Work Text:
Late August days are Trinity’s favourite.
The heat is no longer so pressing, but the air still holds onto the day’s warmth, even after a long shift.
Right now, summer rain slicks the city into something quieter, turning harsh edges into reflections. The sky hangs low and lavender-grey, streetlights glowing gold through the drizzle.
The rain doesn’t rush her, it just beads along her hairline, darkens her clothes, cools the hum still buzzing beneath her skin.
She lets it soak in as she walks from the bus stop to their flat, shoulders loosening with every step.
The day slips off her in pieces: the fluorescent lights, the tension and sharpness she wears at work.
It’s almost too short of a walk now, she thinks, tucking her phone securely away as the building comes into view. There’s a bit of a bounce in her step she’d never admit to anyone at work.
She does like her reputation, especially with the newbies.
But out here, under a sky that feels like it’s exhaling with her, she doesn’t have to be sharp.
There are very few people who know the soft core beneath the edge and brashness. A few she trusts now.
Like Huckleberry.
or Samira.
And Yolanda.
Her phone vibrates in her pocket, right on cue. Speak of the devil.
Even when they’re on opposite shifts, her girlfriend makes time to text her. Sometimes it’s truly important stuff; sometimes it’s just a sweet little endearment. Reminders, because she knows Trinity gets anxious sometimes.
Speaking of hard with a soft core: no one would suspect how PTMC’s most badass, tough-as-nails surgeon is secretly a sweet romantic.
It makes Trinity feel steadier, knowing she isn’t the more needy person in this relationship. As she sees it, they’re actually on the same level.
Which is: fairly high.
Music plays on in her ears, something indie in Spanish, and she nods her head to the beat, carefully avoiding puddles along the dented sidewalk.
The wet pavement mirrors the lights above, the world doubled and blurred in a way that matches the vibe of the song. Huckleberry laughed when he found out they were actually making playlists sometimes.
("almost too stereotypical")
But he didn’t laugh long.
Just until he got hit square in the face with their sturdiest couch pillow.
Because they are a household that has couch pillows now. Ever since they’re both making a little more money, and someone with actual taste is living there half the time.
The lock of the front door rattles as she coaxes her key into it.
Yes, it’s not the best neighbourhood, and their apartment door has a chain. Yolanda pretended she wasn’t shocked by that when she came over for the first time.
They laugh about it now—her in the beginning, trying to be polite about the state of the Santos-Whitaker lodgings.
But as soon as they were official, about two months ago, Yolanda's presence changed the shared space little by little. Most of the time, that meant she just asked for permission to buy them small things.
Trinity smiles to herself, leaving wet footprints as she trots up the stairs. Huck had been so adamant about denying all of Yolanda’s “requests,” raised to be almost too polite.
That changed when Trinity showed him pictures of her girlfriend’s apartment.
He caved then, murmuring something about tax brackets and being “out of her league.”
She had pointedly ignored the last part.
The apartment door opens with its familiar squeak. It's something they never bothered to fix, as it serves as an alarm system for the other roommate to quit any activity they don’t want to be caught in.
(Fine. It is mostly for Dennis’s benefit, him having walked in one too many times on “activities too lesbian for my innocent eyes.”)
To Trinity’s surprise, two pairs of eyes look back at her—equally startled and somehow… caught.
Her girlfriend, who should be at work right now, and her roommate, who should be… whatever he does when she’s not here, stare back at her from the couch.
Huck’s eyes go wide as he pulls back a laptop.
Yolanda, on the other hand, manages to pull up her poker face almost instantly.
“Hey, baby.” She pushes herself up, leaving the startled Whitaker behind, and saunters over to the door.
She doesn’t stop until she’s right there—close enough that Trinity can feel the heat of her through rain-damp clothes. Yolanda’s hands frame her face, thumbs brushing wet skin, and then she’s kissing her.
Not gentle. But still a little careful.
It’s deep and claiming, her mouth opening Trinity’s with practiced confidence, stealing breath and leaving no room for thought.
Rain-soaked fabric presses between them as Yolanda pulls her closer, like she’s been waiting all day for this exact moment. Trinity melts into it with a quiet sound she doesn’t get to be embarrassed about, fingers curling into familiar fabric.
By the time Yolanda finally pulls back, Trinity’s pulse is loud in her ears, the room pleasantly tilted on its axis.
Dennis has vanished suspicously fast somewhere in the background, frantically slamming shut the laptop the two of them where just looking at.
Well. That’s a problem for future Trinity.
After a moment, when breathing becomes necessary again, Trinity takes the time to really look at her girlfriend.
She’s dressed comfortably, in sweats and a hoodie that Trinity is pretty sure is stolen from her closet.
Her hair is down.
And she’s wearing her glasses.
Trinity swallows.
