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(The first shift, 2025)
If Trinity let herself sit with it for more than a second she would know exactly why she said yes to Whitaker the night in the hospital hallway, why the offer came out before she could dress it up into something less exposed.
It wasn’t kindness, not in the way people would like to frame it, soft and uncomplicated and clean. It was recognition. It was the way his answers didn’t quite land right when she asked about where he was staying, the way he hesitated just half a beat too long, the way he tried to make it sound temporary when nothing about him felt temporary at all. She knew that rhythm. She had lived in her car long enough to recognize the shape of someone else trying to make it sound like a choice.
And she wasn’t ashamed of that part of her life, not really, not anymore, but she also wasn’t stupid enough to pretend the world didn’t turn it into something ugly the second it had the chance.
You don’t survive that kind of thing by advertising it. You survive by getting out of it, by building something that looks stable enough from the outside that no one thinks to ask questions, by making sure no one ever gets to look at you and see the gap between what you have and what you’re pretending to have.
She had done that. She was past that. Whitaker wasn’t. And whether he knew it or not, whether he would ever admit it or not, he was standing exactly where she had once stood, except softer somehow, less prepared for how quickly people will decide what you are when you don’t have the right answers ready.
She was meant to get a roommate when she first moved into the apartment, something practical, something that made sense financially, but every attempt had fallen through in ways that, if she was being honest, had less to do with logistics and more to do with the fact that people didn’t seem particularly drawn to the idea of living with her.
She could read it in the way interviews would stall out, in the polite smiles that didn’t quite hold, in the subtle recalculations people made when they realized she wasn’t going to soften herself to make them comfortable. It hadn’t bothered her. Or at least she had decided it didn’t. Living alone was easier. Cleaner. No one to adjust for, no one to explain herself to, no one to see the edges of her when she didn’t feel like filing them down.
So letting him move in wasn’t part of any plan she had made, which was probably why it happened at all.
The first night, she made a point of not hovering, of not turning it into something heavier than it already was. She dropped him off with a vague gesture toward the spare room, told him where things were in a tone that implied she expected him to figure the rest out, and then deliberately left him alone to unpack, because if there was one thing she knew with absolute certainty it was that being watched while you tried to make too few belongings look like enough felt like being skinned alive.
She kept herself busy in the kitchen, moving things that didn’t need moving, rearranging the towels in the cabinet, setting aside dishes she wasn’t even going to use, anything to give her hands something to do while her mind kept circling back to the same thought, sharp and insistent: she would gut the next person who made him feel small for this. Not because he couldn’t handle it—she didn’t know that yet—but because she could already see how easily people would try.
By the time the pasta was ready, the distraction had run its course and the silence in the apartment had started to feel too intentional, like something that needed to be broken before it settled into something awkward and permanent. She grabbed onto the first thing that sounded like structure, rehearsing the start of a speech in her head that would make this feel like an arrangement instead of whatever it actually was.
“Look, don’t go thinking I’m about to be your maid or something, we’re definitely splitting chores, I just—”
She pushed the door open without knocking, the movement automatic, her body still operating under the assumption that this space belonged entirely to her, and the words cut off mid-sentence when the image in front of her didn’t match the version she had constructed in her head.
He was crouched on the floor, not sitting, not standing, but folded into himself in a way that made the room look even smaller than it already was, his things spread out around him in uneven clusters that didn’t quite fill the space so much as emphasize how much of it was still empty. The room itself was barely more than an afterthought, narrow, with a single window that let in just enough light to outline the edges of things without softening them, a bed that looked too neatly made to belong to anyone yet, a dresser with one drawer slightly ajar like it had been opened and then forgotten. There was a bag on the floor, half-unzipped, clothes that looked worn but carefully folded, a few items set aside with a kind of deliberate placement that suggested he was trying to decide what mattered enough to give a place to.
He looked up at her, and the expression that crossed his face was so immediate and unguarded that it almost felt like she had caught him doing something wrong, even though there was nothing there to justify that reaction. It was that same deer-in-the-headlights look she had seen earlier, but closer now, made more pronounced by the way his eyes seemed too big for his face when he was startled, like his entire body hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that he was allowed to be here.
“I’m sorry, I—” he started, already pushing himself up too quickly, brushing at his pants like he needed to fix something before she could see it.
