolanda pulled back just enough to look at her, chest heaving, lips red. "My car?"

"More private. Less likely to get arrested for public indecency."

Yolanda snorted. "Public indecency? Who said we’re going to be indecent? You’re being too cocky."

“And you seem to like it.” She smirked. "You kissed me first, I'm just following your lead."

Yolanda shook her head, but she was already reaching for her keys, already pulling Trinity toward her SUV. She unlocked the back door, yanked it open, and Trinity climbed in, Yolanda right behind her.

The door slammed shut, and the world went quiet. The parking lot lights filtered through the tinted windows, casting everything in shades of blue and shadow. It smelled like Yolanda in here—clean, warm, something familiar Trinity couldn't name.

Then Yolanda was on her, and Trinity forgot about everything else.

Yolanda pushed her back against the seat, her knees bracketing Trinity's thighs, her hands sliding up under Trinity's shirt. Trinity's breath caught at the contact, Yolanda's palms flat against her stomach, her ribs, the curve of her waist.

"You're so hot" Trinity started.

"Talking," Yolanda said, "is not what I want to do right now."

She kissed her again, deep and slow, and Trinity's hands found her hips, her thighs, the bare skin where her sweater had ridden up. Yolanda shivered, her hips pressing down into Trinity's, and Trinity made a sound she didn't recognize, low and desperate.

Yolanda broke the kiss, dragging her mouth down Trinity's jaw, her throat, her collarbone. Her fingers found the hem of Trinity's shirt, pulling it up gently.

"I don't usually do this." Yolanda said, her voice rough, her lips brushing against Trinity's skin.

Trinity's head fell back against the seat. "Could've fooled me."

Yolanda bit down gently on her lower lip, and Trinity gasped.

Yolanda muttered against her skin. "I don't do this. Parking lots. Backseats. It's like I can't—" She stopped, her forehead dropping to Trinity's shoulder.

"Can't what?"

Yolanda lifted her head, and her eyes were dark, frustrated, wanting. "Like I can't control myself around you."

Trinity's heart slammed against her ribs. She reached up, her fingers brushing Yolanda's hair back from her face. "Who says you have to?"

Yolanda stared at her for a moment. Then she kissed her again, harder this time, and Trinity wrapped her legs around her, pulling her closer, deeper.

Yolanda's hands were everywhere—in Trinity's hair, on her skin, under her shirt, anything in the way. Trinity fumbled with the hem of Yolanda's sweater, pushing it up, feeling the heat of her bare skin, the muscles in her back, the way she arched into Trinity's touch.

"God," Trinity breathed. "Fuck—"

Yolanda kissed the words out of her mouth, her tongue sliding against Trinity's, her hips grinding down in a slow, deliberate rhythm that made Trinity see stars.

"We should probably stop," Trinity managed, her voice barely a whisper.

Yolanda laughed against her mouth, low and breathless. "Probably."

Neither of them did.

Yolanda's mouth found her neck again, and Trinity's fingers tightened in her hair, holding her there. Yolanda's teeth grazed the spot where her neck met her shoulder, and Trinity gasped, her hips bucking up against Yolanda's.

"This is—" Yolanda started.

"Complicated, I know—"

"I was going to say your shirt is going to be a problem."

Trinity looked down. Her shirt was almost all the way off, only her sports bra in sight.

She leaned down, pressing a kiss to the center of Trinity's chest, then another lower, then another. Trinity's breath came in short, uneven gasps, her hands gripping Yolanda's shoulders.

"You're going to kill me," Trinity said.

Yolanda looked up at her, something wicked in her smile. "You'll survive. You're a doctor. You're trained for high-pressure situations."

Yolanda kissed her again, slow and deep, and Trinity forgot what she was going to say.

When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing hard, Trinity's legs still wrapped around Yolanda's waist, Yolanda's hands still under Trinity's shirt.

Their kisses were deep, all tongue and teeth, and Yolanda groaned into it, her hands sliding down Trinity's sides, pushing her shirt the rest of the way off.

It landed somewhere in the trunk. Neither of them looked.

