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Warmth is the first thing Santos registers when she stirs from her sleep; then the steady rise and fall of Garcia’s chest against hers; and finally the reluctant sense of safety that wraps around her like Garcia’s arms whenever they’re kissing messily on the couch, the TV screen completely forgotten. Except it’s her arm that is wrapped around Garcia’s waist, her chin nestled in the crook of Garcia’s neck. And she allows herself to linger there for once.
Maybe it’s the haze that has yet to lift upon having just woken up, but Santos melts into Garcia’s body beside hers. She finds her hand floating up to touch Garcia’s cheek. It’s the faintest touch, lest she risk waking Garcia and revealing herself entirely, but it feels like touching a live wire; it’s exhilarating and dangerous—letting herself want, letting herself take.
It’s rare that she gets moments such as these, what with Garcia waking up at the crack of dawn even on days off. But with this realization, the haze finally starts to lift and her mind runs down the causal chain: Garcia had come over last night; they had eaten takeout; then Santos had woken up with no memory in between. Which means they didn’t have sex. And yet, Garcia still lies in Santos’s bed with the soothing rhythm of her breaths and the slightest upturn of her lips on her placid face as she dozes.
It’s not the first time she’s spent the night like this, but the few other times it’s happened, it has always been Garcia to opt out and then stay out of convenience; the hospital is closer to Santos’s apartment than hers, after all. But Santos can’t even remember having a conversation about it last night. She can only remember lounging in her bed with Garcia beside her, the dim glow of the lamp softening the edges of everything in the room.
The realization that she must have fallen asleep on Garcia drops on her like an anvil. Tendrils of guilt crawl their way up under her skin—they wrap around her throat, tightening and tightening until suffocating shame floods her lungs. Then, as if she can detect their presence, Garcia furrows her brows and blinks her eyes open, squints them up at the ceiling before aiming them at her. Santos stills like a possum playing dead.
Her hand at Garcia’s waist moves reflexively, trailing up to Garcia’s chest as Santos reasons that she ought to cough up what’s expected of her now, explain away the way her arms cling onto Garcia’s lithe body beside her.
She presses her lips against Garcia’s neck as her hand cups her breast, then wedges her leg in between Garcia’s; and when Garcia lets out a raspy chuckle, Santos pulls back to glance at her, eyes assessing its tenor.
With a small smile, Garcia asks, “What time is it?”
Remnants of sleep still cling to the edges of her words, and as Santos revels in the way her husky voice thrums against her, she almost wishes that she could bear witness to this version of Garcia every morning. It’s a wish that hovers shiftily in the corners of her conscious awareness, one that evaporates whenever she tries to look at it directly. But she allows its peripheral presence to persist, offers it a silent truce; and so that desire floats its way into her body and becomes manifest in the slightest of her movements instead.
“Early,” she murmurs, before returning to Garcia’s neck with her teeth so as to bite back any words that she wouldn’t be able to take back.
Garcia lets out a throaty groan and wraps her arms around Santos before sliding a hand into her hair. The embrace breathes relief into Santos, and she pushes herself up to press a kiss against Garcia’s lips, but the hand at her head stops her. The momentary relief then promptly drains out and she’s left deflated.
“You haven’t brushed your teeth, have you?”
Garcia’s aversion to morning breath is something she’s privy to, but the rejection still lands deep within Santos; it refracts outward and distorts into something sharp.
“You’re so fucking weird,” she scoffs. “Literally no one cares about that.”
Garcia gives her a knowing look, seemingly unfazed. “Who else are you kissing?”
“Your mom.”
“Okay, then,” she says with a tone of finality. She moves to grab her phone, but Santos wraps her arm around her waist to keep her in place.
“Wait.”
Garcia looks at her expectantly with a raised brow but doesn’t say anything.
Santos returns her lips to her neck, sucks gently there to lure her back in. “We have some time,” she mouths against a vein that pulses in her neck. When she pulls back to meet Garcia’s face, it still has that stupid, smug look on it, but she doesn't let it get a rise out of her. Instead, she tugs roughly on one of her nipples: she doesn't need to inflate her ego any further.
Garcia wraps an arm around Santos’s hip and another around her head to bring her closer. She threads her fingers through her hair and scratches at her scalp before pressing a kiss against her temple. “I missed this,” she sighs.
Santos stalls in place as the admission passes through the filters in her brain. It has been a while since they last hooked up. Garcia must have really been in need of some stress relief, she figures. At this, however, her guilt balloons tenfold: Garcia had come all this way to her apartment last night after a long shift, and Santos hadn’t even put out. So she resolves to get to work and give her just exactly what she’s been missing.
She doesn’t respond with words, but rather with a slip of her hand down to the waistband of Garcia’s shorts. Her fingertips graze across the expanse of her lower belly with the lightest of touches. When Santos hears her let out a small breath, she feels some of Garcia’s smugness drip into her own veins.
She sits up a bit and slides up Garcia’s shirt before bringing her lips down to her chest, where she sucks harshly enough into the side of her breast to leave a mark. When she pulls back to glance at Garcia, she doesn’t find the usual bite there. Instead, there’s something more pliant about her countenance, something the waking world has yet to strip away. Perhaps if Santos could meet the version of Garcia that roams around in her dreams with this rare lightness to her, things would be different between them—less complicated even. Or maybe the dream version of Santos would sully everything just the same with that sprawling rot that shadows her like a ghost and haunts her every waking and sleeping moment. Maybe it would all be futile.
