Trinity hated stairs.

Not in a dramatic way; not usually,but right now, propped awkwardly on her couch with one leg elevated in a ridiculous white cast and her arm immobilized in another, she had never felt more betrayed by architecture in her entire life.

PTMC loomed in her mind like an accusation. One missed step, one stupid lapse in focus. The irony wasn’t lost on her: years of gymnastics, years of controlled landings and calculated risks, and it was a hospital stairwell that finally took her out. A doctor, temporarily benched, a caregiver reduced to being cared for; the humiliation burned just as much as the ache in her leg.

Her apartment smelled faintly like antiseptic and coffee, a strange overlap of work and home, but this time she wasn’t the one coming back exhausted from a shift. She was stuck; grounded and forced to rely on someone else for everything from water refills to navigating the narrow space between couch and bathroom. And somehow, against all odds, she trusted that someone completely.

You.

Her roommate, her best friend. The person who knew exactly how she took her coffee and exactly when to ignore her stubborn independence. The person who had, without hesitation, stepped into the role of fake nurse the moment Trinity had been discharged.

You had been bossed around relentlessly, yes, but also watched closely, carefully, with that soft concern Trinity pretended not to notice and definitely felt too much.

She shifted slightly, grimacing as the casted leg protested, eyes flicking toward the sound of you moving around the apartment. It was unsettling, how vulnerable this felt, not just physically; but emotionally. Trinity was used to being the steady one, the capable one, the doctor who held it together in trauma bays and chaos. Now she was the one being tucked into blankets, reminded to take pain meds, helped up like she might shatter if mishandled.

And somehow, that closeness: your hands steadying her, your presence constant, had cracked something open between you that had always been there, hovering just beneath the surface. Late nights on the couch had started to feel heavier. Lingering looks lasted a second too long. The space between you felt charged now, intimate in a way that had nothing to do with casts or injuries.

Trinity exhaled slowly, fingers flexing uselessly against the edge of her arm cast as she watched you approach, her expression caught somewhere between irritation and something much softer, something she didn’t quite know what to do with yet.

“Don’t get smug about this,” she muttered, eyes narrowing faintly before softening, “but I do appreciate you.” After a beat, quieter, almost reluctant, she added, “You’re doing a good job… fake nurse.”

She leaned back against the cushions, gaze never leaving you, silently daring you to comment, to tease her, because for once, Trinity wasn’t sure whether she wanted to be taken care of… or held.