Trinity's hands found the hem of Yolanda's sweater, pulling it up, and Yolanda broke the kiss just long enough to let her yank it over her head. Trinity tossed it somewhere in the direction of the front seat and then her hands were on bare skin, pulling Yolanda back in.

"Fuck, you're not wearing a bra." Trinity breathed, her palms flat against Yolanda's stomach, sliding up to her ribs, her thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts. Yolanda's skin was warm, smooth, and Trinity wanted to feel all of it.

Yolanda's laugh was low, breathless, her head falling back against the seat. "Didn't plan on getting undressed in a car tonight."

"Lucky me," Trinity said, and she meant it to sound casual, but it came out wrecked.

She slid her hands up, cupping Yolanda's breasts, feeling the weight of them, and Yolanda's breath caught sharply. Her nipples were already hard, brushing against Trinity's palms, and Trinity did it again just to hear the sound Yolanda made—a soft, desperate thing that went straight between her legs.

"Trinity—"

She leaned down, replacing one hand with her mouth, and Yolanda's whole body arched into her. Trinity's tongue circled slowly, deliberately, and Yolanda's fingers tangled in her hair, not directing, just holding, her grip tightening with every flick of Trinity's tongue.

Trinity sucked gently, and Yolanda's hips bucked up hard, her thighs squeezing around Trinity's waist. The sound she made was raw, unfiltered, and Trinity felt it echo through her own body, her pulse hammering between her legs.

She switched to the other side, giving it the same attention, and Yolanda's hands moved restlessly over her shoulders, her back, her arms, like she couldn't decide where to touch. Her head thrashed slightly against the seat, her neck arched, and Trinity had to stop for a moment just to look at her.

Yolanda Garcia, the woman who walked into operating rooms like she owned them, who could reduce interns to stammering with a single raised eyebrow, who had never once in her life looked anything less than completely in control—was falling apart right in front of her.

"You're so pretty," Trinity said, and she meant it so much it hurt.

Yolanda's eyes darkened, her hands sliding down Trinity's sides, gripping her hips and pulling her forward. Trinity's center pressed against Yolanda's thigh, and even through the layers of their clothes, the contact made her gasp.

"Take these off," Yolanda said, tugging at Trinity's pants. Her voice was rougher now, less polished, and Trinity had never heard anything hotter.

She sat up just enough to shove her pants down her hips, kicking them off somewhere with her shoes. Her underwear went with them—she didn't remember making that decision, but suddenly she was naked from the waist down, straddling Yolanda's thigh, and the skin-to-skin contact made them both freeze for half a second.

Yolanda's hands came to rest on her bare hips, thumbs stroking the crease where her thighs met her body. Her eyes were dark, hungry, traveling down Trinity's body and back up again.

Trinity leaned down to kiss her, and the angle was different now, more desperate. Yolanda's thigh was pressed right where she needed it, and she couldn't help the small, involuntary roll of her hips, the friction sending sparks up her spine.

Yolanda's hands moved to her ass, gripping, guiding, and Trinity rocked against her again, harder this time, a moan escaping into Yolanda's mouth.

"Like that?" Yolanda murmured against her lips.

"Yes—fuck, yes—I want" She gasped. “Ah—I need your fingers.”

Yolanda's voice was rougher now, strained. "Tell me exactly what you want."

Trinity lifted her head, meeting her eyes. Yolanda's pupils were blown wide, her lips swollen, her hair a mess against the seat. She looked wrecked already, and Trinity had barely touched her.

"Inside me," Trinity said, her voice steady despite the way her thighs were trembling. "I want your fingers inside me. Now."

Yolanda's smile was sharp and immediate, her hands already moving. "That's my girl."

Her fingers slid beneath the fabric, past her underwear, and Trinity's whole body tensed when she felt how wet she was, how easily Yolanda's fingers found her.

"You're soaked," Yolanda said, and there was awe in her voice, a roughness that made Trinity's stomach clench.

"You did that."

"Yeah, I did." Yolanda's fingers circled slowly, just barely touching, and Trinity let out a sound that was half sob, half moan. "Look at you. Desperate for me."

