Archive of Our Own

The karaoke bar had been her idea, which meant it had been a good one. Two hours of bad acoustics and worse song choices and Mel absolutely destroying an Alanis Morissette song while Trinity laughed until her ribs hurt. It had been exactly the kind of evening she hadn't known she needed after the day she'd had.

She sat in a booth near the back, her half-finished beer sweating a ring onto the scratched wooden table, and she told herself she was going to leave. Any minute now. She was going to drain the last inch of lukewarm beer, fish her keys out of her jacket pocket, and drive home to her apartment where she would collapse face-first into bed and not think about anything until her alarm went off at five-thirty.

Mel had gone half an hour ago, sensible as always, with a hug and a get some sleep that Trinity had absolutely intended to follow.

She swirled the dregs of her beer, watching the foam cling to the glass. Langdon was back. That was the headline, she was not going to spend her night off turning it over looking for new angles because there weren't any. He was back, Robby was leaving, and she had spent the last ten months being a pariah for doing the right thing, which was fine.

She was fine. She was just tired.

Dr. Al-Hashimi hadn't helped either. New attending, first day, and the woman had come in like she was rearranging furniture, clipboards and AI systems and pointed comments about Trinity's charting in front of the whole department. You wouldn't want to repeat your R2 year again. Said with that particular calm that somehow made it worse than if she'd just yelled. Trinity had wanted, genuinely, to say something she would have regretted professionally. She hadn't. That was growth.

To be fair, the woman was a remarkable doctor. Trinity had watched her take command of the trauma bay like she'd been born in one, voice low and steady, hands sure, every decision crisp and confident. Oh. So she's actually incredible.

Still annoying.

It was confusing. Being terrified of someone and impressed by them at the same time. Trinity didn't know what to do with that.

So she sat in the bar and drank her beer and didn't leave.

The door opened.

Trinity didn't look up right away. People came and went from bars. But something made her glance toward the entrance.

And there she was.

Baran Al-Hashimi walked in alone, and Trinity's brain short-circuited for a solid three seconds.

Trinity took a sip of her beer and kept watching.

It didn't take long. Maybe five minutes. A man in his late thirties, drifted toward the bar. Stocky, wearing a polo shirt like he'd come from a golf course or a country club, the kind of man who was probably full of himself. He had that look in his eyes, he saw a beautiful woman sitting alone and interpreted it as an invitation.

Trinity could see him approaching, could see the way he angled his body toward Baran's stool, could see him lean one elbow on the bar. She was close enough to hear if she focused, but far enough away to be just another patron. Just watching.

"Hey there," the man said. His voice carried in the gaps between the music. "Haven't seen you around here before. New in town?"

Baran turned her head slightly. Her expression was polite, the same professional tone she used with difficult patients. "No, I’m not."

"I'm Mike." He extended a hand. Baran shook it. Brief. Correct.

"Baran."

"That's a beautiful name. Where's it from?"

"Iraq. Originally."

"Oh, wow. Long way from home." Mike smiled. It was the kind of smile that probably worked on a lot of women. Confident, warm, a little too familiar. "Well, if you ever need a local guide, I'm your guy. I know all the best spots."

Trinity watched Baran's posture shift. Subtle. A slight straightening of the spine, a fractional tilt of the chin. The kind of body language that said I am being polite but I really don’t want to be.

"That's very kind," Baran said, her tone still friendly. "But I'm not really looking for a guide."

"Sure, sure. But you know, it's always nice to have someone show you around. Make you feel welcome." Mike shifted closer. His hand was on the bar now, inches from Baran's glass. "A woman like you shouldn't be drinking alone."

A woman like you. Trinity's jaw tightened.

"I prefer it, actually," Baran said. The friendliness was thinning. "I've had a long day and I'd rather just enjoy my drink in peace."

"Come on, don't be like that. I'm just being friendly." Mike laughed. It was a sound that made Trinity's skin crawl, the laugh of a man who thought persistence was charming.

Trinity noticed the moment Baran's patience snapped. She turned to face Mike fully, and her expression was something Trinity recognized. She'd seen it in the ER, right before Baran told a combative patient exactly how things were going to go.

"I’m a lesbian, Mike," Baran said, her voice low and even and absolutely devoid of warmth. "And definitely not interested."

The words landed in the air between them like a dropped instrument in a silent ER.

Trinity's hand stopped halfway to her glass. Her drink sat forgotten, condensation pooling around the base. She sat up straighter in the booth, something unexpected sparking through her chest.

A lesbian.

She hadn't—it hadn't even occurred to her. Which was stupid, in retrospect, because it shouldn't matter, because who Baran Al-Hashimi was or wasn't attracted to had absolutely nothing to do with their job.

Mike, predictably, did not take it well.

He laughed again. Louder this time. "Oh, come on. You know, you just haven't found the right man yet. That's all it is." He leaned in, and Trinity saw his hand move, saw it drift from the bar toward Baran's leg, casual and entitled and presumptuous. "A woman like you, all serious and intense, you just need someone who can show you how it's done."

Trinity was moving before he finished his sentence.

Her body was out of the booth, her boots on the sticky floor, her legs carrying her across the bar. She didn't think about it. Thinking would have meant considering the implications—her attending, her boss, the woman who could end her residency with a single word—and Trinity couldn't afford to think about any of that right now because Mike's hand was almost on Baran's leg and Baran's expression had gone very, very still.

She stepped between them.

Her hand found Baran's back, the fabric of her tank top warm under her palm, the curve of her shoulder blade beneath, and Trinity slid into the space Mike had occupied like she'd been invited. She was close enough to smell Baran's perfume, something dark and faintly spiced, and close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her body.

"Sorry, babe," Trinity said, and her voice came out steadier than she felt. She let the word sit there, and she winked. Dennis would have called insane and career suicide and the hottest thing he’d ever seen, all at the same time. "Line for the bathroom was so long. Hope you didn't miss me too much."

She turned to Mike.

"And you are?"