That look always does something to her, even though Yolanda herself doesn’t like to wear them.
(“They make me feel old.”
Who cares?)
Yolanda’s hands soften where they rest now, thumbs brushing gently over Trinity’s jaw, like she’s grounding her. When she pats down the damp sleeves of her hoodie, her voice shifts to something lighter.
“Oof. You’re so wet.”
She hears it the moment it comes out of her mouth, but Trinity already smirks.
“I thought you liked me that way.” She leans in for another kiss, this one slower, teasing, lips brushing instead of claiming.
“I do,” Yolanda murmurs, smiling against her mouth. “But not from the rain.”
There’s warmth in her tone now, not heat—careful, familiar. She nudges Trinity’s forehead with her own. “Come on. Let’s get you comfortable.”
She is not letting herself get distracted right now.
“So,” Trinity starts as she toes off her boots, “how come you’re here and not in the OR?” She struggles with her wet socks, swaying on one foot like the world’s clumsiest flamingo.
Yolanda steps in quickly, steadying her with a hand on her shoulder.
“Careful, Trinity.” Her tone is gentle but edged with concern, too serious for a socks-off situation.
Something is definitely up today.
“Don’t avoid the question.” Trinity finds her balance, and her dignity again, and gives her a pointed look.
“Why don’t you get dry and dressed first?” Yolanda asks, walking back toward the couch. “I’d hate for you to get sick.”
She sits with a sigh, leaning into the cushions.
The smile is half serious, because Trinity has learned that the caretaking part of her doesn’t stop the moment she leaves the hospital. She loves doting on Trinity, too.
But Trinity isn’t so down bad that she’d get sick on purpose.
Not anymore.
Still only a few feet from the door, she frowns. “Please just answer? I’m not in the mood for any more teasing.”
It’s likely nothing bad. But until she’s sure, it’s hard to rest.
Thankfully, her girlfriend knows when to stop.
She sighs. “Fine. Our schedules got jumbled a little by Walsh. She’s taking a lot of shifts right now, so we’ll cover for her for a family thing later in October.”
She tilts her head. “So I got a spontaneous free evening and wanted to surprise you.”
Pointing toward the kitchen, she smiles. “For when you’re dry.” She raises her eyebrows, underlining the point. “There’s something on the stove for us.”
Oh.
Trinity’s mouth falls open just a bit too wide. “You cooked.”
“I did. And then white boy over there woke up, so we hung out.”
Still not convinced, Trinity approaches the couch. “Hung out, huh?”
Yolanda nods, watching her walk up.
“And why did he just run like he’d been caught or something?”
Yolanda raises her eyebrows and lowers her voice again. “Maybe he knows I don’t like being interrupted…”
She reaches to pull Trinity into her lap, but stops when her hands hit wet fabric again.
“Seriously, baby. Get dry, so we can eat.”
“Sentences you’ve never said before, for five hundred,” Trinity's laugh turns into a yawn half way on the way backing toward her room.
□ □ □ □ □ □
Trinity comes back from the shower wrapped in steam and the soft cotton of her oldest sleep shirt, hair still damp and curling at the ends. The heat has finally sunk into her bones, loosening something she didn’t even realize she was holding tight.
Her skin feels loose and warm, like she’s been put back together correctly.
She pads down the hall toward the kitchen... and slows.
“…I’m sure it’ll work out,” Dennis is saying, his voice low in that careful way he uses when he's being considerate.
With Yolanda?
Why--
There’s a pause. A clink of cutlery.
“I hope so,” Yolanda replies.
Trinity doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the words settle in her chest anyway, curious and unresolved. She takes one more step, then deliberately lets her heel hit the floor a little harder.
“Okay,” she says, breezing in like she’s been there the whole time. “If you're gossiping about me, you can do it to my face.”
Both of them turn at once.
Dennis recovers first, easy grin snapping into place. “You’re back,” he says. “You look… significantly less like a wet raccoon.”
“High praise,” Trinity replies. She flicks her damp hair over one shoulder.
Yolanda smiles at her—soft, familiar, eyes lingering for just a second too long. “Feel better?”
“Much.” Trinity steps closer, close enough that Yolanda’s hand finds her hip without looking, grounding and automatic. The warmth of it settles her immediately.
Whatever they were talking about dissolves into the air like steam from the shower.
The table is set for three.
Not fancy, just plates, mismatched cutlery, a bowl of something rich and fragrant in the middle. The smell hits Trinity a moment later, savory and comforting.
“Oh,” she says. “This smells incredible.”
“Chicken adobo,” Yolanda says, a little proud. “Whitaker helped with the rice.”
Huckleberry lifts his chin, almost protesting, “I was heavily supervised.”
They sit, Trinity between them, and almost without thinking Yolanda’s knee presses into her thigh under the table. Trinity lets her leg lean back, the contact small but steady, like a promise not to drift too far.