Trinity's hands fisted in Yolanda's jacket. "Yolanda—"

"Tell me how much you want it."

"I need—" Trinity's hips bucked, trying to get more contact, but Yolanda's hand held steady, maddeningly slow. "Please. I need you to fuck me. I've been thinking about it all week, every time you walked past me in the hall, every time you said my name in rounds—"

Yolanda's eyes darkened. "Yeah?"

"I touch myself thinking about your hands," Trinity breathed, and Yolanda's composure finally cracked.

Her fingers plunged inside, two at once, and Trinity cried out, her head thrown back, her hands scrabbling for purchase on Yolanda's shoulders. Yolanda's other hand gripped her hip, holding her steady as she set a rhythm—deep, deliberate, her palm grinding against Trinity's clit with every thrust.

"Fuck," Trinity gasped. "Fuck, just like that."

"You feel so good," Yolanda said, her voice strained, her forehead pressed to Trinity's chest. "So tight, so wet—been thinking about this too, you know. What it would be like walking into the ER and seeing you in scrubs, knowing what's underneath them."

Trinity's rhythm faltered, pleasure coiling hot and tight in her belly. "Yolanda—"

"Close?" Yolanda's fingers curled inside her, finding the spot that made Trinity see stars. "You gonna come for me? Right here in the car like you've been dying to?"

"Yes—fuck, yes—don't stop—"

Yolanda didn't stop. Her thumb found Trinity's clit, pressing in tight circles, her fingers thrusting harder, faster, her mouth on Trinity's neck, teeth grazing that sensitive spot again.

"Come on," Yolanda murmured against her skin. "I want to feel you come apart on my fingers. Want to feel you squeeze me when you let go."

Trinity's orgasm hit her like a wave, sudden and overwhelming, her body arching into Yolanda's as she gasped out something that might have been a name or just sound. Yolanda worked her through it, fingers slowing, softening, until Trinity was slumped against her, shaking, her face buried in Yolanda's neck.

They stayed like that for a moment, Trinity's breath hot and uneven against Yolanda's skin. Yolanda's hand was still inside her scrubs, fingers still inside her, motionless now, like she didn't want to let go.

"Holy shit," Trinity mumbled.

Yolanda's laugh was breathless, her lips pressing to Trinity's temple. "Yeah."

Trinity lifted her head, looking at Yolanda properly. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright, her chest heaving like she'd just run a sprint. Trinity reached down, catching Yolanda's wrist, pulling her hand out slowly.

Yolanda's fingers were glistening, and Trinity watched her eyes track the movement as she brought them to her own lips, cleaning them slowly, deliberately.

Trinity pulled back just enough to look at her, and something in her expression made Yolanda's breath catch. There was heat there, yes, but something else too—a focus, an intention that made Yolanda's stomach tighten in anticipation.

"My turn to take care of you," Trinity said, softer this time, her fingers tracing down Yolanda's sternum.

Yolanda's hands came up to Trinity's wrists—not stopping her, just holding, her thumbs pressing against Trinity's pulse points like she was checking for herself that Trinity's heart was racing as fast as hers.

"You don't have to—" Yolanda started, the words automatic, reflexive.

Trinity silenced her with a look. "I know I don't have to. I want to."

Something shifted in Yolanda's expression—a crack in her composure, a flicker of uncertainty that was so unlike her that Trinity's chest tightened. This was a woman who was always in control, always the one giving, always the one calling the shots. Being on the receiving end was unfamiliar territory, and it showed in the way her fingers flexed against Trinity's wrists, the way her thighs pressed together like she was bracing herself.

Trinity leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Yolanda's mouth. "Let me," she murmured against her lips. "Please."

Yolanda's eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and when they opened again, something had loosened in her. Her grip on Trinity's wrists relaxed, her hands sliding up to Trinity's shoulders instead.

"Okay," she breathed.

The word sent a bolt of heat straight through Trinity's core. She kissed Yolanda again, deeper this time, and felt Yolanda melt into it—felt the tension bleed out of her shoulders, felt her hands slide into Trinity's hair, felt her hips tilt up instinctively.