“You’re, what, ex-Amish or something?” she cut in, unable to think of something else to say.
“No, I’m—” he swallowed, the words catching somewhere on the way out, his gaze dropping back down to the floor, to the bag, to the small, contained evidence of his life. “I’m not religious.”
“Oh.” The answer didn’t matter, not really. “Um, do you— the pasta.”
“Right, yeah, thanks. It’s really—” he looked back at her, and whatever he was about to say seemed to get lost somewhere between intention and execution. “Thanks.”
“It’s premade,” she said automatically. “I just put it in the oven.”
“Yeah, I just—thanks for, um. Everything, I guess.”
She stared at him for a second longer than she meant to, because something in the way he said it landed wrong, like he hadn’t learned yet that you’re supposed to deflect that kind of thing, to make it smaller so it doesn’t sit so heavily between people.
It did something strange in her chest, a quick, uncomfortable shift that she immediately tried to categorize and dismiss, because the closest thing it resembled was an urge she didn’t trust, something soft and intrusive and completely out of line with the version of herself she had spent years constructing. It felt, absurdly, like the instinct to pick something small and fragile up off the ground and make sure it didn’t get stepped on, and the thought was so ridiculous she almost laughed at herself for it. Dennis Whitaker was not small, and he was definitely not fragile, and whatever this was had nothing to do with either of those things.
“Yeah, whatever,” she said instead, turning away before the moment could stretch into something worse, something that might require her to stay and actually acknowledge what she had just done, or what it meant, or why it had felt so inevitable in the first place.
(September, 2025)
they were in the kitchen, late enough that the rest of the building feels quiet in that hollow, post-midnight way, the kind of silence that makes every small sound stand out more than it should. Whitaker was leaning against the counter, drying a plate with a dish towel that was definitely not clean enough to be doing anything useful, as she paced barefoot, unable to settle into any one spot for more than a few seconds.
“He’s a fucking asshole,” she said, for what was probably the fourth time, like repetition might sharpen the point.
Whitaker didn't look up immediately.
“Yeah,” he said, carefully neutral.
She stopped pacing just long enough to glare at him.
“That’s it?”
He shruged, folding the towel over the edge of the counter.
“I mean… yeah.”
Trinity scoffed, pushing a hand through her hair.
“No, not ‘yeah,’” she snaps. “He’s reckless, he cuts corners, he thinks he’s smarter than everyone in the room and half the time he’s wrong but nobody calls him on it because he’s loud enough that people just assume he knows what he’s doing—”
“He also saved, like, three patients that day,” Whitaker cut in.
She froze for a second, turning back toward him slowly.
“Oh, so you’re defending him now?”
“I’m not defending him,” he said quickly. “I’m just—” he hesitated. “He didn’t seem like a cartoon villain.”
Trinity stared at him.
“Yeah, no shit,” she said flatly. “He’s not twirling a mustache in the supply closet, Whitaker, that’s not how it works.”
“I know,” he smiled. “I just mean—people aren’t usually just one thing.”
She laughed, sharp and humorless.
“Right. Yeah. Tell that to the guy stealing meds from the ED.”
“I’m not saying what he did was okay,” he said. “It’s not. It’s—” he exhales. “It’s bad. Obviously.”
“‘Bad’?” she repeated incredulously. “That’s your clinical term for it?”
“I don’t know what word you want me to use,” he shrugged. “I just—he didn’t look like someone who wakes up planning to screw people over.”
Santos’s jaw tightened.
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“No,” he agreed. “It doesn’t.”
She turned away first, grabbing a glass from the counter and filling it with water she doesn’t really want, just to have something to do with her hands.
“You didn’t see it,” she said after a moment. “The way he talks to people. The way he—” she cut herself off, shaking her head. “He makes you feel like you’re stupid for even opening your mouth.”
“And then when something goes wrong,” she continues, voice tightening, “it’s suddenly not his call, or it’s your fault for not double-checking him, or—” she exhales hard. “It’s always someone else.”
“That sounds… exhausting,” he said carefully.
“It is,” she snapped.
“I’m just saying,” he added, quieter now, “I get why you reported him. I do.”
“And?”
“And I don’t think you’re wrong,” he said.
“But?”
“There’s no ‘but,’”
“I just—” he hesitated again. “I don’t think it makes him nothing else either.”