She squared her body. Made herself as tall as she could manage, which was not very tall at all, Mike had a good eight inches on her, and broader shoulders. Trinity didn't care. She planted her feet and looked up at him with the same expression she used on patients who refused to go to the ICU.

Mike blinked. Looked at Trinity. Looked at Baran. Looked back at Trinity.

For a moment—just a moment—Trinity thought it might work.

"What?" Mike said. "You really think I'm going to fall for that trick?" His eyes narrowed. "I bet you don't even know her!"

The words hung in the air, and Trinity felt a warmth, the ghost of a touch at her shoulder. Then Baran's hand was there, settling on her shoulder with a weight that was both grounding and electric, and Trinity felt the older woman's body press close to her side.

"I believe the gentleman was just leaving," Baran said. Her voice was calm. Almost amused.

Mike scoffed. "Yeah, right. What is this, some kind of—"

"Babe," Baran said.

The word stopped him cold. Baran was looking at Trinity now, her head tilted slightly to one side, and there was something in her expression that Trinity had never seen before, not during any of the hundreds of interactions they'd had today. It was a smirk. A real one. The kind that lived in the corner of her mouth and the crinkle at the corners of her dark eyes, and it was devastating.

"Want to show him how wrong he is?" Baran asked.

The bar seemed to contract around them. The jukebox was still playing. The couple near the window was still arguing. The bartender was still on his phone. But all of it had gone distant and muffled, like Trinity had been submerged in water, and the only thing that was clear and sharp and real was Baran Al-Hashimi's face, tilted toward her, smirking, waiting.

A few seconds passed. They looked at each other. Trinity's heart was hammering so hard she could feel it in her teeth.

Baran's gaze dropped to Trinity's lips. Just for a moment. Just long enough to make the implication unmistakable.

Trinity's eyes widened.

And then something happened. She saw herself turn. Saw herself close the distance between them. Saw her hand—the same hand that had been on Baran's back—fall to her waist, and then her other hand was there too, and she was standing next to Baran's knee, and the woman’s hands were on her jaw, both sides, cradling her face with a gentleness that made her chest ache.

She kissed her.

It was timid at first. A press of lips, soft and brief, the kind of kiss you give someone when you're not entirely sure they want it. Trinity felt Baran's mouth against hers, warm, tasting faintly of whiskey, something older and more elegant than the cheap beer Trinity had been drinking all night, and her brain went beautifully, catastrophically blank.

Then she kissed her again.

Longer this time. Slower. Baran's lips moved against hers a way that made Trinity's knees go weak, and she leaned in, her hands sliding from Baran's waist to her shoulders, and the kiss deepened into something that was no longer timid at all.

Behind her, she could feel Mike. His presence, his irritation, the heat of his disbelief. It fueled her. She didn't know why—maybe it was the beers, maybe it was the stress of the day, maybe it was the way Baran's hands felt on her face, careful and sure at the same time—but the knowledge that he was standing there watching, that he was angry, sent a spark of defiance through her chest, and she took charge.

She deepened the kiss. Opened her mouth. Baran made a sound—small, surprised, a soft mmh that vibrated against Trinity's lips—and then she was kissing back, really kissing back, and Trinity's left hand found Baran's thigh, resting there, anchoring herself. The muscle was firm under her palm, warm through the fabric of her pants, and the contact sent a jolt of electricity up Trinity's arm.

She kissed her deeper. Tongue, open mouth, the full messy reality of it. She could taste the whiskey on Baran's tongue, could feel the slight tremor in the hands still cradling her jaw, and she thought, distantly, I am kissing my attending in a bar and I cannot stop and I do not want to stop. The alcohol was a warm hum in her bloodstream, enough to dissolve the barriers, not enough to blunt the clarity of what she was doing. She knew exactly how bad an idea this was. She kissed her anyway.

They kept going. A minute, maybe more. Trinity lost track. The bar, the music, Mike, the entire outside world, all of it dissolved into the heat of Baran's mouth, the grip of her hands tightening on Trinity's neck, fingers curling into the collar of her shirt, pulling her closer. Trinity's hand on Baran's thigh pressed harder, and Baran's other hand slid into her hair, and the kiss became something that had nothing to do with Mike or the ruse or anything except the two of them and the impossible, electric fact of it.

When they finally broke apart, it was like surfacing from deep water.

They stayed close. Foreheads almost touching, breath mingling in the narrow space between their lips. Trinity could feel Baran's exhale against her mouth, warm and uneven, and she could see the faint flush along the older woman's cheekbones, the way her pupils were blown wide and dark.

"Is Mike still standing behind me?" Trinity whispered.

Baran's eyes, which had been fixed on Trinity's lips, lifted to meet hers. She shook her head slowly. A ghost of a smile.

Trinity's stomach dropped.

The reality of what she'd just done crashed over her like a cold wave. She'd just kissed Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi. Her attending. The woman who could make her repeat her R2. The woman she'd known for exactly one day. In a bar. In front of a stranger. With tongue.

"I'm sorry," Trinity said, the words tumbling out fast and breathless. "I know you were handling it, I know you had it under control, but he was—he was pissing me off, and I just—"

"Trinity."

Baran's voice was gentle. Not the tone she used with patients, but something warmer, something that reached across the space between them and settled on Trinity's shoulder like a hand.

"It's okay," Baran said. "Really. He was... persistent."

"He was an asshole."

"That too." Baran's mouth curved. She was still close, still holding Trinity's face, and she seemed to realize it at the same moment Trinity did. Slowly, she let her hands fall. Trinity took a small step back, but her hand was still on Baran's thigh, and she didn't seem to be able to make it move. Her fingers had developed their own agenda.

Baran glanced down at the hand. Then back up at Trinity. One eyebrow lifted, just slightly.

Trinity yanked her hand back like she'd been burned. "Sorry. I—sorry."

"You apologize a lot," Baran observed.

"I'm a resident. It's in the job description."

