Work Text:
The bar was loud, stifling, and packed with people worn down by the midweek grind. Lights shimmered in glasses, the music was a notch too loud, and conversations bled into a steady hum of white noise. Garcia sat sideways at the bar, one leg crossed over the other, her fingers loosely curled around a glass of whiskey. Emery Walsh sat beside her, her jacket thrown over the stool, nursing her second drink in twenty minutes.
Both looked tired. In truth, they were exhausted. But it was that specific brand of fatigue best treated by alcohol and the presence of someone you didn't have to pretend for.
Walsh snorted with laughter after another sip.
"Do you remember that old surgeon who used to kick us out of the OR if we breathed too loudly near the sterile field? I’m pretty sure he’s the reason we both have a god complex now."
"I remember. He once made me stand in the corner for twenty minutes just because I blinked too fast during a suturing demo. This guy was fucked!"
"Yeah, and Professor Brown from Anatomy?" Walsh added, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she swirled her drink. "Remember the practical exam where he made me identify every single tiny groove on the humerus while he stared at me like a hawk?"
Garcia gave a low chuckle. “He failed you because you showed up drunk.”
"I was not drunk.”
“You called the clavicle ‘the sexy shoulder bone'."
Walsh straightened up, indignant. " Well… technically, I wasn’t wrong.”
Garcia shook her head in amusement. This was easy. It was always easy with Emery. Ten years of friendship had done its work. They didn't need to force the conversation; topics surfaced on their own—med school, old shifts, weird surgeries, brilliant surgeries, those goddamn long surgeries where your muscles screamed in pain but you didn't dare to move, disastrous dates, and the people they had collectively hated during residency.
Walsh sighed heavily, leaning her elbows on the counter. “God, I miss being 21 and stupid. We had a lot of sex back then.”
“True,” Garcia agreed. It wasn't that Garcia wasn't having sex now—quite the opposite.
After a moment, Emery looked at her from under raised eyebrows. “Do you remember that party after second year?”
Garcia groaned instantly. “Absolutely not,” she denied, wanting no part of those cringeworthy memories.
“We were slamming each other against the wall, fighting for dominance. I remember having fucking bruises all along my spine.”
“You started it.”
“You fucking bit me.”
“You liked it.”
Garcia covered her face with her hand. Walsh watched her with a smirk, savoring the awkward memory.
“Honestly? Worst sex of my life,” Walsh declared.
Garcia looked at her in disbelief. “Excuse me?”
“Because neither of us would submit. It was like fighting in the jelly, without the jelly.”
Garcia giggled, feeling the alcohol beginning to bloom through her body. “That’s why we became friends. Sexual incompatibility.”
“Tragic.”
“It turned out well for us,” Walsh admitted, taking a sip of her drink. She ran a hand through her hair and tilted her head back. “God… I need sex.”
Garcia raised an eyebrow. “That desperate huh?”
“I haven’t had three days off in a row in months. So I need a sex marathon. The kind that leaves you completely numb after hours of fucking.”
Yolanda chuckled under her breath, lifting her glass. Her face, usually rigid and professional, seemed softer in the warm bar light—almost playful.
“Well, I certainly wish that for you, Emery. You’ve earned some… mindless release,” Garcia replied with a smirk, taking a sip.
Walsh fell silent for a moment, studying her friend. They had known each other too long for certain signals to go unnoticed. Garcia looked too rested, too 'satisfied' for someone spending fourteen hours a day in trauma surgery.
“What about you?” Emery asked suddenly, narrowing her eyes. “When was the last time you actually got laid?”
Garcia didn't look away. Her confidence was almost irritating. “I manage my stress levels quite regularly, if that’s what you’re asking,” Yolanda said plainly.
Emery set her glass down so sharply that a few drops of martini splashed onto the bar. She was genuinely stunned. Yolanda Garcia was actually admitting to regularity?
“Wait, what? You didn’t mention anything! Are you seeing someone? Like, dating?”
Garcia rolled her eyes, feeling like she’d stepped into a trap.