Santos stares at him for a long second, something unreadable flickering across her face.
“You’re such a fucking Huckleberry,”
He huffed out a small laugh.
“Yeah.”
“It’s not that simple,” she said finally.
“I know,” he replies.
And this time, when she doesn’t argue, it feels like more of a concession than anything she’s said out loud.
(October, 2025)
(Halloween, 2025)
(November, 2025)
Trinity didn’t think of herself as someone who needed people, not in any real, structural way. She liked control, she liked knowing where things were, how they worked, what they’d do if pushed in a certain direction. Comfort, to her, had always been something practical, something she could build out of routine and momentum—good shoes, a stocked fridge she barely used, a bed she actually paid for and didn’t have to fight to keep. Things she could account for.
Whitaker didn’t work like that.
It took her a while to notice, mostly because he didn’t announce himself. He didn’t complain, didn’t ask for anything in a way that would let her categorize it and either grant or deny it. He just… adjusted. Quietly. Consistently. Her jacket stopped ending up on the back of the chair and started appearing folded over the arm of the couch. The dishes she left in the sink weren’t washed immediately, not in a way that felt pointed, but they were gone by morning, dried and stacked like she had planned it that way. The trash went out before it was overflowing. The light in the hallway that she forgot to turn off was always dark by the time she noticed.
He didn’t look at her like he was expecting a thank you. He didn’t hover, didn’t wait for acknowledgment. If anything, he seemed faintly embarrassed when she caught him mid-adjustment, like he’d been seen doing something he didn’t intend to make visible.
At first, she almost called him out on it. Not because it bothered her, but because it didn’t fit. People who did things for you usually wanted something back. That was the rule. That was how it worked. But Whitaker didn’t follow up. He didn’t collect. He didn’t even frame it as doing something for her.
He just made space.
It was subtle, the way it happened. He learned her patterns faster than she expected, faster than she liked, mapping out the way she moved through the apartment like it was something that could be studied and improved. He didn’t correct her, didn’t interrupt. He just shifted things a few inches to the left, closed doors she left open, left food where she’d find it without mentioning that she hadn’t eaten.
It wasn’t about the things, she realized eventually. It never was.
It was about the way he built around her.
That was the problem.
Because Dennis didn’t ask for things.
He built them quietly, piece by piece, until she was already inside something she didn’t realize she was stepping into, until the path felt natural enough that she didn’t question it anymore.
And Trinity, who prided herself on seeing things coming, on never being the one caught off guard, realized too late that she didn’t notice when it stopped being just an apartment.
Or when he stopped being just a roommate.
(December, 2025)
The only reason the conversation even started was because she was already on edge, already wound too tight, the kind of day where everything felt wrong in a way that didn’t have a clear source, just a constant, low-grade pressure that made it hard to breathe properly. She’d snapped at something, she didn’t even remember what, holiday season just pissed her off in general and Whitaker said something back, quiet and out of place in a way that had made her pause just long enough to actually hear it.
“Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.”
It sounded ridiculous, detached from anything she recognized as useful, and she’d turned on him immediately, irritation finding an easy target.
“Yeah, well, what does that even mean?” she’d snapped, “I’m not religious.” the words sharper than necessary, clipped, thrown back at him like a challenge, like she was whether he remembered them, whether he recognized them coming from her now instead of him. She tilted her head slightly, watching for a reaction. “Isn’t that what you said?”
There was no real malice in it, not quite.
He didn’t flinch. That’s the thing. He never really did.
“I don’t really believe in God,” he’d said after a moment, quieter now, like the admission mattered in a way she hadn’t expected. “I just—I don’t know. It felt like there was nothing else to do sometimes. Like it came down to that in the end. I thought the words might help. I’m not really good at doing something else.”
She’d laughed then, because that’s what she did when something got too close to meaning something.
“Thanks,” she’d said, rolling her eyes.
(Christmas, 2025)
There were very few moments in which Trinity allowed herself to slow down long enough to actually look at herself, not in the quick, functional way she did before a shift, hair pulled back, scrubs on, identity reduced to something clean and useful, but in the kind of stillness that came with mirrors and soft lighting and clothes that were chosen rather than thrown on, and every time it happened it felt faintly disorienting, like she’d stepped into someone else’s life for a second and hadn’t quite decided whether she liked what she saw there.