The corner of Baran's mouth twitched. She picked up her glass, took a slow sip of whiskey, and regarded Trinity over the rim with an expression that was impossible to read. Amused, maybe, or thoughtful, or something else entirely.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Baran asked. "As a thank you. For the... intervention."

Trinity hesitated. Every rational part of her brain was screaming at her to say no, to grab her jacket, to leave, to pretend none of this had ever happened. But there was another part of her, louder and less reasonable, that was still buzzing from the kiss, still tasting whiskey, still feeling the ghost of Baran's hands on her face.

"Yeah," she said. "Okay."

She slid onto the stool next to Baran and the bartender appeared like he'd been summoned. Trinity ordered another beer. Baran was already signaling for a refill of her whiskey.

They sat in silence for a moment. The jukebox had switched to something slower, a ballad that Trinity half-recognized. The couple near the window had stopped arguing and were now sitting in stony silence, which was arguably worse.

"I owe you an apology too," Baran said finally. She was looking at her glass, turning it slowly in her hands. "For today. I was... hard on you."

Trinity blinked. "You said if I didn't finish my charts—"

"I know what I said." Baran's jaw tightened. "And I meant it. But I could’ve been nicer." She paused. Chose her words. "I came in today and I started shouting orders at everyone like a cowboy. That wasn't fair. You didn't deserve that."

Trinity stared at her. In the dim light of the bar, with her hair down and her guard down and her lips, the way lips got after being kissed properly, Baran Al-Hashimi looked less like an attending and more like a person who was very, very tired.

"You did barge in like a cowboy," Trinity said. "For the record."

"I know."

"You made me redo a perfectly good IV placement because it wasn't your way."

"It was a 20-gauge in a trauma patient. You needed an 18."

"Okay, that one I'll give you. But the charting thing—"

"Was non-negotiable. But I could have said it without making you feel like you were failing." Baran looked at her. "I'm sorry."

The apology landed somewhere in Trinity's chest, warm and unexpected. She picked at the label on her beer bottle.

"I was frustrated all day," Trinity admitted. "Not just because of you. Langdon came back, and everything's been—" She waved a hand vaguely. "It's a lot. And then you show up and you're this whole new thing I have to figure out, and I'm already behind, and—"

"You're overwhelmed."

It wasn't a question.

"Yeah," she said. "I'm overwhelmed."

Baran nodded slowly. She took a sip of her whiskey, and when she spoke again, her voice had shifted lower, more personal, like she was sharing something she didn't usually share.

"I'm scared," she said.

Trinity looked at her. "You're scared?"

"Terrified, actually." A small, self-deprecating smile. "I came from the VA. I took over a department that is losing someone everyone loves. I barely know anyone. I don't know where anything is. I spent today barking orders at people because I didn't know what else to do." She paused. "I'm not good at... being new, bonding."

It was such an unexpected admission that Trinity didn't know what to say for a moment. She watched the way Baran’s eyes dropped to her glass, the slight tension in her jaw, the vulnerability she showed, clearly unused to being seen.

"You hid it well," Trinity said.

"I'm good at hiding things."

"You're a good doctor."

"That’s the easy part." Baran looked at her. "The medicine I know. The people..." She trailed off. Shook her head. "The people are harder."

Trinity understood that. God, did she understand that. The medicine was the easy part. It was everything else, the politics, the personalities, the constant feeling of being watched and judged, that made the job almost unbearable sometimes.

"So we were both just... having a bad day," Trinity said.

"It appears so."

"And we both kind of... handled it badly."

"Also appears so."

They looked at each other. And then, slowly, they both started to laugh. Not the polite, professional laughter of colleagues sharing a moment in the break room, but real laughter.

"We should call a truce," Baran said, once the laughter had subsided. She extended her hand. "No more cowboy behavior. No more—" She gestured vaguely. "Whatever today was."

Trinity took her hand. Shook it. Baran's grip was firm and warm, and Trinity held on for maybe a second longer than was strictly necessary.

"Truce," she said.

They shook.

Then Baran looked at their hands, still clasped, and then up at Trinity's face, and the smirk returned. Slow and devastating.

"This feels overly formal," she said, "considering you kissed me a minute ago."

Trinity felt the heat rise in her cheeks. "Hey, you're the one who suggested it!"

"I believe I asked if you wanted to. There's a difference."

"Oh, so this is my fault?"

"I didn't say that." Baran's eyes were dancing. Trinity had never seen her eyes dance before. It was a good look on her. "I'm simply noting that your execution was... enthusiastic."

"Enthusiastic?"

"You're the one who put your hand on my thigh."

Trinity opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "You—that was—I was anchoring myself."

"Mmhm."

"It was a tactical decision."

"Of course it was."

Trinity narrowed her eyes, but she was fighting a smile and losing badly. "You're enjoying this."

"Immensely."

The banter came easily, easier than Trinity expected, easier than anything had come with Baran Al-Hashimi all day. It was like the kiss had broken something open between them, some wall of formality and hierarchy, and now the words flowed without effort. Trinity leaned her elbow on the bar and turned to face Baran fully, and Baran mirrored her, and they were close again, the space between them charged with something that Trinity was trying very hard not to name.

"So," Trinity said, swirling the last of her beer. "Does that happen a lot?"

"Does what happen a lot?"

"Men. In bars. Hitting on you."

Baran considered this. She took a slow sip of her whiskey, her eyes on Trinity over the rim of the glass. "More than I'd like."

"Can’t imagine why," Trinity said, and then, because the beer was warm in her blood and the kiss was still electric on her lips and she had apparently lost all capacity for self-preservation, she looked at Baran. Really looked at her. Let her gaze travel from the dark fall of curls over her shoulders, down the line of her tank top, the curve of her waist, the long legs crossed at the ankle beneath the bar. She did it slowly, shamelessly, and when her eyes finally made it back up to Baran's face, she found the older woman watching her with an expression that was equal parts surprise and something darker, something that made Trinity's pulse skip.

Baran raised an eyebrow.

She drank from her glass. Set it down. Stared at Trinity with those dark, unreadable eyes, and the silence between them was loud enough to drown out the jukebox.