“It’s not dating, Emery. Don’t be dramatic. It’s just casual sex,” Garcia muttered.
“Casual with whom? Give me a name, Garcia. I know everyone in this godforsaken hospital,” Walsh pressed, leaning in closer so she wouldn't miss a word.
Yolanda sighed, staring into the depths of her glass as if searching for an escape. “It’s Santos,” she finally said, her voice nearly drowned out by the noise.
Emery froze. She spent a moment processing the data, scrolling back through last year's gossip. She shook her head as if she hadn't quite understood.
“But… I thought that was over months ago. You said you were sleeping together after that hospital gala back in March?”
“Well, we never stopped,” Garcia admitted quietly, a hint of resignation in her voice mixed with something Emery couldn't quite name yet.
Walsh let out a loud whistle of air, shaking her head in disbelief. “You’ve been screwing that intern for over a six months? Yoyo, what the fuck? This is so unlike you!”
“Well, the sex is good,” Garcia countered, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks.
“How good?” Emery asked with a predatory grin.
“Like… The best in my life, to be honest,. Like...leaving me completely fucking numb...” Yolanda confessed, her cheeks flushing red. The raw honesty of the admission made Emery recoil a few inches, as if she needed space to digest the information.
Did she just blush?
“Oh my God! Seriously??”
"Seriously."
Emery took a long sip of her drink. She stared at her friend for a moment, thinking intensely, and then… “In that case, maybe you could help a friend in need? Lend her to me for one night? If she’s that good, I’m definitely interested.”
In a split second, Garcia’s face hardened. Her body tensed, and her glass hit the bar top with a dull, ominous thud.
“I don’t share,” she replied icily, her eyes flashing with a spark of anger that surprised even her.
Emery smirked, seeing a reaction that said everything. This wasn't just “casual sex.” This was territorial behavior Garcia had never shown before.
“Isn’t this getting a bit too long for a ‘no strings attached’ thing with an intern?” Emery asked, her tone turning more serious. “Don’t you think it’s weird, Yoyo?”
“Why? The sex is great, we understand each other, she’s funny, and—”
“Jesus fuck, Yoyo, this sounds like a fucking relationship!”
“What? No!” Garcia denied vehemently, waving her hand as if shooing away a fly.
“Okay… how long did your longest relationship even last?” Walsh asked a question to prove her point.
But at that exact moment, Garcia’s phone lit up on the counter. The name “Santos” pulsed on the screen. Yolanda answered without a second's hesitation, a detail that didn't escape Emery’s notice.
“Speak of the devill” Walsh muttered.
“Hey, what’s up?” Garcia asked, her voice automatically dropping into a lower, almost soothing register.
“Hi, sorry for interrupting,” Trinity’s voice drifted through the phone, “but I can’t find your notes for the surgery. I looked in the cabinet you mentioned, but they’re not there.”
Garcia turned her back to Walsh, trying to manufacture a shred of privacy. “Check the bedroom, in the closet at the top. There’s a white box. They should be inside.”
“Okay, I’ll check. Thanks. And call me if you need a ride,” Trinity teased before hanging up.
Garcia put the phone down and returned to her position, but Emery was waiting with an expression that said: Caught you.
Emery laughed. “Am I getting this right? You are here with me, and she’s at your apartment right now? And you still think this is ‘casual’? Does she live at your place now?”
“Jesus, Emery, no! But it’s none of your fucking business!” Yolanda snapped, feeling irritation flare within her.
In a few days, Trinity Santos was scheduled to assist in a kidney autotransplantation for the first time—an opportunity Walsh herself had offered her. Garcia had mentioned she had extensive notes on the procedure and offered to share materials she no longer needed. And it wasn't as if Trinity didn't stay at her place while Garcia was at work.
In recent weeks, they had been spending a significant amount of time together. The sex remained the same—intense, desperate—but it was becoming increasingly intimate. However, sex wasn't the only thing making her heart race in that specific, almost painful way.