The dress was dark blue, cut close enough to her body that it left very little room for adjustment or second-guessing, and her hair was down in a way that made her feel vaguely exposed, like she’d forgotten to put something essential on before leaving the house, even though she knew, rationally, that nothing was missing.
She was leaning in too close to the mirror, fingers moving quickly, almost aggressively, as she tried to scrub at the faint white smear just below the neckline, the toothpaste catching the light in a way that made it look far worse than it actually was, and the more she focused on it the more it seemed to spread, or maybe that was just her patience thinning out in real time. It was the kind of small, stupid mistake she would normally ignore without a second thought, but tonight everything felt sharper, more noticeable, like the margins for error had been narrowed without her consent.
When she finally glanced up through the mirror, catching his reflection hovering just behind the frame, she didn’t turn around, didn’t break the rhythm of what she was doing, just let the irritation surface exactly where it always did.
“The fuck do you want.”
Dennis didn’t move immediately, which was unusual enough on its own that she clocked it before she even processed what he was wearing, the unfamiliar structure of it, the way it sat differently on him, like he’d been placed inside something that wasn’t built with him in mind. He looked… not uncomfortable exactly, but aware, in that quiet, contained way he got when he knew he was out of his depth and was trying not to make it obvious.
“I don’t—” he hesitated, lifting one hand to the knot at his collar like it might explain itself if he just gave it enough time. “I can’t get this right.”
She exhaled through her nose, sharp and dismissive, but there was no real weight behind it, just habit, muscle memory, the default response she’d trained herself into.
“You’re kidding.”
“I’ve never worn one before,” he said.
“You’ve never worn a tuxedo,” she repeated..
“No,” he said, and then, after a beat, because apparently he’d decided to commit fully to this particular line of honesty, “I didn’t really have a reason to.”
“Jesus,” she muttered, pushing off the counter. “Come here.”
He stepped into the room like he was entering something he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to be part of, stopping just short of where she was standing, and for a second they both just looked at the tie like it was a problem that might solve itself if they ignored it long enough.
“Do you at least know which knot you’re trying to do?” she asked, already reaching for her phone.
“I watched a video,” he said.
“And?”
“And I thought I understood it until I actually tried.”
“Yeah, that tracks.”
She pulled up the first tutorial she found, held it between them, and they both leaned in slightly, their attention narrowing onto the small screen as some overly cheerful man demonstrated a sequence of movements that looked deceptively simple until you tried to replicate them in real time.
Dennis followed along, fingers moving more carefully than necessary, like precision might compensate for uncertainty, but somewhere between the second loop and the final pull everything went wrong in a way that wasn’t immediately fixable.
“I don’t—” he started, frowning down at the mess he’d made.
“Give it here,” she cut in, already stepping closer.
“I can—”
“You can’t,” she said flatly, her hands already at his collar, undoing what he’d managed so far with quick, efficient movements. “Hold still.”
She was closer than she usually was, close enough that she could see the way his concentration shifted from the tie to her hands and back again, like he wasn’t entirely sure where to focus, and she could feel it, that slight adjustment in his posture, the way he stilled without thinking about it, like he’d learned somewhere along the line that staying out of the way was the easiest way to get through things.
“You’re such a fucking Huckleberry,” she muttered, more to herself than to him, looping the fabric over itself in what she hoped was roughly the correct order. “Did you really never wear a suit? What, you were too cool for prom?”
He let out a small breath that might have been a laugh.
“I wore a button-down,” he said. “Are you kidding? Do you really think people are wasting suits to go to a school dance in rural Nebraska? I’m pretty sure the only time I saw my dad in one was at his father’s funeral.”
She glanced up at him briefly, just long enough for something unreadable to pass through her expression before it was gone again.
“Poor girl you took,” she said, returning her focus to the tie. “No effort made.”
“I’ll have you know she thought I looked quite handsome,” he replied, a little more certain now. “She told me herself.”
Trinity scoffed, tightening the knot with a sharper pull than strictly necessary.
“Yeah, well, I’ve never really worn a suit either,” she said, almost as an afterthought. “Prom sucked.”
He tilted his head slightly, watching her now instead of the tie.
“What, you had to pick him up?” he asked, tone light but not careless. “That’s no way to treat a lady.”
