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Victoria wakes up slowly, like she’s surfacing through something warm.
Not abruptly, not with the usual jolt of awareness that comes with alarms and responsibilities and the immediate, pressing sense that she’s already behind on something. This is different. This is the kind of waking that feels like it happens in layers.
First, it's the soft recognition of light behind her eyelids, the distant hum of the city filtering through the window, and then—
Weight.
There’s weight at her waist, steady and familiar, like something placed there with intention and then forgotten in the best possible way. Trinity’s arm. It takes Victoria a second to fully register it, to let the realization settle instead of startling her out of it.
She stays still.
Careful. Like the moment is something delicate, something that might fold in on itself if she moves too quickly, breathes too sharply, or thinks too loudly.
Victoria exhales slowly, and only then lets herself shift, just enough to tilt her head back to catch a glance of the person behind the weight, the person whose arm was currently wrapping around her.
Trinity is still asleep.
Her face is softer like this, Victoria notices. In bed, she's stripped of the sharp edges she carries so easily when she’s awake. There’s a crease pressed into her cheek from the pillowcase, her hair pushed in the wrong direction, her mouth slightly parted in a way that feels unguarded. It’s such a small thing, that lack of awareness, but it makes something in Victoria’s chest pull tight and then loosen all at once.
She reaches out before she decides to.
Her fingers hover first, like they’re asking permission from something she can’t quite name, then settle lightly against Trinity’s wrist where it rests over her.
Warm. Solid. Real.
Victoria presses her lips together, feeling something unfamiliar rise in her throat. Something a little bit sharp, a little bit overwhelming. She's emotional, and it's really showing now.
This is hers.
That thought still surprises her, even now. There was a time—not even that long ago—when she wouldn’t have believed she could exist inside something this steady, with Trinity no less, without ruining it somehow.
Trinity shifts.
Victoria freezes immediately, her hand still resting where she left it.
There’s a small, half-formed sound—something between a sigh and a protest—and then Trinity’s arm tightens slightly around her waist, pulling her closer. Trinity's bare chest presses against Victoria's back, and somehow, Victoria can hear the constant thump of her slowed heart.
“Don’t,” Trinity murmurs, her voice still rough and low. “I know you're considering getting up to study, Vic. Don't.”
Victoria blinks.
“I wasn’t—” she starts, automatically, because of course she always explains, always clarifies, always tries to get ahead of things before they can be misunderstood.
But the words feel unnecessary the second they leave her mouth, because Trinity doesn’t respond to them, nor does she seem to find the need to.
“Stay,” Trinity adds, softer this time. “Please?”
And that—more than anything—stills whatever instinct Victoria had to move away, to give space, or to make herself smaller. It's nice. Trinity nice. And Victoria would love nothing more than to stay, so she says: “…okay.”
Even when the light gets brighter. Even when the edges of the day start to press in from the light out the window, reminding her that there are things to do, responsibilities waiting just outside this room. Even when she becomes aware, slowly, of her own breathing, of the way it’s started to match Trinity’s without her noticing. She stays.
(She stays until the moment doesn’t feel fragile anymore, until it feels like something that won’t disappear the second she lets it go, and lets her eyes close.)
Just a second longer, she reasons. Then I'll get up.
~
By the time they make it to the kitchen, the world has fully caught up with them. The cars outside hum with life. A siren from far away blares. Everyone seems to be outside today, everybody but them.
Victoria is barefoot, slightly off-balance in that way she had never quite grown out of, navigating around the corner of the counter like it might move if she isn’t paying attention. Then she reaches for a mug, almost knocks another one over, but luckily catches it at the last second with a quick, clumsy hand that she hopes looks more intentional than it feels.
She can feel Trinity watching from the doorway before she even turns.
“Graceful as always,” Trinity teases, voice still edged with sleep.
Victoria sets the mug down carefully. (Very, very carefully.)
“They’re fine.” She then gestures to the two mugs on the counter, clearing her throat. She turns around to give a pointed look at Trinity. “I'm fine too. So.”
“I don’t know… You nearly smashed two things before our morning coffee. Might be a new record, Crash.”
“I can't believe you still call me that. You're so immature.” Victoria huffs, flushing, before leaning back against the counter like she’s choosing to be there and not like she needs something solid behind her.