Trinity pulled back, sliding off Yolanda's lap and onto her knees on the floor of the car. The position was awkward, the space cramped, but she made it work, her hands finding the button of Yolanda's pants.

Yolanda's breath hitched, her hands flying down to grip Trinity's shoulders again. "Trinity—"

"Shh." Trinity pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee, then higher, her fingers working the zipper down. "I've got you."

Yolanda's thighs trembled beneath her hands. Trinity could feel the tension still thrumming through her—not resistance, exactly, but something close. A woman who'd spent so long being the one in charge that surrendering control felt like standing on the edge of a cliff.

Trinity looked up at her, meeting her eyes. "You're thinking too much."

A huff of laughter escaped Yolanda's lips, unsteady. "I'm always thinking too much."

"Not tonight." Trinity tugged at the waistband of her pants. "Lift up."

Yolanda obeyed, her hips rising off the seat, and Trinity pulled her pants down her legs, tossing them somewhere into the front seat. Her underwear went with them, and for a moment Trinity just knelt there, taking her in.

Yolanda was gorgeous like this—sprawled across the back seat, shirt hanging open, chest heaving, dark hair wild around her face. Her hands were fisted at her sides now, her knuckles white, and Trinity realized she was gripping the seat leather to stop herself from reaching out, from taking control.

It made Trinity want to ruin her.

"You have no idea," Trinity said, her voice dropping low, "how long I've wanted to do this."

Yolanda's laugh was breathless, her hips shifting restlessly. "Then stop talking and do it."

Trinity grinned and lowered her mouth to the inside of Yolanda's thigh.

Yolanda jerked like she'd been shocked, a gasp tearing out of her, one hand flying to Trinity's hair. But she didn't pull, didn't guide—just held, her fingers tangling in the dark curls, her hips twitching involuntarily as Trinity kissed her way higher, slower, deliberately.

"Trinity—" Yolanda's voice was strained, desperate.

"Tell me what you want," Trinity said against her skin.

"I want—" Yolanda's hips rolled, seeking. "I want you to stop teasing."

Trinity hummed, and she felt Yolanda shudder. "Since you asked so nicely."

She put her mouth on her, and Yolanda's reaction was immediate, visceral. Her hips bucked off the seat, a raw, guttural sound ripping from her throat, her hand tightening in Trinity's hair hard enough to sting. Trinity held her steady, one arm across her hips, anchoring her to the seat, and worked her with a focus that made Yolanda's legs tremble and shake.

"Fuck—" Yolanda's voice cracked, her head thrashing against the seat back. "Right there—don't stop—"

Trinity didn't. She found a rhythm, slow and deep, her tongue working in steady strokes that made Yolanda's thighs clamp around her head, her whole body pulling tight like a wire about to snap.

Yolanda was loud now, all pretense abandoned. Her moans filled the car, bouncing off the fogged windows, her hips grinding against Trinity's face in desperate, uncoordinated circles. Her hand was fisted in Trinity's hair so tight it hurt, but Trinity didn't care—she was lost in the taste of her, the smell of her, the way Yolanda was coming apart beneath her.

"You're so beautiful like this," Trinity murmured against her, and Yolanda sobbed, her inner muscles clenching around nothing.

"Inside—I need you inside—"

Trinity slid two fingers into her, curling them just right, and Yolanda screamed.

It was a broken, desperate sound, her back bowing off the seat, her body clamping down around Trinity's fingers like she was trying to keep her there. Trinity worked her through it, her mouth staying on her, her fingers pumping steady and deep, drawing out every last tremor until Yolanda was gasping, trembling, her hand pushing weakly at Trinity's shoulder.

"Too much—Trinity, too much—"

Trinity gentled immediately, pulling her mouth away, her fingers slowing to soft, shallow strokes. She pressed kisses to Yolanda's thigh, her hip, her stomach, waiting for Yolanda's breathing to even out before she pulled her fingers free.