“Well, he didn’t own a car,” she said, shrugging one shoulder. “And neither did I, to be honest. I just—” she paused, fingers adjusting the fabric again, more out of habit than necessity. “I was so pissed at that whole night that I didn’t even want to go, and everyone kept making it worse, so I just took my stepdad’s car and left.”
“Was it worth it?” he asked.
She huffed out a laugh, short and sharp.
“I ended up getting drunk in the parking lot with a friend not even half an hour after we got there,” she said. “That part was pretty fun.”
“You left the poor guy?”
“He should have known I was a lesbian,” she shot back, like that settled the matter entirely. “I was mean to him and avoided him for days after he asked me to be his girlfriend.”
Dennis let out a quiet, incredulous sound.
“Yeah, so the guy with no ride should have guessed you were just going to leave him there.”
“Exactly,” she said, tightening the knot one last time before stepping back. “Shit—wait. I think I got it.”
He turned slightly toward the mirror, examining the result with a level of skepticism that felt entirely justified.
“You most definitely haven’t,” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah, well, it looks just fine to me,” she replied, already turning back toward the counter.
There was a beat of silence, and then, almost absently, like he’d just noticed it now—
“There’s toothpaste on your dress.”
She froze for half a second before exhaling sharply, dragging her hand down her face.
“Fuck you and fuck off.”
“Right,” he said, laughing quietly as he stepped back into the hallway, the sound lingering just long enough to soften the edges of the room again.
-
The party was too warm.
Not in a comfortable way, not in that soft, golden, holiday glow people pretended to like, but in the way hospital gatherings always were, overheated rooms, too many bodies, the faint smell of cheap wine and something sweet burning slightly in the background. Someone had put up decorations that looked like they’d been stolen from three different places and never meant to match. There was a tree in the corner that was leaning just enough to be concerning.
Trinity hated it immediately.
She was leaning against the wall with a plastic cup in her hand, watching the room like she was triaging it, mentally sorting everyone into categories: tolerable, avoidable, and absolutely not.
Dennis was… somewhere.
She spotted him eventually, near the drinks table, mid-conversation with Robby, who was standing a little closer than he did with most people, head tilted slightly, actually listening instead of just scanning the room like he usually did.
Trinity narrowed her eyes.
“Oh, this is disgusting,” she muttered under her breath.
She pushed off the wall and made her way over, sliding into their space like she belonged there—which, unfortunately, she did.
“Wow,” she said, not even pretending to ease into it. “Didn’t realize I was interrupting something intimate.”
Dennis startled slightly, like he always did when she appeared out of nowhere.
“I—what?”
Robby just looked amused.
“Trinity,” he said, like that explained everything.
She gestured vaguely between them.
“You two needed a minute, or…?” she asked, tone dry. “I could come back.”
Dennis blinked at her, processing, then shook his head quickly.
“It’s definitely not like that.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, it’s definitely like that.”
“It’s not,” he insisted, a little more firmly now, which only made it worse.
Robby huffed out a quiet laugh, clearly enjoying this far more than he should have.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear any of that,” he said, glancing between them. Then, to Dennis, “Good work today.”
Dennis nodded, a little awkward, a little pleased despite himself.
“Thanks.”
Trinity watched that exchange too closely.
Robby lingered for a second longer, like he was about to say something else, then his phone buzzed. He checked it, expression shifting instantly.
“Excuse me,” he said, already stepping away. “I’ve got to take this.”
And just like that, he was gone.
Trinity waited exactly two seconds before turning back to Dennis.
“Oh my god,” she said, grinning now. “He likes you.”
Dennis groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
“He does not like me.”
“He so liked you.”
“He was my attending,” he said, like that was a defense.
“Exactly,” she shot back.
He opened his mouth to argue again, but Mateo appeared out of nowhere, sliding into the space Robby left like he’d been waiting for this moment specifically.
“Yeah,” Mateo said, taking a sip from his drink, not even looking at them. “It’s definitely not like that.”
Dennis froze.
Trinity lit up.
“Thank you,” she said, pointing at Mateo. “Finally, someone with eyes.”
“I didn’t say—” Dennis started.
Mateo cut him off, still not looking at him.
“No, yeah, totally professional,” he said, nodding. “That’s why he was standing, like, two inches from your face.”
Dennis stared at him, betrayed.
“That’s just how he stands.”
“Sure,” Mateo said.