“Am I wrong, though?”
Trinity steps into the kitchen, dragging a hand through her hair in a way that only makes it messier, in a prettier, hotter way. There’s something unfair about how natural she looks doing it, like effort has never quite applied to her in the same way. If Victoria wasn't so in love, she might be jealous.
She turns back around to the counter when she catches a glimpse of Trinity’s smirk.
She focuses on the things in front of her instead: Coffee grounds.
“I didn’t drop anything,” she clarifies, then fiddles with a mug, almost like she’s presenting evidence.
There’s a pause.
Then, closer—
“No,” Trinity agrees.
Victoria glances over her shoulder.
Trinity is right there now, reaching out, wrapping her arms around Victoria before resting her head on her shoulder “You didn’t,” she repeats, her voice a little more serious now. “Good job, Vic.”
It’s simple. It's not a joke, not a setup. Victoria doesn’t know why that feels different, but it does.
“Oh,” she says, her brain short circuiting. Her neck flushes red, and she really hopes Trinity hasn't noticed how her pulse had picked up the pace.
She turns back to the counter, pours the coffee grounds into a small cup more steadily than she expects herself to. No spill, no slip, no small disaster waiting to happen.
It shouldn’t feel like an accomplishment. In comparison to everything she's done, it's not, but…
It does anyway.
(Even more so when Trinity gives her a kiss on the cheek.)
~
They end up at the table with mismatched mugs and coffee and a piece of paper that’s supposed to be a grocery list but currently just says milk in Victoria’s slightly too-neat handwriting. (Trinity's mug has a dancing pug on it. Victoria's is purple with silver stars.)
She’s been staring at it for long enough that it’s starting to feel like the word itself is losing meaning.
“What are you thinking about?” Trinity asks.
Victoria taps the pen against the paper, once, twice, three times. “There are different kinds,” she mutters.
Trinity blinks owlishly. “Of… of milk?”
“Yes.”
Trinity leans back in her chair, watching her in that way that always makes Victoria feel like she’s being studied for something she didn’t realize was being evaluated. “Whole. Two percent. Almond. Oat. Chocolate. Strawberry,” Trinity lists, taking a sip from her mug. The pug on her mug seems to stare right in Victoria's eyes. “Yeah, for sure. So many different kinds. The world’s your oyster, babe.”
Victoria presses her lips together. “I’m just trying to pick the right one.”
“For what?”
Victoria opens her mouth, closes it, then fiddles with her pen the way she does back at work and she's trying to think of what note to write for a patient.
“…general use.” she says finally.
Trinity huffs a quiet laugh sharply, sounding just amused enough to soften the edges of it. “You’re overthinking dairy.”
“I’m not overthinking…”
Trinity looks at her pointedly. “You kinda are. C’mon, babe. Pick a random one. Let's be spontaneous.”
Victoria looks down at the list again, like it might defend her, then sighs: “I just don’t want to get the wrong one.”
There’s a pause. It's not too long, but it stretches, just slightly, into something that feels more deliberate and thoughtful.
“Then we’ll get another one next time,” Trinity says certainly.
Victoria looks up. The simplicity of it lets something loose in her chest, something warm and endearing and everything she could have ever hoped for. Next time.
“But,” she starts, remembering what her parents used to say, frowning slightly, “that’s… not efficient.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Trinity says.
Victoria waits for the rest of it to follow. She waits for the teasing, the comment about her need to optimize everything, the easy deflection that would turn this back into something lighter.
(It doesn’t come.)
Instead, Trinity shrugs slightly, kind of halfheartedly, like the answer is obvious.
“It’s just milk, Vic. It's alright if it's not, quote unquote, the right one. How will we know if anything's the right choice if we don't at least give it a try?”
Victoria lets that settle into somewhere deeper than it should for something so small.
Right, she reasons. It's just milk, and it's just Saturday.
That's all.
She sighs, “…okay.”
She writes it down again without specifying.
(Milk??)
(Just milk.)
(Her handwriting is a little looser this time.)
~
The grocery store is too bright in a way that feels almost industrial, like it’s trying to wake them up from whatever warm, fuzzy dream they had together this morning.
Victoria doesn’t like it. The openness, the noise that isn’t loud but isn’t quiet either, the way everything is arranged to suggest order while still offering too many choices at once.