It was the small, seemingly trivial things neither of them had planned.
The evening spent cuddling on the sofa, with Garcia wordlessly resting her head on Santos's lap while they watched a show. The shared cooking that usually ended in total chaos because Garcia tried to chop vegetables with surgical precision while Santos threw everything into the pan "by eye," bickering over how browned the garlic should be.
It was the moments they sat in complete silence, Santos with a medical textbook and Garcia with a journal —their feet tangling on the couch in an unconscious, instinctive gesture of closeness. It was the smell of freshly ground coffee at six in the morning that Garcia brewed for Trinity, knowing her favorite milk-to-sugar ratio by heart, even though Garcia herself only drank it black and bitter.
But what hit her hardest were the moments she woke up in the middle of the night to find Santos watching her in the twilight—not with lust, but with a strange, fragile vulnerability in her eyes that Trinity never showed anyone else. The brief glances over dinner, brushing their teeth together in front of the same mirror, or the way Garcia would fix the hood of Santos's sweatshirt before they left the house, pretending to the world they were just colleagues. These fragments of everyday life were building something between them that neither could name, something that was becoming more addictive than an ER adrenaline rush.
“Oh, but it is my fucking business! If I’m the one who has to listen to you crying when you guys break up, it’s definitely my business.”
“We won’t break up because we’re not together!”
“Someone will get hurt, and I’m betting it’ll be you. I can see it, Yoyo. We are talking about her for five fucking minutes and I can see already that she’s your soft spot.”
Garcia felt her defensive barriers starting to crack. The alcohol and the presence of the one person who truly knew her were taking their toll.
“Okay, stop. Let’s not talk about this, okay? I don’t want to talk about it. It’s good as it is. No expectations.”
Walsh drinks her martini, her eyes never leaves her friend.
“How bad is it?”
Garcia frowned. “What do you mean?”
Emery sighed with resignation. “Is it just something fleeting, or is it more complex? Wait… fuck. You love her don't you?”
Yolanda didn't answer. Instead, she finished the rest of her drink in one gulp and signaled the bartender.
“Fuck,” Emery whispered. “Does she feel the same way?”
“I’m not sure. But even if she does, she’s not interested in a relationship,” Garcia said, trying to sound rational.
“How do you know?”
“I’ve gotten to know her quite well over this past year. I’m sure of it.”
“Wait, a year? You’ve been sleeping together for a whole year?”
“Since her first shift,” Garcia admitted, knowing there was no point in hiding it anymore.
“Jesus Yoyo… you have to talk to her,” Emery said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“I don’t want to.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m afraid she’ll get scared and run away,” Yolanda confessed, her voice trembling for the first time that night.
Emery clenched her teeth, seeing the fear in her strong friend's eyes. “So what, you’re just going to let yourself be tortured?”
“Nobody is being tortured here.”
“Girl, you need to talk to her.”
“I don’t want to, so just drop it,” Garcia said, clearly irritated.
“You’re a masochist,” Emery concluded, finally letting the subject go and returning to lighter topics.
For the next few hours they jokingly searched for a one-night stand for Walsh—first among the bar patrons, then moving on to hospital staff suggestions. Around two in the morning, they decided it was time to call it. Emery checked her Uber app and cursed loudly.
“Eighty dollars for a ride home? Are they insane?”
Garcia pulled out her phone. “I’ll call Trinity. She’s at my place anyway. She offered to pick me up earlier.”
Fifteen minutes later, Garcia’s elegant, dark car pulled up in front of the bar. Trinity was behind the wheel, smiling, window down.
“Hey girls, need a ride?” she asked, her eyebrows dancing.
Garcia smiled walking around the car and took the passenger seat, while Emery stood on the sidewalk, blinking in disbelief.
“Hey! You actually let her drive your car?” Walsh asked.
“Pretty girl privileges,” Trinity laughed, winking at Garcia. Both of them knew, however, it was simply because Trinity didn't have a car of her own.
Emery climbed into the middle seat on the back , still shaking her head.