Trinity was fully entertained now, leaning back against the counter like she’d settled in for a show.
“You’re his favorite,” she added, almost thoughtfully.
“I was not his favorite,” Dennis said immediately.
“Golden boy energy,” she said, taking a sip from her drink.
“Stop,” he muttered.
“Can’t,” she said lightly. “It’s too easy.”
Mateo hummed in agreement.
“Yeah, man, you’re done for.”
Dennis looked between them, clearly reconsidering every life choice that had led him here.
“I hate both of you,” he said.
Trinity grinned.
“No you don’t.”
And that was the problem.
(New years eve, 2025)
(February, 2026)
When she made it to the kitchen, still half asleep in the way that felt more like irritation than fatigue, Dennis was already there, fully dressed, fully functional, moving around like mornings didn’t personally offend him. There was a pan on the stove, something sweet and warm in the air, and she paused in the doorway for a second, taking it in with narrowed eyes like she was trying to figure out what exactly she’d walked into.
(March, 2026)
“If you didn’t want it, you should’ve said so.”
they were standing just outside the takeout place, Trinity already a step ahead, scanning the street like she’s about to cross without waiting, irritation sitting just under her skin in a way that’s sharper than the situation calls for.
Dennis lingered a second behind her, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he’s trying not to take up more space than necessary.
“It was fine,” he said.
She turned at that.
“Fine?” she repeated. “You didn’t eat anything.”
He shruged.
“I’m just not that hungry.”
Trinity watched him for a second longer than she should, something in her expression tightening as she tries to place what’s off about it, why it doesn’t land right.
Because it wasn't just that he didn’t eat.
It’s the way he’d picked at it, like he was performing the act of eating instead of actually doing it. The way he’d agreed too quickly when she suggested the place, like it didn’t matter to him at all where they went.
Like it wasn’t about the food.
She knew it was lie.
That part was easy.
What she doesn’t know—what bothered her more than she wanted to admit—is that she had no idea how to make him say the truth instead.
(May, 2026)
(June, 2026)
(July 4th, 2026)
The locker room felt different when she was the one already there, already folded into the far corner like something she would normally make fun of in anyone else. The fluorescent lights were too bright, too steady, leaving no room to hide in shadows or half-formed excuses. Trinity sat on the bench with her elbows on her knees, hands pressed together hard enough that her knuckles ached, like she was trying to hold herself in place by force alone, like if she loosened her grip even a little something would spill out that she wouldn’t be able to put back.
She hated this. Hated the way her thoughts wouldn’t line up, the way everything kept looping back to the same place no matter how hard she tried to redirect it. Garcia leaving—no, not leaving, because there had been nothing to leave, nothing that had been named or claimed or built into something that could even be broken—but the absence of her felt louder than it should, like something unfinished echoing in a space that was never meant to hold it.
And Dennis.
Dennis saying he was moving out like it was a reasonable thing, like it was something he could just decide without it meaning anything, without it shifting the ground under her feet in a way she didn’t know how to recover from.
Of course he would leave. Of course he would. That was how it worked. That was how it always worked.
She told herself that. She was always the one who left first, always the one who pulled back before things could rot, before people could decide they’d had enough, before anything could settle into something that might actually matter. It wasn’t even a choice anymore. It was instinct. Survival. You didn’t stay long enough for it to hurt.
So why did this feel like—
The door opened.
She didn’t look up immediately. Didn’t give him that. But she knew it was him without needing to check, the shift in the air enough to confirm it.
He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there like he was taking it in, like he was trying to figure out how to approach something that didn’t have a clean entry point.
“You’re hiding now?” he said finally, voice quiet but not soft.
“Fuck off,” she muttered. Automatic. Hollow.
There was a pause, then the bench dipped slightly as he sat down a few inches away, not too close, not too far.
“Saw Robby,” he said after a moment. “About the apartment.”
Her shoulders tightened, just slightly.
“Good for you.”
“It’s not decided.”
She let out a breath through her nose.
“Yeah, well. You don’t need to give me updates. Do whatever you want.”
“You’re mad.”
“No shit.”
Silence stretched.
“You and Garcia,” he tried, more careful now. “That’s… done?”
She huffed out something that almost passed for a laugh.
“It was never anything,” she said too quickly. “We said that from the start. Casual. No strings. No expectations.” A sharp shake of her head. “I just got caught up. It doesn’t happen. Not like that.”