Trinity held her gaze and didn't look away.

Baran's place was closer.

The door barely had time to swing shut before they were on each other. Baran's keys left her hand in a clumsy arc aimed at the bowl on the side table, missed, clattered against the hardwood. Neither of them cared. Trinity's mouth was on hers, tasting whiskey and want, and Baran was walking them backward through the dark apartment with a fistful of elastic at Trinity's waistband, tugging her forward, pulling her along like she was something she'd decided to keep.

The hallway was narrow. Trinity's shoulder caught the doorframe and she didn't flinch. Baran's grip was sure, insistent, guiding her with the same authority she used during a trauma, and Trinity followed because following meant staying close, and staying close was the only thing she wanted right now.

The bedroom door was already open. Baran turned her around — a firm hand on her hip, a push — and Trinity sat on the edge of the mattress. Baran climbed after her, knees on either side of her thighs, settling her weight, and Trinity's hands found the hem of that tank top and pushed upward while she kissed the line of Baran's jaw, the soft skin beneath her ear, the place where her pulse hammered fast and alive.

Her palms traveled up Baran's sides, over the ridges of her abs, smooth skin stretched taut over lean muscle, warm under her hands. Baran's head tipped back. Her eyes drifted toward the ceiling, lips parting, and Trinity felt the shift, the way Baran's body softened, the way her hand slid into Trinity's hair and gripped, fingers twisting into the strands at the nape of her neck, and the sound that came out of her was small and involuntary, a whine that vibrated against Trinity's mouth.

Oh.

Trinity understood something then, something that changed the way she saw every interaction they'd had today. Baran Al-Hashimi, who commanded an emergency department like she'd been born in it, who stood in front of a room full of residents and didn't flinch, who held herself like the walls of her body were load-bearing, she liked this. Letting go. Giving it up. Not being the one in charge.

Trinity pulled back just enough to get her mouth on Baran's neck. She kissed the tendon, the hollow beneath her throat, and then she bit down, gentle, just enough to leave a mark, just enough to taste salt and skin and the faint ghost of that dark perfume.

Baran moaned. Low, throaty, her hips pressing forward.

But she didn't submit. Not yet. Her hand left Trinity's hair and found her chest, pushing firmly, and Trinity let herself be laid back against the mattress. Baran followed her down, one hand cradling Trinity's jaw, holding her in place, and kissed her hard, deep, like she was reclaiming something she'd accidentally surrendered.

Trinity chuckled against her mouth. Let her have it. She had a beautiful, older woman on top of her, flushed and breathing hard, and she was not going to complain about a single second of it. Her hands stayed at Baran's waist, fingers pressing into the dip above her hipbones, pulling their bodies together. She could feel the heat of her through the fabric, the restless shift of her weight, the way her breath was coming faster now, shallower, her hips rocking in small, involuntary movements against Trinity's lap.

Trinity circled her waist with both arms, locked her hands at the small of Baran's back, held her firm — and flipped.

Baran landed on her back with a soft thump, the mattress springs groaning beneath her. She stopped. Everything stopped. Her eyes went wide, her lips parted, and for one suspended second she just stared up at Trinity like she couldn't quite believe what had happened.

Trinity sat up, still between her legs, and pulled her t-shirt over her head in one motion. No bra. The fabric hit the floor somewhere and she didn't look for it.

Baran lay there. Hair fanned across the pillow in a dark, tangled mess. Cheeks flushed deep. Chest rising and falling. Staring up at Trinity with those wide, dark eyes, and then she laughed. Soft, breathless, genuine.

"You just flipped me over."

Trinity blinked. "Yeah?"

"You are aware I'm your attending, right?"

Trinity groaned and sat back dramatically on the heels of her feet, pressing both hands over her face. "Oh, fantastic. Great timing. Excellent. Let's talk about professionalism now."

Baran laughed harder, the sound filling the dark room, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.

"You started it."

"You literally asked me to kiss you."

Baran buried her face in her palm. "I know exactly what I said."

Trinity dropped her hands. Looked down at her. The laughter had faded into something quieter, something that sat between them like a held breath.

"Do you want to stop?"

Baran considered it. She bit her bottom lip, Trinity watched the way her teeth pressed into the soft flesh, watched the way her eyes darkened, and then she shook her head. Certain.

Trinity raised one eyebrow.

"Then stop pretending you're not enjoying this."

Baran's mouth curved. That smirk. The devastating one.

"I'm definitely enjoying the view."

Her gaze dropped from Trinity's face to her chest, and stayed there.

"Am I going to have to blindfold you for you to behave?"

Baran's eyes widened. The flush on her cheeks deepened, spreading down her neck, and she didn't say a word. She didn't need to. Her body answered for her, the way her lips parted, the way her back pressed subtly into the mattress, the way her fingers curled into the sheets.

Trinity smiled.

"That's what I thought."

She put her hands back on Baran. Started at her thighs, the warm skin trembling faintly under her palms, and moved upward, over the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist. Her fingertips found the faint silver lines stretched across Baran's stomach, those quiet marks of a body that had lived and changed, and she traced them with a tenderness that made Baran's breath catch.

She lowered herself, settling her full weight on top of the older woman, and kissed her again. Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that had no urgency in it, no destination, just the press of lips and the warmth of tongues meeting softly.

Baran sighed into her mouth. The sound was so quiet, so unguarded, that it made something tighten in Trinity's chest.

"I hate that you can read me like that," Baran murmured.

Trinity moved to her neck. Tongue out, tracing the line of her tendon, tasting salt and skin. "Just relax." Then lower, to her shoulder, the strap of her bra sliding under her lips. "Let me take care of you."

Baran's hand found its way into Trinity's hair. The other arm stretched above her head, resting against the pillow, and she let out a long, slow breath that sounded like surrender.

Trinity kept moving south. She kissed the valley between Baran's breasts, the ridge of her collarbone, every inch of skin she could reach. Her fingers worked the strap of Baran's bra down her arm, tugging the cup aside, and she pressed her mouth to the soft swell of her breast. When her lips closed around Baran's nipple, the older woman gasped and her back arched, pressing herself closer.

