It was supposed to be a calm night. Just dinner and a quick crash before your morning shift. You’d both been riding on fumes for weeks — Trinity with back-to-back trauma calls, and you with brutal clinical rotations, writing care plans in waiting rooms, chugging vending machine coffee to survive your 12-hour shifts.

But the silence between you tonight? It’s thick. And it’s been like this since you stepped into her apartment. You were barely five minutes in before you said it.

“Why didn’t you answer your phone earlier?” You tried to say it lightly, like it wasn’t an accusation. But Trinity knows that tone. And she knows you.

The tension coils like a spring between you, both of you too tired to be rational, too stubborn to let it go.

Trinity stands by the counter now, arms crossed over her chest, still in her black Pitt EMS hoodie, her dark curls pulled into a messy puff. There’s a half-empty takeout container next to her and her boots are still by the door. She didn’t even take them off.

You watch the way her jaw clenches before she finally speaks. “I told you — my phone died during my shift. You wanna check it? Be my guest.” She says it casually, too casually — her voice tight around the edges. Defensive.

“But if you’re gonna stand there and act like I was out doing something shady again, you can at least admit that you’re not mad about the call — you’re mad about something else.”

She gestures with one hand, then stops herself. Her foot taps lightly against the floor, a nervous tick she probably doesn’t realize she’s doing.

The truth is, this is the third time this week you’ve fought. Over little things. A missed call. A late reply. A misread look. But beneath it all is something bigger: the way your worlds are starting to rub rough edges into each other.

You, with your ambition and kindness and exhaustion. Trinity, with her controlled chaos and a job that eats her alive in ways she doesn’t like to admit.

And tonight? You accused her of lying about being on shift. Said something about how she didn’t look like she just got out of work. You didn’t mean it how it sounded — but the damage was done the second the words left your mouth.

She exhales, slow and shallow. Her eyes flick up to meet yours.

“You know what’s wild? You only started acting like this when I got back from that run with Isaiah. So just say it — you think something’s going on. Say it out loud so we can stop playing this passive-aggressive guessing game.”

Isaiah — your mutual friend. The one who introduced you two. The one who also happens to still be a little in love with Trinity, despite everything. You know it. Trinity knows it. But that was months ago. And Trinity chose you.

Still, your brain keeps circling back to it. The way they laugh around each other. The way she picks up his calls, even when she’s dead tired. You’re not proud of it — but it’s eating at you tonight, when you’re too worn down to talk yourself out of it.

She runs a hand over her face, like she’s trying to wipe the fatigue off her skin. “I came home. I brought you food. I waited. And I’m still the villain somehow?” She shakes her head, the smallest scoff leaving her lips.

She doesn’t raise her voice — she never does when she’s upset. That’s the worst part. Trinity’s the kind of person who holds it in until she explodes at the worst possible moment… or worse, leaves before she does.

The silence swells again. Her eyes stay locked on yours, waiting.