“You don’t seem like someone who gets caught up.”
That almost made her laugh.
“That’s because I don’t,” she snapped. Then quieter, more to herself, “I leave first. Always. That’s the whole point.”
The words sat heavier than she meant them to.
“It’s easier that way,” she added, voice rough. “You don’t wait around for people to decide you’re not worth it. You don’t give them the chance.”
“That’s not what happened here.”
“It is,” she cut in. “It always is. You just don’t see it yet.”
He hesitated, recalibrating.
“Is this about her?”
“No. Yeah. I don’t know.” She scrubbed a hand down her face. “It’s not just this. It’s—”
She stopped.
“I’m not leaving because of you,” he said.
She snorted.
“Sure.”
“I’m not. I just—needed space. I thought maybe you did too.”
She turned to him like that was the stupidest thing he could’ve said.
“I don’t need space. I need people to not—” She cut herself off.
“Not what?”
She shook her head.
“Doesn’t matter.”
It did. They both knew it did.
“Okay,” he said.
It didn’t fix anything, but it didn’t make it worse either.
“Don’t make it weird,” she muttered.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m really not.”
She looked away first.
“Whatever.”
Silence again.
“She didn’t even stay,” she muttered eventually. “Not really. It was—” a vague gesture. “Casual. That’s the whole point.”
“Garcia?” he asked, just to anchor it.
“Yeah, no shit, Dennis.”
He nodded.
Another pause.
Then, softer—
“It’s okay if you want to cry.”
She stilled.
“What?”
“You liked her,” he said carefully. “It doesn’t have to be serious for it to still matter.”
A short, sharp laugh.
“I’m not crying over Garcia.”
He didn’t argue.
That was the problem.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said, voice flattening. “Act like there’s a right way to react to this.”
“I’m not—”
“I didn’t,” she cut in.
He frowned.
“You didn’t… what?”
She looked away.
“I didn’t cry,” she said quietly. “When it actually mattered.”
He went still.
“Trinity,” he said, slower now. “Who are you talking about?”
“My stepdad.”
It landed flat between them.
“I was just waiting,” she added. “Too scared, too stupid to do anything before it started.”
Silence.
“That wasn’t your fault,” he said after a moment.
“You don’t know that.”
“You were a child.”
Her mouth twitched.
“You don’t understand, you—”
“My parents always disliked me.”
That stopped her.
She looked at him then.
“I used to think they hated me,” he said. “Then I thought maybe they loved me in their own way. When I left, I still thought I could figure it out. I even tried finding answers in church.”
A small shrug.
“But I think ‘dislike’ is the right word. For my mom. My dad…” He exhaled. “That was something else.”
No drama. Just facts.
“They thought I brought something wrong into the house. The farm failing was my fault. The devil, or whatever.” Another shrug. “They didn’t want me going to med school. Hospitals were for dying people. Church was for everything else.”
He looked at the floor.
“I think they just wanted a reason to kick me out that sounded better.”
She swallowed.
“I’m not saying this so you’ll pity me,” he added. “I know you don’t want that. I don’t want yours either.”
No accusation. Just clarity.
“I’m just saying I get it. Being unwanted. That doesn’t get easier. Nobody should get used to that.”
A pause.
“You especially.”
Something in her chest tightened, fast and sharp.
“I don’t want to be left alone anymore.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
She froze.
“Could you—”
“I’m not leaving you alone,” he said immediately. “I told Robby I was considering it. Nothing’s final.”
He watched her carefully.
“I just needed you to say it.”
Her throat tightened.
“You’re my best friend, Trinity.”
That did it.
She leaned into him without thinking, her head finding his shoulder like it belonged there.
He went still, then hovered, unsure if he should touch her.
For once, it didn’t make her pull away.
“You’re such a Huckleberry,” she muttered, voice breaking at the edges. “Can we just stay here for a bit?”
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
They sat like that, the hospital noise fading into something distant, her breathing slowly evening out.
Eventually, she pulled back, rebuilding herself piece by piece.
“I’m okay now.”
Her eyes sharpened again.
“Tell anyone about this and you’re dead, Dennis.”
He laughed.
“Yeah. Sure.”
She stood.
“Let’s go home.”
He nodded.
“Let’s go home.”