Trinity flicked her tongue. Baran moaned, quiet and low, and her fingers tightened in Trinity's hair, guiding her, encouraging her. Trinity obliged, alternating between gentle suction and slow, teasing circles, her hand mirroring the attention on the other breast, thumb brushing across the peak until Baran's breath was coming in short, uneven bursts. She could feel the rapid hammer of Baran's heartbeat under her palm, could feel the way her body was responding to every careful touch.

For someone who spent twelve hours commanding trauma rooms, Baran was surprisingly transparent.

Every hitch in her breathing told a story. Every restless shift of her hips. Every small, almost embarrassed sound she tried to swallow and couldn't.

Dr. Al-Hashimi, who had walked into the emergency department that morning and terrified half the staff, was currently lying beneath her with her eyes closed and her lips parted and her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow waves, looking thoroughly, beautifully wrecked.

Her hand was tangled in Trinity's hair. The other gripped the sheets above her head, knuckles tight. Another breath escaped her, this one thinner, higher, dangerously close to a whine.

That sound.

God.

Trinity lifted her head.

Dark eyes opened immediately. Baran looked almost dazed, her pupils blown wide, her lips wet and slightly swollen.

"What?" she whispered.

Nothing. Nothing except Trinity suddenly needing to kiss her again. Hard. Urgently. Like the half-foot of space between their mouths was more than she could stand.

Their lips crashed together, all teeth and smiles and breathless laughter. Baran answered immediately, almost desperately, her hand pulling Trinity closer by the hair, and suddenly they were both moving again. Not slow. Not careful. The urgency from the bar came flooding back all at once, and Trinity felt it in the way Baran kissed her, in the way her hips rolled upward chasing contact, in the way her body had gone from yielding to wanting in the space of a single breath.

Trinity caught her by the waist and smiled into the kiss.

"Impatient."

Baran laughed softly against her mouth. "Your fault."

"My fault?"

"You keep—"

The sentence dissolved into a gasp when Trinity kissed her again, swallowing the words, and something shifted between them. Because Baran answered with the same intensity she'd shown before, trying to push herself up, trying to roll them over, trying to reclaim the control she'd been so willing to give away moments ago.

And Trinity stopped her.

She caught Baran's wrist with one hand and guided it back onto the mattress above her head.

They both froze.

Baran's eyes widened. Her lips were parted, a breath caught between them. Trinity's heart was hammering, she'd acted on instinct, on the electric impulse that had shot through her the moment she'd felt Baran try to take over, and now she was holding her attending's wrist above her head and neither of them was moving.

But Baran didn't pull away.

She stared up at Trinity with flushed cheeks and blown pupils, her chest heaving, her breathing uneven and ragged. There was something wide open and hungry in her expression that made Trinity's stomach flip.

Baran swallowed. Her throat moved. Her eyes never left Trinity's.

Slowly, carefully, Trinity caught Baran's other wrist and guided it up too, pinning both above her head with one hand. Her eyes held Baran's the entire time. Her free hand returned to Baran's breast, thumb circling the peak, and she watched the way Baran's lips parted further, the way her breath stuttered.

Baran could break free if she wanted. Trinity wasn't holding her down that firmly. The grip was firm enough to hold, loose enough to release. It was a question, not a demand.

Baran didn't move.

Trinity pressed her lower body more firmly between Baran's legs. The pressure drew a sound from the older woman, thin, needy, involuntary, and Trinity felt it reverberate through her own chest like a struck bell.

She did it again. Harder. Deliberate. Rolling her hips slowly, grinding against the heat of Baran through the fabric of her scrubs.

Then she kissed her. Forced her tongue past Baran's lips, into the wet warmth of her mouth, and rolled her hips in time with the thrust of her tongue, again, and again, a rhythm that was methodical and devastating. She kept going. Kept kissing her, kept pressing against her, kept grinding until Baran was moving beneath her, her hips rocking upward for friction, chasing more, chasing anything, her breath ragged and broken between kisses.

"Trinity—"

The younger woman smiled softly against her mouth.

She moved south. Her left hand stayed where it was, pinning Baran's wrists above her head, and her mouth traveled the long line of her body, the column of her throat, the ridge of her sternum, the soft swell of her breasts. She lapped at one nipple, then bit down gently, and Baran cried out, the sound sharp and unguarded. Trinity's hips kept moving against Baran's scrubs, a steady, maddening pressure, and the moans that spilled from Baran's mouth filled the dark room like something sacred.

Baran tugged against her grip. Testing. Almost trying to break free.

"Please—"

The word was so quiet Trinity almost missed it. Almost. It sent a bolt of heat straight through her.

Baran's eyes were closed. Her head was pressed back into the pillow. She was so far gone, so completely undone, that she looked like a different person entirely, not the attending, just Baran, raw and open and trembling.

"Don't move," Trinity said.

Baran's eyes opened. Dark, glassy, fixed on Trinity's face. She stared up at her, chest heaving, lips swollen and wet, and Trinity slowly, deliberately, released her wrists. An open dare. A test of trust.

Baran didn't move. Her arms stayed where they were, crossed above her head, her hands curled into loose fists against the pillow.

Trinity smiled.

She slid downward, her hands trailing over Baran's body as she went, over her ribs, the plane of her stomach, the jut of her hipbones. She stopped at the elastic waistband of her scrubs and tugged on the drawstring, pulling it loose. Baran's breathing was loud in the quiet room, harsh and uneven, but she stayed still. Wrists crossed. Legs open. Waiting.

Trinity grabbed the waistband and pulled, scrubs and underwear together, sliding them down Baran's thighs, and tossed them somewhere behind her without looking. She took her position back between Baran's legs, and the older woman opened for her instinctively, her thighs falling wider, her body making room without being asked.