“So, how drunk are you?” Trinity asked as she pulled away smoothly.
“Very,” Emery answered for them. Garcia didn't actually feel that drunk, and she suspected Walsh wasn't either, despite how much they'd put away.
“Thank God tomorrow is a day off.”
“Well, in that case, I will let you sleep until noon,” Trinity said, glancing at Garcia with affection.
Garcia snorted, trying to maintain some shred of dignity. “I never sleep that long.”
“Tomorrow you will. You’ve worked over thirty hours this week and it's only Wednesday. You need to rest Yoyo" .Trinity said tenderly. "Did you eat anything before drinking?"
"Some soup from cafeteria"
"Well I made ramen, it's still warm."
"It's almost 3 a.m."
"Well I studied your notes, so I made in the meantime so you can have it when you come back."
Walsh clearly noticed that Santos’s constant hovering went beyond casual courtesy. That level of protective care could only stem from genuine feelings for Garcia. Realizing that both women were stuck in a cycle of silent pining, Walsh decided it was time to step in and force them to face the truth.
“So, how was your night? Did you guys have fun?” Trinity asked.
“We always do,” Emery piped up from the back.
“Walsh was looking for a guy for a one-night stand, but there were no good candidates.”
Garcia laughed, and Trinity made a face as if she’d tasted something unpleasant.
“Why not a girl?” Trinity asked, knowing Walsh was bi.
“Garcia didn't want to,” Emery deadpanned.
Trinity raised her eyebrows, darting a quick look at Yolanda.
“Jesus, Emery!” Garcia turned around to glare at her friend.
“Did you guys…?” Trinity started to ask, but Emery was faster.
“Once in med school,” she said from the back with a grin.
Trinity nodded, processing the information. “ So since you two are JUST casual, I thought that maybe you could share, Santos,” Emery teased.
“Walsh, I swear to God!” Garcia growled. She knew exactly what Emery was doing. She was testing the boundaries of their "arrangement."
Trinity tightened her grip on the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white. The mention of Garcia’s past with Walsh felt like a sudden, cold splash of water, but it was Emery’s suggestion of "sharing" that really pushed her over the edge. A sharp flicker of jealousy flared in her chest, mixing with the exhaustion of the day and the irritation at Walsh’s relentless poking.
“Sorry, I’m an only child. I don’t share,” Trinity shot back with a fake laugh, though there was a note of seriousness in her voice that made it clear she wasn't joking at all.
“That’s funny, she said the exact same thing about you,” Emery threw in, delighted by the chaos she was causing.
Trinity glanced at Garcia. Yolanda was staring stubbornly out the side window, her jaw clenched tight and her hands clasped in her lap, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.
“Were you guys talking about me?” Trinity asked softly, her voice dropping to a tone that demanded an honest answer.
“Briefly,” Garcia said, at the same time Emery chirped from the back, “Obviously.”
“Okay…” Trinity muttered, feeling the tension rise. The atmosphere in the car had become thick and complicated. Trinity bit her lip, wondering just how deep they had gone into the subject of her.
“How’s the studying for the surgery going? Are you prepared?” Emery asked, trying to steer the conversation.
“Good. Garcia’s notes were very helpful,” Trinity replied. Her previous cheerfulness was gone.
“We studied from the same ones, so you better read them all. I won’t go easy on you,” Emery added.
Trinity looked at the rearview mirror. “Never expected mercy from you. Thanks for having me, by the way.”
“Of course. It’s not like you didn’t earn it after all,” Emery said.
Trinity suddenly turned serious. Something in Emery’s tone made her feel uneasy. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Trinity snapped, turning slightly toward Walsh. Her hand on the steering wheel followed her torso, and the car swerved slightly toward the shoulder of the road.
“Fuck, eyes on the road, babe!” Garcia grabbed her arm, steering her back toward the windshield. “What the fuck, Emery!”
“‘Babe’? Seriously, Yoyo?” Emery mocked.
