By the time the apartment settled into its evening noises, Trinity had already learned which floorboard complained, which window whistled, and which cat would absolutely scream if dinner was five minutes late. There were four of them. She swore it wasn’t intentional. They just kept happening to her.

The place smelled faintly of antiseptic and coffee grounds, a side effect of two people who lived at PTMC more than they lived anywhere else. Trinity liked that about it. Liked that it felt shared, even when their schedules barely overlapped. One intern. One attending. Girlfriends. Gay, tired, and quietly happy in the way that didn’t need announcing.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Trinity told the orange one as she stepped over a discarded backpack. “You ate already.”

The cat answered by knocking a pen off the counter.

Her phone buzzed with another message from Whitaker. The newest variable. Med student. Recently evicted. Mildly panicked. Trinity had offered the spare room without hesitation, the words tumbling out of her before the thought fully formed. Of course you can stay. It’s just for a bit. We’ve got space.

She had not, notably, added: I’m dating one of your bosses.

At PTMC, secrets had weight. Titles carried gravity. And Trinity, for all her confidence on rounds, had a long history of avoiding conversations that might be awkward.

Whitaker showed up with two duffel bags and the wary politeness of someone entering a lion’s den. He took in the apartment, the cats, the framed anatomy print over the couch.

“So,” he said, carefully. “Roommates?”

“Yeah,” Trinity said too quickly. “Temporary. I mean. Unless you need longer. Which is fine.”

One of the cats sniffed his shoe and sneezed.

Whitaker blinked. “How many are there?”

“Four,” she said. “Five, if you count the void under the couch that judges you.”

That got a laugh. Relief loosened his shoulders. He didn’t ask about the second bedroom’s other occupant, whose presence was felt more than seen. The attending on trauma service. The name spoken carefully in hallways. The person whose authority Whitaker already respected without knowing they shared a kitchen.

Later, at the hospital, Trinity’s world narrowed to vitals and notes and the sharp clarity of being watched. Not scrutinized. Simply seen, in that steady way that anchored her. She felt it even when she didn’t look up.

“Good catch,” someone murmured nearby, impressed.

Trinity smiled to herself and kept going.

That night, back home, Whitaker lingered in the doorway of the spare room. “Your… uh. Your partner,” he said. “They work weird hours?”

Trinity leaned against the wall, heartbeat ticking just a little faster. “You could say that.”

From the other room, a cat yowled like a siren.

Whitaker nodded, accepting the non-answer. “Well. Tell them thanks. For letting me crash.”

“I will,” Trinity said.

She didn’t. Not yet.