Trinity grabbed her left thigh and bent the knee, lifting it up, opening her further. She pressed her mouth to the inside of Baran's thigh — soft skin, warm and trembling — and kissed the flesh there, her eyes fixed on the woman laid out before her. Completely exposed. Vulnerable. Dripping. And yet so docile, so still, obeying.

Her mouth kept moving. Up the inside of the thigh, slow, pressing kisses to skin that was impossibly soft, moving closer and closer to her center. Baran was glistening, arousal slick and shining under the dim light, and Trinity could feel the heat radiating off her, could feel the fine tremor running through her body like a current.

She could see how hard Baran was fighting it. The urge to move her hands. The urge to rock her hips. The urge to close her thighs against the maddening proximity of Trinity's mouth. Every muscle in her body was taut, straining, her knuckles white against the pillow.

"Good girl," Trinity said.

Baran whimpered. The sound was tiny, broken, immediately stifled as she bit down on her lower lip to stop it. But Trinity heard it.

She fucking whimpered.

Trinity's tongue made contact. One long, slow lick from the bottom of her slit to the top, parting her folds, tasting her fully. Baran gasped and her back arched off the bed, her hands fisting the sheets so hard the tendons stood out in her forearms. Trinity's grip on her thigh tightened, holding her in place, and she began to explore her with her mouth. Her tongue delved into her, tasting the slick heat, learning the rhythm that made her gasp and the pressure that made her moan.

Baran's hips moved in time with Trinity's mouth, rocking, seeking more, needing more, and Trinity gave it to her, gave her everything, her tongue circling her clit, flicking it, teasing it with a precision that was almost clinical in its focus. She could feel Baran's orgasm building. Could feel the way her body was tightening, the way her breathing had gone shallow and rapid, the way her thighs were shaking against Trinity's shoulders.

"Trinity." Her voice was barely a whisper. "I'm going to come."

Trinity looked up. Her mouth was wet, glistening with Baran's arousal, and she held the older woman's gaze.

"Not yet," she said. Firm. Absolute. "Not until I say so."

Baran whimpered again. Her body was protesting the delay, every nerve ending screaming for release, but she held back. Her hips stilled. Her breathing stuttered. She was trembling. Sweat glistened at her temples, at the hollow of her throat. Her eyes were glassy and dark and locked on Trinity's face like she was the only fixed point in the room.

Trinity smiled. Her eyes gleamed with tenderness but also satisfaction. She lowered her mouth back to Baran's center and picked up right where she left off. Her tongue drawing slow, devastating circles around her clit, her fingers joining the effort, sliding inside her with a careful, curling pressure that made Baran's mouth fall open and a sound come out that wasn't quite a word and wasn't quite a moan but something in between.

She worked her. Slowly. Thoroughly. Drawing her orgasm to the edge and holding her there, feeling every tremor, every gasp, every desperate shift of her hips, until Baran was shaking apart beneath her and the sounds she was making had gone continuous and breathless and raw.

And then Baran came. Without permission. Without warning. Her back bowed off the bed, her hand flew from the pillow to grip Trinity's hair, and she cried out as the orgasm crashed through her in waves, her body clenching around Trinity's fingers, her thighs clamping against her ears, every muscle in her body seizing and releasing in rhythmic, helpless spasms.

Trinity stayed with her through it. Her fingers slowed but didn't stop, drawing out every last tremor, every aftershock, her mouth gentle now, pressing soft kisses to the inside of Baran's thigh as the moans quieted into shaky, uneven breaths.

As soon as the last wave passed, Trinity withdrew her fingers.

With no warning, she caught Baran's wrist — the one tangled in her hair — and flipped her over. Then her hands found Baran's hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and pulled her up onto her knees. The sudden movement wrenched a surprised yelp from Baran's throat, involuntary.

She parted Baran's legs with her knee, tugging the woman backward until their bodies were pressed together, Trinity's chest against Baran's back, her mouth close to the older woman's ear, the heat of her everywhere.

Her hands slid from Baran's hips up the long plane of her back, nails grazing lightly over warm skin. She felt Baran shiver beneath her. A full-body tremor that ran from her shoulders to the backs of her knees.

"I believe I told you not to move, Baran," Trinity said quietly. Her voice was low, steady, and it surprised her, how easily the words came, how natural it felt to take control, to hold someone like this, to make demands and expect them to be met. "And especially not to come."

Baran went still. Completely, utterly still. Her shoulders tightened, the muscles of her back drawing taut beneath Trinity's palms. Her breathing changed, shallower, controlled. There was uncertainty there, visible in the way her fingers curled into the sheets. But also something that felt like surrender waiting to happen.

Trinity reached up and threaded her left hand through Baran's hair. The dark curls were impossibly soft between her fingers, warm from the heat of her body, and she gathered them slowly, wrapping them around her fist, feeling the resistance of the strands, the way Baran's scalp shifted as she was pulled.

When she tightened her grip and drew Baran's head back, a gasp escaped the older woman. Ragged. Helpless. The tendons in her neck stood out, her throat exposed, and the sound she made, shot straight through Trinity.

Jesus.

All day long she'd watched Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi command rooms full of people without breaking a sweat. Untouchable. Unshakable.

Now she was on her knees with her head pulled back and her body pressed against Trinity's and she was waiting. Trusting her. The realization was almost dizzying, terrifying, the power of having someone like this in her hands.

Trinity leaned closer. Her lips brushed the shell of Baran's ear, and she felt the shiver that ran through the woman's body in response.

"Let's try this again," she said.

Her fingers traced slowly down Baran's spine, one vertebra at a time, the other hand still wrapped in her hair. For a long, suspended second, Trinity wondered if she'd pushed too far. If the shift had been too sudden, too much, too fast. She could feel Baran's heart hammering against her own chest, could feel the fine tremor running through her body.

Then Baran nodded. Her forehead nearly touching the pillow, her eyes hidden, her body still trembling but yielding.

"And this time..."

A smile tugged at the corner of Trinity's mouth.

"You wait for permission."