Yolanda was wrecked. Her face was flushed, her lips parted, her chest heaving. A fine sheen of sweat covered her skin, and her hair was spread across the seat like dark silk. Her hands were still trembling where they lay limp at her sides.

Trinity crawled up her body, settling between her legs, and kissed her. Yolanda's lips parted for her immediately, and she could taste herself on Trinity’s mouth, could feel the aftershocks still rippling through her thighs.

When they broke apart, Yolanda was staring at her with something like wonder.

"That was—" Yolanda started, her voice wrecked, barely more than a whisper.

"Yeah," Trinity said, grinning, breathless.

Yolanda's hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing over her swollen lips, her jaw still slick. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Trinity's grin widened. "College was a fun time."

Yolanda laughed, the sound shaking on the way out, and pulled her down for another kiss. Trinity went willingly, folding into her, feeling Yolanda's arms wrap around her and hold on tight.

They lay there for a long moment, tangled together in the cramped back seat, the city humming outside the fogged windows. Yolanda's fingers traced lazy patterns on Trinity's back, and Trinity pressed soft, absent kisses to her collarbone, her shoulder, the spot beneath her ear that made her shiver.

"I should probably drive you home," Yolanda said eventually, her voice still rough.

"Probably," Trinity agreed, making no move to get up.

"Surgery in the morning."

"You keep saying that."

Yolanda's laugh rumbled through her chest, and Trinity felt it everywhere. "I'm going to be so tired tomorrow."

Trinity lifted her head, looking down at her. "Worth it?"

Yolanda's eyes were soft, unguarded in a way Trinity had never seen before. Her hand came up to push a curl off Trinity's forehead.

"So worth it," she said.

Trinity kissed her again, then pulled back, reaching for her clothes on the floor of the car.

Trinity glanced at the clock on the dashboard. "We've got four hours."

"Don't remind me."

They finished dressing in comfortable silence, the earlier heat settling into something looser, easier. Trinity found her shirt crumpled under the passenger seat and shrugged it on, reaching for the door handle.

"I'll drive you," Yolanda said, already turning the key in the ignition.

"You don't have to. I'm ten minutes away."

Yolanda shot her a look—the same one she used in the ER when a resident suggested something stupid. "It's two in the morning. Get in the car."

Trinity opened her mouth to argue, saw the expression on Yolanda's face, and closed it again. She pulled the door shut and buckled her seatbelt.

"Yes, Dr. Garcia."

Yolanda's jaw tightened, but Trinity caught the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth as she pulled away from the curb. They drove through the empty streets, the city quiet around them, the only sound the low hum of the engine and the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement.

Yolanda's hand was on the center console, her fingers drumming lightly against the leather. Trinity watched her for a moment—the way the streetlights caught her profile, the way her hair was still slightly messy despite her attempts to fix it, the way her sweater was a little crumpled.

They pulled up outside Trinity's building a few minutes later. The street was dark, the old brick townhouse quiet, most of the windows blacked out. Trinity reached for the door handle, then paused.

"Same time tomorrow?" she asked.

Yolanda turned to look at her, one arm resting on the steering wheel. "You're assuming I want to do this again."

Trinity raised an eyebrow. "Do you?"

Yolanda's gaze dropped to her mouth for a fraction of a second, then back up. "I'll pick you up at eight."

Trinity smiled, slow and satisfied. "Goodnight, Garcia."

She leaned across the console and kissed her once, quick and firm, before Yolanda could say anything else. Then she was out of the car, the door closing behind her, her boots loud on the pavement as she walked toward her building.

She was halfway to the front steps when she heard the window roll down.

"Trinity."

She turned. Yolanda was leaning across the passenger seat, her face half-lit by the dashboard lights.

Trinity waited.

Yolanda held her gaze for a moment, then nodded once. "Goodnight."

Trinity smiled. 

She unlocked the door and stepped inside. Through the glass, she saw Yolanda's car still there, the engine idling. Trinity gave a small wave, and only then did Yolanda pull away, taillights disappearing around the corner.

Trinity leaned against the doorframe, watching the empty street, and let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

Tomorrow at eight, then.