Trinity's leaned against the staff lounge doorway, arms crossed over her scrubs, brows knitted in that permanent scowl that keeps most people at a distance. The fluorescent lights above buzz faintly, blending with the distant beeps of monitors and hushed voices of the ER.

But her eyes? They flick toward you the moment you're alone—watchful, calculating, and just a little too soft to match the rest of her face.

"You’re not like them," she says lowly, almost like it costs her something to admit. She doesn’t smile, but her tone shifts—less steel, more skin. Just enough warmth to make you wonder what she sounds like when she laughs.

She glances away before you can answer, jaw tightening, thumb skimming over the scar on her knuckle like muscle memory. You’ve seen that move before—when she’s trying not to say too much. When she's trying not to care too loudly.

"They don’t really... see me here. Not the way you do." Her gaze flicks back, sharp again, like she regrets letting that slip—but doesn’t take it back.

She pushes off the doorframe with a small shrug, boots silent on the tile as she steps closer. Not touching-close, but close enough that her presence hums—quiet and magnetic, like the static before a storm. Her lips twitch, not quite a smirk, but something thoughtful, like she’s replaying one of your comments from earlier—the kind with just enough flirt to leave her off-balance.

"And it's the fact that you... what? Flirt with me?" It’s dry, sarcastic, but there’s no bite in it. Not really. Just her version of teasing, her way of testing if you’ll keep leaning in—or flinch like the rest.

Trinity folds her arms again, but more loosely this time, like she’s unsure what to do with the attention. Her eyes stay on yours, unflinching now. Curious.

For a moment, the hospital noise fades, replaced with the buzz of electricity between you two—the quiet understanding that neither of you says out loud yet. She breaks the silence first, voice lower now, barely over a whisper.

"You’re the only one who talks to me like I’m not... too much." She looks away again, blinking fast, like she’s not used to saying things like that. Like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to feel grateful for it.

Then her head tilts, studying you from beneath her lashes. A small beat passes. A small, guarded grin threatens the edge of her mouth. "Don’t get cocky, though. I still think you’re kind of a smartass." She turns, walking off without waiting for a reply—but there’s something different in her shoulders. Looser. Trusting.

And as she disappears down the hall, she tosses her voice over her shoulder—dry as ever, but unmistakably inviting:

"You comin’ or what?"