Baran took a slow breath. Trinity felt it, the expansion of her ribs, the way her body opened, the way she settled into the position like she was bracing herself for something she wanted and feared in equal measure.

Trinity's fingers traced her slit from behind, parting her folds, her touch gentle. Baran gasped. Her hips moved involuntarily, pushing back against Trinity's hand, seeking more contact, and Trinity's chuckle was low and sultry, her fingers moving in slow, torturous circles around her opening.

"You're close already, aren't you?" Trinity murmured. Her voice was low, dangerous, threaded with something that was equal parts tenderness and cruelty. "You want to come again?"

Baran could only nod. Her body was trembling, every muscle taut, her hands gripping the sheets so hard the fabric was twisted between her knuckles. A sound escaped her, not a word, not a moan, something in between, desperate.

"Not yet," Trinity said. Firm. "Not until I say so."

Her fingers moved lower. Pushed inside her. Slowly filling her with pressure that made Baran's mouth fall open and a gasp tear itself from her throat. Her body clenched around Trinity's fingers, hot and tight and slick, and Trinity moved slowly — so slowly — her fingers curling, searching for that spot, the one that would make Baran's spine curve and her breath stop.

She found it.

Baran's whole body shuddered. A moan spilled from her lips, low and continuous, and Trinity felt it vibrate through both of them.

"There it is," Trinity whispered.

She worked her with a patience that bordered on merciless. Slow thrusts, her fingers curling and pressing against that spot with precision, her index circling Baran's clit in time with each push. She could feel every response, the way Baran's breathing fractured, the way her hips rocked back to meet each stroke, the way her body was tightening like a wire being wound.

"You're close," Trinity said. Not a question.

Baran nodded frantically, her face pressed into the pillow, her knuckles white.

Trinity stopped.

She pulled her fingers out completely, and the sound Baran made was devastating, a raw, desperate noise that was half sob, half plea, torn from somewhere deep in her chest. Her body tensed, every muscle locked, her hips still rocking uselessly against nothing, chasing contact that wasn't there.

She looked back at Trinity over her shoulder. Her eyes were glassy, dark, wide with something that was equal parts frustration and need and trust. "Please," she whispered. Her voice was barely audible. Broken. Beautiful.

Trinity held her gaze. Her hand rested on the small of Baran's back, thumb tracing lazy circles on the damp skin there, and she smiled.

"You'll wait," she said, "until I say so."

Baran took a deep breath, shaky, uneven. She pressed her forehead back into the pillow and nodded, and Trinity watched the way her body fought itself, the trembling, the tension, the desperate effort of holding still, holding back, holding on.

Finally releasing her hair, Trinity settled more firmly behind the other woman. She pushed two fingers inside her again — fast, hard, deliberate — and aligned her hips with her wrist, pressing close. Her left hand traveled down the long curve of Baran's back, caressing the dip of her spine, the swell of her lower back, pressing her upper body flatter into the mattress. She moved it back up to get a hold of her shoulder, fingers curling around the joint, anchoring them together — chest to back, breath to skin, nothing between them but heat and sweat.

Then she pushed her hips. Just once. A single, sharp thrust that drove her fingers deep, and the moan that tore from Baran's throat was raw, muffled by the pillow, beautiful.

She pulled back. Her fingers followed, sliding out almost all the way, the wet sound of it obscene in the quiet room, and Baran's hips chased the retreat, pushing back involuntarily, trying to keep her inside.

Trinity pushed again. Added a third finger this time. The stretch made Baran gasp and Trinity could feel her body working to accommodate her, stretching around her fingers, welcoming her deeper, but also clenching, rhythmic and desperate, so close to the edge that every nerve ending must be screaming.

"Let's see how long you can take this," Trinity murmured.

She started moving. Her hips drove forward, her fingers pressing deep, then pulling back, then pressing deeper still. Each thrust harder than the last, building to a pace that was fast and relentless and punishing. Baran moaned with each one, the sounds climbing in pitch and urgency, her body rocking back to meet every stroke, taking her deeper, needing it.

The room filled with the sound of it. Skin against skin, wet and rhythmic and obscene, Baran's moans growing louder, more desperate, breaking into fragmented pleas that Trinity didn't let herself respond to. She could feel the heat radiating off Baran's body, could feel the way her inner walls fluttered around her fingers, gripping, releasing, gripping again, a rhythm that spoke of how desperately she was fighting to obey, to hold on, to be good.

"Trinity—" Baran's voice broke on her name. Half plea, half prayer, the kind of sound someone makes when they're past the point of pride.

Trinity didn't slow down. She angled her wrist, curling her fingers with each inward stroke, pressing against that spot and she hit it again and again with a precision that was almost surgical. Her own breath was coming faster now, her free hand digging into Baran's shoulder hard enough to leave bruises, and she could feel the tension coiling in her own body, the ache between her own legs growing unbearable, but she didn't let herself think about that. Not now. This wasn't about her.

Baran whimpered. Her forehead pressed into the pillow, her hips moving on their own now, chasing the friction, chasing the release that was being kept just out of reach. Trinity could feel the tremors running through her body in waves, could feel every muscle pulled taut like a wire about to snap.

"Please—please, I can't—"

"You can," Trinity said. And she meant it as both command and promise. She shifted her angle, her index finding Baran's clit again and pressing down, and Baran's whole body shuddered, a strangled cry tearing from her throat.

"You will."

Baran was shaking. Actually shaking, her whole body vibrating with the effort of holding back, and Trinity held her through it and she watched the way Baran's back arched, the way her knuckles went white against the sheets, the way her mouth opened around a sound that had no words.

"Good girl," Trinity murmured. She felt the effect immediately, the way Baran's body clenched harder around her fingers.

"Come for me," Trinity whispered.

The words broke her.

Baran came with a cry that filled the room, her body seizing around Trinity's fingers in violent, rolling waves. Her back arched off the mattress, her thighs clamped tight around Trinity’s hips, and she didn't stop. She kept her fingers moving, kept her index circling Baran's clit with firm pressure, the aftershocks still rippling through her, the overstimulation making every nerve ending fire at once, the sounds coming from her throat climbing from moans into something higher, more desperate, almost pained.