“Is she seriously inviting me to assist just because we’re—?” Trinity’s voice was laced with anger.
“No, of course not! She didn't even know we were sleeping together until today!” Garcia explained, losing her patience. She looked at Emery with fury in her eyes. “Drop it. I told you.”
“This is just getting better and better,” Emery muttered. “Are you seriously going to avoid—”
“I said stop!” Garcia barked at her friend. Santos couldn't remember ever hearing Yolanda use that tone outside of the hospital.
“Avoid what exactly?” Trinity demanded, her hands gripping the wheel tight as she flicked her gaze between the road and the mirror.
“Nothing,” Yolanda whispered.
“No, tell me. I can take it. She’s your best friend and she knows you better, I guess. So let’s hear what she wants to say to me.”
“Please, Emery…” Garcia pleaded, her voice almost begging.
Trinity glanced between Yolanda and Emery’s reflection. A silence so heavy it felt physical settled over the car.
“Fine,” Emery capitulated, leaning back into her seat.
For the next five minutes, no one spoke. The hum of tires on asphalt was the only sound. Trinity saw out of the corner of her eye that Yolanda was sitting motionless, barely breathing. Gently, she moved one hand from the wheel and rubbed Garcia’s thigh with her thumb.
“Hey, you okay?” she asked in a low, worried voice.
“Yeah. Just a headache,” Yolanda replied, not taking her eyes off the window.
Trinity looked in the mirror at Walsh. Their eyes met for a split second. Both sat with clenched jaws, exchanging angry glares. Finally, they pulled up to Emery’s apartment building. Walsh said a short “goodnight, idiots” and got out, leaving them alone in the darkness of the car.
As the car door slammed shut behind Emery, a heavy, ringing silence filled the vehicle. Garcia watched her friend’s retreating figure as she slipped into the building. The thought struck her that this was it—the goddamn point of no return that Emery had so brutally exposed. Yolanda glanced at Trinity’s profile and felt a sudden, sharp ache in her chest; keeping these feelings bottled up for the past few months had started to feel like holding a live grenade. Maybe Walsh was right; maybe continuing to pretend this was just an "arrangement" was more dangerous than the risk of rejection. She knew that if she didn't open her mouth right now and tell Santos how she truly felt, this suffocating tension would eventually burn them both down, leaving her all alone and hurt.
Trinity pulled back into traffic, heading toward Garcia’s place. After a few minutes, Yolanda sighed heavily, as if shedding a massive weight.
“She’s right. I can’t do this anymore,” Yolanda said, her voice aching from suppressed emotion.
Trinity felt her stomach flip. Fucking Walsh.
“Do what?” she asked sharply, though she dreaded the answer.
“Not knowing.”
“Not knowing what?”
“If you feel the same way… and if you do, whether you’ll stay or leave.”
Trinity frowned, saying nothing for a moment. She saw an empty parking spot on the right and pulled over, wanting to give the woman beside her her full attention. She killed the engine and turned to Garcia.
“Are you talking about our casual arrangement that clearly isn’t casual anymore?”
Garcia looked at her, searching.
“I have eyes, Garcia, you know? I can see that something changed. I didn't say anything because I didn't want it to end. We both agreed months ago that feelings aren't allowed. But they appeared. I think they were there from the beginning, but we didn't see them.”
“So you…”
“I don’t know what you feel, but I do feel something. And I didn't say anything because I don’t know exactly what it is yet, but I like it. I like what we have, and I don’t want to lose it.”
Yolanda stared at her, stunned. The world around Garcia seemed to stand still for a heartbeat, and the suffocating weight in her chest suddenly lifted. Yolanda let out a breath she didn’t even realize she’d been holding, a wave of disbelief and pure relief washing over her. For a moment, she was speechless; she simply stared at Trinity, her usually guarded expression softening into a look of raw, vulnerable affection that she had fought so hard to conceal.
“I don’t want to label it yet because I’m still figuring it out, but I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. But when I’m ready, when I know… I’ll tell you.”
“So you won’t leave?”