The food is exactly what it smells like: salty, tender, deeply comforting. Trinity hums around a bite without meaning to.
“Okay,” she says, swallowing. “I... this is really good. Walsh should take your late shifts more often.”
Dennis nods in agreement and Yolanda smirks, quiet and pleased. Their shoulders brush when she reaches for the bowl, and she doesn’t move away afterward.
They eat easily, conversation meandering.
Trinity notices the way Yolanda always keeps some point of contact: her foot hooked around Trinity’s ankle, fingers brushing her wrist when she reaches for water. It’s subtle, unconscious, and deeply grounding.
Eventually, the day creeps back into the conversation.
Work comes up, not a the heavy way, just fragments. A difficult patient Emma had to handle. Harrison visiting yesterday. The newest betting ring run by the boys, heavily favoring Perlah at the moment.
Trinity feels her energy tapering off as the plates empty. The earlier curiosity, the sense that something is being hidden, fades into the background. She’s too tired to play detective tonight.
Whatever it is can wait.
Huck stands first, gathering plates. “I’ll wash up,” he says. “You two look like you’re about five minutes away from horizontal.”
He stops, then decides not to acknowledge the innuendo.
Trinity snorts. “Bold of you to assume I made it out of the shower without considering a nap on the bathroom floor.”
Yolanda presses a kiss to her temple. “You did great, cariño.”
Dennis shoos them gently. “Go. I’ve got this.”
Trinity doesn’t argue.
In her room, the light is softer, warmer. She sits on the edge of the bed, still smelling faintly like soap and rain. Yolanda follows her in, closes the door with her foot.
For a moment, they just look at each other.
Then Yolanda steps in, hands sliding to Trinity’s waist, mouth finding hers with a familiar confidence.
It’s slower than earlier but deeper, hands firm, intent clear. Trinity melts into it automatically, a quiet sound slipping out before she can stop it.
"I missed you today." Whispered between breaths. And isn't that the most beautiful sentence she's ever heard.
But the tiredness catches up fast, heavy and insistent.
“Hey,” Trinity murmurs, pulling back gently, forehead resting against Yolanda’s. “I want to. Just… not tonight.”
Yolanda doesn’t hesitate. She stops immediately, hands still, eyes soft.
“Of course,” she says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. She brushes a thumb under Trinity’s eye. “Thanks for telling me.”
Relief blooms warm and wide in Trinity’s chest.
Soon, they turn off the lights, except for the nightstand lamps, change into pajamas, and curl up together under the blanket.
Yolanda pulls Trinity in close, arm solid around her waist, and places another kiss to her temple.
Trinity settles into bed with a sigh that comes from somewhere deep , mattress creaking softly beneath them.
“Hey,” she murmurs. “Do you want your shoulders done?”
It's her girlfriend's favourite way to relax, but Trinity noticed Yolanda only rarely asks for it, even though she hates feeling tense.
So she offers.
Yolanda turns just enough to look at her. “You sure?” she asks gently. “You’re tired.”
“I know,” Trinity says, smiling a little. “But it’s okay. I’ve got this.”
It’s one of the few things from her gymnastics days that’s stayed useful—muscle memory tucked away in her hands, an intuitive sense of pressure and rhythm.
Yolanda hesitates only a second longer before nodding and shifting so she’s sitting in front of Trinity, back to her chest, hair swept to one side.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” Trinity says quietly.
“I will,” Yolanda promises.
Trinity’s hands are careful as they find familiar places—knots that are familiar now, tension that always settles in the same spots after long hours bent over operating tables.
Or stoves.
"Thanks again for cooking." She whispers, adding with mock-sternness, "And I will find out what you and Huck are up to."
That only earns her a small chuckle as a reponse, letting her feel the slight rattle under her fingers.
She works slowly, thumbs pressing, palms warming, letting the motion stay gentle and unhurried. Yolanda’s shoulders drop almost immediately, a soft breath leaving her.
They start the first episode of a baking show on her laptop while Trinity’s hands move, the sound low and easy in the background.
Trinity rests her chin briefly against Yolanda’s shoulder, content just to be here, doing this. Because it's never just this. Trinity actually can't let herself think about it too much, the new gentleness in her life that she only slowly learns to accept.
By the time the episode ends, Yolanda turns, tugging Trinity back into a more familiar tangle of limbs. They fit together easily, like they always do.
Trinity’s breathing evens out, cheeks warm, by the midpoint of the second episode.
Her head rests against Yolanda’s side, fingers curled loosely into the front of her nightshirt. Yolanda stays still, careful, adjusting only enough to make sure Trinity’s comfortable.
"Night, baby." Trinity hears distantly, through sleepy haze.
Falling asleep used to be hard and complicated, even after a long shift.
But its not anymore.
Not like this.