"Again," Trinity ordered.

Baran's eyes flew open. She looked back at Trinity over her shoulder, her expression caught between disbelief and something darker, something that made Trinity's pulse stutter. "I can't—"

"You can." Trinity curled her fingers again, pressing against that spot with devastating precision, and Baran's protest dissolved into a moan that was almost a scream.

She kept going. Her pace was relentless, her fingers thrusting deep and hard, her finger working Baran's clit without mercy, and she could feel the second orgasm building faster than the first. Baran was shaking violently now, her hands clawing at the sheets, her hips rocking frantically between Trinity's hand and the mattress, chasing and fleeing at the same time.

"Trinity—Trinity, it's too much—"

"Come for me again."

Baran shattered. The second orgasm hit her harder than the first, her whole body convulsing and the sound that ripped from her throat was broken and loud, a cry that had no dignity left in it, no control, just pure, obliterating sensation. Her inner walls clamped down on Trinity's fingers in rhythmic, pulsing waves, and Trinity felt the heat of her, felt the way her body was clenching and releasing in a rhythm that seemed to go on and on.

Trinity didn't stop. She slowed, but she didn't stop, and her fingers kept moving inside her with a maddening, languid patience that was somehow worse than the speed had been.

Baran was gasping. Sobbing. Her face pressed into the pillow, her body trembling so hard the mattress was shaking, and she made a sound that was almost a laugh and almost a cry, overwhelmed and completely undone.

"No—no more, I can't—"

"One more." Trinity's voice was firm. She pressed a kiss to the small of Baran's back, felt the damp skin, the ridge of her spine, the way her muscles were jumping under the surface. "Give me one more, Baran."

"I can't—"

Trinity's fingers curled again. She found Baran's clit again, swollen and hypersensitive, and circled it with the barest pressure. "You're going to."

She built it slowly this time. Slower than the first two. She could feel Baran fighting it, feel the way her body was trying to pull away, the way her thighs were trembling, the way her breath was coming in short, panicked gasps. Her free hand pressed flat against the small of Baran's back, holding her steady. Long, slow strokes of her fingers. Gentle circles of her index. Every movement designed to push Baran higher, to take her past the point where she thought she could go, past the point where her body should have been able to respond anymore.

Baran's legs tried to close, squeezing around Trinity's hand. But her body was between Baran's legs, knee pressing against the back of Baran's thigh, forcing them open, holding her in place. Baran whimpered.

"Please—"

But Trinity wasn't just holding her legs apart. Her fingers curled around the woman’s shoulder with an iron grip, pinning Baran's upper body flat against the mattress.

"Come on, baby," Trinity said.

And then Baran broke.

Her whole body went rigid, every muscle locking, and the sound that came out of her was something Trinity had never heard before, a raw, guttural cry that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than her throat. Her back arched, her hips jerked violently, and Trinity felt it, the sudden, hot rush of wetness against her hand, soaking her fingers, running down Baran's inner thighs in a flood that was unmistakable.

Baran squirted.

The realization hit Trinity like a thunderclap. Her fingers were still inside her, still feeling the rhythmic pulses of Baran's body as it expelled wave after wave of fluid, the sounds obscene and wet and unbelievable. It was gushing around Trinity's fingers in rhythmic bursts that seemed to go on and on, each one accompanied by a full-body shudder from Baran, each one soaking more of the sheets, more of Trinity's hand, more of the space between them.

Trinity eased her fingers out slowly. She pressed both hands to Baran's hips, holding her steady as the last tremors ran through her, and she watched the way Baran's breath came in ragged, broken pulls, the way her hands had gone limp against the sheets.

She crawled up above her, kissing her way to Baran’s neck. The older woman made a sound, something between a laugh and a sob, and buried her face in the pillow.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The apartment was quiet except for their breathing, Baran's ragged and slowing, Trinity's still faster than she wanted it to be. The sheets were a disaster. The room smelled like sex and sweat and that dark, faintly spiced perfume that clung to Baran's skin. The wet spot beneath them was warm and growing cold at the edges, and Trinity didn't care. She kept kissing Baran’s neck, shoulders, upper back.

Trinity couldn't help smiling.

Baran was quiet for a moment. Then she turned over slowly, the sheets rustling around her. Her hair was a wild dark halo across the pillow, her cheeks still flushed, her lips swollen and wet, and she looked up at Trinity with those dark eyes, still glassy, still dazed, but sharpening now, the way a lens comes back into focus.

"I trust," Baran said, her voice hoarse and low, "that you're not under the impression I make a habit of that."

She said it with her chin lifted, her expression carefully composed, the same way she might deliver a patient's prognosis. But the effect was somewhat undermined by the fact that she was lying in a soaked bed with her bra hanging off one shoulder and bite marks blooming along her neck like a constellation.

Trinity raised an eyebrow. She leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the hollow of Baran's throat, felt the way her pulse jumped under her lips.

"Of course not," Trinity murmured against her skin. "A one-time exception."

"Precisely." Baran's hand came up, not to push her away, but to rest against Trinity's jaw, her thumb brushing lightly across her cheekbone. The touch was at odds with the stiffness of her posture, the careful way she was holding herself together. "For stress relief purposes only."

Trinity leaned down. Pressed a kiss to the corner of Baran's mouth, barely there, the ghost of a kiss, and pulled back just enough to watch the way Baran's breath caught, the way her eyes flickered shut for half a second before she forced them open again.

"Of course," Trinity said softly. "Whatever you say, Dr. Al-Hashimi."

Baran's jaw tightened. A beat passed. Then she tugged Trinity down by the back of the neck and kissed her, hard, almost angry, her fingers twisting in the shorter hair at Trinity's nape, and when she pulled back, her eyes were dark and dangerous and full of something she clearly had no intention of naming.

"Now stop talking," Baran said.

Trinity smiled against her mouth.