“You were afraid I’d leave when I found out about your feelings?” Trinity asked, a slight smile touching her lips.
Garcia gave a slow nod.
“I know about your feelings,” Trinity laughed softly. “You’re not a good actress, Yolanda. Especially when we’re fucking.”
The relief on Garcia’s face was almost tangible. Trinity stroked her cheek.
“I’m sorry. I should have told you,” Trinity said, feeling a prick of guilt.
“No, it’s my fault too. I was a coward. I thought you would freak out and run. I am really sorry.” Yolanda admitted.
"Well I would run away if you told me before I started mine therapy 3 months ago."
"I'm glad you did. You are more calm since then. And open, and I like that...very much."
“Is that a polite way of saying I was a trouble to you?” Trinity teased, leaning in toward the surgeon.
“You were a challenge,” Yolanda corrected with a small, genuine smile. “But you were always worth the trouble." Her gaze dropping to Trinity’s mouth, a single thought pulsing through her mind: the desperate need to taste them now, armed with this new, overwhelming knowledge. She knew now that Santos reciprocated her feelings to some degree, and that changed everything—because a kiss backed by love tastes entirely different than one driven by mere desire.
She leaned toward Trinity slowly, and when their lips finally met, all those hidden emotions surged to the surface. This was no longer just an "arrangement" or a momentary lapse; it was pure passion entwined with a deep affection that could finally be voiced. Every touch felt more intense, every second more significant—now that the truth was out, everything tasted different.
Trinity pulled back from her lips only for a moment. They were both breathing hard, still sitting far too close in the parked car. Yolanda’s eyes were half-lidded, her cheeks slightly flushed from the kissing.
Garcia slid her hand along the back of Trinity’s neck and kissed her again, slow and and so fucking deep that she melted into it instantly.
“If you keep kissing me like that…” Trinity whispered against her lips, barely catching her breath between kisses, “…I’m going to take you right here in this car.”
Yolanda let out a soft breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but Trinity kissed her again before she could answer.
“And I don’t want that…” Trinity continued with another kiss. Softer this time.
She rested her forehead against Yolanda's, their noses brushing together.
“I want to go home…” she murmured, her lips grazing Yolanda’s lower lip, “…I want you to eat something warm because you barely ate today…”
Yolanda looked at her with that completely disarmed expression Trinity had never seen before. Like she still couldn’t believe any of this was real.
Santos smiled faintly and kissed her again.
“…then I want to get in the shower with you…”
Yolanda closed her eyes, fingers tightening around the Trinity’s hair.
“…and I want to make love to you…”
This time Trinity said it more quietly. Almost shyly. No teasing. No cocky grin.
Just honest.
Yolanda inhaled sharply, like those words hit her harder than anything else tonight.
Make love. Jesus!
Trinity brushed her lips along her cheek, then down the line of her jaw.
“...Then I want to go to bed…” another kiss, right at the corner of her mouth, “…and make love to you all over again…”
Garcia let out a quiet moan under her breath, completely defenseless against the tenderness in Trinity’s voice.
Trinity pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes.
“And I want to do that every single day…”
A kiss.
“…for as long as you let me.”
Yolanda stared at her for a long moment, so long that Trinity suddenly became nervous about everything she had just admitted. But then Garcia lifted a hand and brushed her fingers over Trinity’s cheek with something so warm in her expression that it made her chest ache.
“You really have no idea what you’re doing to me, do you?” Yolanda whispered.
Trinity smiled helplessly.
“Well, maybe I do.”
Garcia shook her head in disbelief, pulled her in by the neck, and kissed her again — slower than before, softer. Like now every touch meant something entirely different.
"If that's your plan, then I really can sleep until noon," Yolanda admitted, leaning in to give her one last, lingering kiss.
Santos start the engine and pull back onto the road.
“So,” Trinity started, smiling sheepishly, a bit nervously. “What are these feelings you have for me, exactly?”
Garcia looked at her with indulgence, but something pure shone in her eyes.