She reaches for a cart.
And her hand misses the handle the first time.
Jesus.
She corrects quickly, grabs it on the second, already pretending it didn’t happen, but it's already being pulled away. “I’ve got it,” Trinity assures.
Victoria frowns. “I can push a cart, Trin.”
“I know,” Trinity states, but she doesn’t let go.
Victoria considers pushing back, just slightly, just enough to prove a point, but… Never mind, she decides, she'll let Trinity have this one, and releases the cart with a huff.
They move through the aisles slowly, not really following the list in order. Trinity steers with one hand, the other occasionally pushing or guiding Victoria to the side of the aisle, closer to her, like she’s checking that she’s still there without needing to look.
Victoria picks things up, reads labels she doesn’t fully process, before she sets them back down. She'll reach again, then hesitate, then shift her weight like she’s trying to settle into a rhythm she hasn’t quite found yet.
“You’ve been holding that for a while,” Trinity says after a while of standing in the chill of the dairy aisle. She shudders, teeth chattering. “You alright?”
Victoria looks down.
Strawberry Yogurt.
She doesn’t even remember picking it up.
“I’m comparing,” she defends.
“Just like with the milk?” Trinity tilts her head. “Tell me honestly, Vic. Are you actually comparing?”
Victoria sighs. Pauses. Then she looks back at the variety of yogurt on display and shakes her head. “I just... I don't want to pick the wrong one, and taking my time means I haven't picked the wrong one yet, you know? I just... Never mind. I don't know. Give me a little more time, please?"
Trinity sighs. Then, she takes it from Victoria's hand and drops it into the cart with an easy, unthinking motion. “Decision made. The jury will decide tonight if it's a good decision. If it's wrong, it's wrong, and if it's right, it's right. Maybe we can eat some over Love Island, or the Pott?”
Victoria exhales, a small, reluctant smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She won't say so, but she appreciates that Trinity for putting her worries to rest. “You know, you're kind of impulsive.”
Trinity grins. “In other words: your words, by the way: I'm efficient. Besides. If we just stand around waiting on yogurt the whole time, we would've missed out on some time we could've been cuddling and judging if this yogurt was really the right pick."
Victoria shakes her head with a laugh, but something about it feels lighter now.
They reach the eggs. Its the last thing on the list.
Rows of cartons, identical at a glance. Pale, clean, quietly waiting to be chosen. There’s something almost calming about it, the neat repetition, the predictability of it.
She picks up a carton, turning it over out of habit more than anything else, checking without really needing to. It’s automatic now, a small rhythm she’s settled into—look, assess, decide. The same process she's been trying to adopt in the ER at a more efficient pace.
Everything’s fine.
Of course it is. So instead of picking up another carton, she keeps this one, the first one, in her hand.
She sets it into the cart with an easy kind of care. There's nothing dramatic about it, nothing fragile.
Just done. “Got the eggs.”
Trinity watches her. Not the eggs, the eggs that could be the wrong kind, just-
Her.
“Yeah,” Trinity says. A small beat passes, unhurried. She grins. “Good job.”
Victoria blinks, hating how she blushes so easily. “Good job? At… groceries?”
Trinity’s mouth pulls at something akin to a giddy smile. “At being impulsive. It's more efficient, wouldn't you say?”
She pauses, and licks her lips. “Impulsiveness… It's pretty on you, Crash.”
It’s said lightly, like it could be a joke if Victoria wanted it to be, but it isn’t, not really.
(Victoria feels it settle somewhere warm, somewhere steady.)
“…I try,” she says, finally, flushing from her neck.
Then Trinity nods once, like that’s enough, like it's more than enough. (That was one thing Victoria liked about Trinity. Everything she's ever tried, as long as she tried – it was more than enough.)
They move on without making it into anything bigger.
“Now,” Trinity declares, voice lowered, pushing the cart along. “Let's get to the checkout, shall we? So we can test out that yogurt you picked?”
~
On the way to checkout, Trinity’s hand brushes against her sleeve again, and it's the same quiet, grounding touch as before, back in bed.
Victoria doesn’t think about it this time.
(She doesn’t pause, analyze, or freeze.)
She just lets her arm shift slightly closer, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.