“Come on, you can tell me.”
“I’ll wait until you figure out yours and can name them.”
“Why, are you in love with me?” Trinity joked half-heartedly.
Garcia didn't answer immediately. She sat still in the passenger seat, turned slightly toward the window. Her profile was calm. But Trinity knew her well enough by now to notice the details: the slightly clenched jaw, the quickened breath, the fingers tracing the fabric of the coat on her lap.
Garcia looked like someone standing on a ledge, unsure if they were about to jump.
Trinity had been smiling at first. She thought Yolanda would fire back. Toss an ironic comment. Mock the question. Change the subject.
But Garcia remained silent.
And that was when Santos felt her own stomach begin to tighten.
Yolanda finally turned her head. She looked at her with complete openness. No professional mask. No coldness. No distance. And that was the most disarming part. Because in that moment, Garcia looked… almost younger. As if, for a second, she had stopped being the surgeon who was always in control and had become just a woman in love—and terrified by the fact.
Her eyes locked onto Trinity’s for several long seconds. Then, she gave a very slight nod. Almost imperceptible.
“I am.”
She said it quietly. No theatrics. No smile. Like a sentence that couldn't be revoked.
Immediately after, she looked down, as if she couldn't believe she had actually said it out loud. It was the most vulnerable Trinity had ever seen her.
Trinity was silent for a moment, afraid to breathe. Her hands were still on the wheel, but her fingers gripped the leather tighter. Her heart was hammering so hard she could feel the pulse high in her throat. She hadn't expected this. Not now.
And the worst part was that Yolanda said it so calmly. As if she had been carrying it for a long time. As if she was tired of hiding.
Trinity stole a quick glance and saw something she hadn't seen before: uncertainty. Real, raw, and almost painful. It hit her harder than the confession itself. Because Garcia never allowed herself to look like someone who could be hurt.
Trinity felt a sudden warmth flood her chest. A bit of panic. A bit of happiness. A bit of absurd, goddamn disbelief. She laughed nervously under her breath and reached out founding Garcia’s warm hand, lacing their fingers together.
“You are insane, you know that?” she murmured, trying to catch her breath.
Garcia raised an eyebrow, leaning back more comfortably in the passenger seat. “That’s your reaction?”
“My reaction is that you just casually dropped that you love me while I’m driving.”
The corner of Garcia’s mouth twitched. “You asked.”
Trinity shook her head in disbelief. She could feel her cheeks burning. It was almost funny—for the last year, she’d been able to flirt with Yolanda, tease her, provoke her, and kiss her without a shadow of hesitation. And now, one short “I am” had completely knocked her off balance.
“Nobody ever said they loved me before.”
Garcia turned her head. Her face softened instantly.
Trinity swallowed hard.
“And I never told that to anyone before,” Garcia admitted honestly.
Everything with Yolanda was intense. Sometimes frustrating. Sometimes chaotic. But with her, for the first time in a long time, Trinity didn't feel the need to pretend to be tougher than she actually was.
Garcia watched her for a long time. Then she raised their intertwined hands and kissed Trinity's hand tenderly. A simple gesture. But Trinity felt as if something inside her had completely surrendered. She smiled to herself, a little foolishly, a little helplessly.
“Fuck…” she sighed, adjusting herself in the seat and squeezing the wheel. “I think I’m really fucked.”
Garcia laughed quietly. “Probably.”
And for the first time in months, Trinity realized she wasn't scared of that at all.
“Are you and Walsh going to be okay? I hate that you were fighting because of me,” Trinity admitted sincerely. She knew how much that friendship meant to Yolanda.
“Well, as long as you’re staying with me, she’s okay.”
“I'm not going anywhere.”
Garcia squeezed her hand, resting her head against the headrest. Trinity continued to smile like an idiot, unable to help herself from asking:
“Okay… so how much do you love me?”
“I’ll show you when we get home,” Yolanda whispered, not hiding her smile. The promise in her voice made Trinity press down a little harder on the gas pedal.