Santos’s lips gravitate toward Garcia’s face, where they settle for kisses against her cheek and jaw before trailing down to her neck. She bites down hard there as if trying to awaken the rougher parts of Garcia that order and toss her around, those parts that bring Santos to that white hot precipice where pleasure morphs into pain morphs into pleasure.
A smile tugs at her lips when Garcia firmly pulls her head away and meets her gaze.
“No visible marks.”
Santos knows this. But the punishment (reward) for it in the past has had the opposite effect: it only entices her. She feels like a dog that’s too smart for Pavlov, one that has beaten him at his own game. She gives Garcia a small nod anyway and plays her part.
She returns to one of her nipples with her tongue as her hand follows the path of hair all the way down to dip under Garcia’s underwear. When she slips her leg in between Garcia’s legs to spread them wider apart, she inadvertently grinds against the side of her leg, hips reflexively chasing after the friction.
Garcia wraps an arm around to grab at Santos’s hips and digs her nails into the exposed sliver of skin there as she encourages her movements against her.
“That feel good?”
Santos huffs at how the scales have tipped so quickly and tries to refocus. She removes Garcia’s arm and props herself up to watch Garcia’s face as she runs her fingers through her folds and curls them to gather the wetness at her opening. Santos then slips her hand out, and with her eyes still locked with Garcia’s, she brings her fingers to her own mouth, lips slyly tugged upward around them as she draws out the scene. She pushes her fingers in deep enough to choke on them before taking them out and diligently running her tongue along their length.
The darkness of Garcia’s eyes holds something primal, a predator skulking about in their shadows, hiding in wait. “Any day now.” She sounds bored, but Santos senses that it's really impatience that looms behind the unaffected air she’s put on.
She gives her a small grin and returns her fingers to Garcia’s cunt to dip her fingers inside before sliding back up to rub at her clit.
“You’re so wet.” Her voice lilts at the end, as if in question.
When she sees the flicker in Garcia’s eyes and the veins popping on her neck, she relents and gives herself over to the task at hand. Her fingers easily slip inside, and she only pumps a few times before sliding in a third one, eyes still rapt on Garcia’s face: her expression doesn’t give much away, but the sounds that roll out of her serve as Santos’s guide. Garcia huffs at uneven intervals, each exhale carrying at its backend a sigh, a grunt. Santos savors each one.
When Santos starts grinding the heel of her hand against her clit with each thrust, Garcia’s face contorts with sharp pleasure and her eyes squeeze shut.
“There’s no way you’re close already,” Santos laughs.
“Shut the fuck up,” Garcia spits out.
Her hand reaches out to grab for any part of Santos and finally settles on her back underneath her shirt. When she starts clawing at the skin there and running her nails up and down, Santos leans back down to catch a nipple in her mouth. She opens her mouth to bite around her areola before pulling back with the tip pinched between her teeth to mirror the sharpness of the nails on her back.
As Garcia’s hips buck against her hand with each curl of her fingers, Santos takes it upon herself to suck harshly at the side of Garcia’s breast to leave a mark to mirror the other. She lets out her own groan at the wet sounds of her fingers, which pump out more of Garcia’s slick with each thrust as if from an endless well.
“Come here.” Garcia drags Santos’s mouth towards hers with a hand at her neck.
Santos stops just short of meeting her lips and manages to pull away. “Not allowed, sorry,” she teases.
Her fingers slow down at Garcia’s cunt, thrusts now deep and drawn out. She hovers above Garcia to track each twitch of her face and relish in the loss of her resolute composure at her hands.
Garcia reaches both hands up to cradle Santos’s face and pulls her down to her until their mouths are panting hot air into the infinitesimal space between them. “Kiss me,” she whispers breathlessly. She waits for Santos to close the gap.
Santos’s eyes flicker across Garcia’s own. “Is this a test?”
Garcia narrows her eyes at her before finally bringing their lips together forcefully and slipping her tongue inside. She’s panting as she kisses into her mouth, and their kissing becomes more erratic when Santos starts to rub firm circles against her clit.
Santos smiles against her lips, and she channels her appreciation into the rhythm of her thrusts: she’s ramming deep into Garcia’s cunt now, firm fingers rubbing repeatedly against the sensitive rough patch there. At the feel of Garcia squeezing around her fingers, she pulls back to watch the pleasure strewn across her face as she starts to come. The sharp throb of Garcia’s nails that are now sinking into her arms shoots straight to her own core, and she’s barely able to keep herself from mindlessly grinding against Garcia’s thigh. She continues pumping into Garcia’s cunt, twisting her fingers against her walls to drag out the orgasm, and when Garcia’s shaky breaths heighten into groans that border on yells, Santos rushes to bring her other hand to cover her mouth.
She’s at least trying to be a considerate roommate.
Garcia flings Santos’s hand off her mouth and brings her back down for a kiss to dampen her moans. Their fronts are flush now, and the vibrations against Santos’s chest send a thrill buzzing through her. When she slips her fingers out because of the awkward angle, she moves to press her knee against Garcia’s cunt to help her come down.
Santos pulls back a bit from the kiss and brings her wet fingers up to her mouth. As she holds them in the small space between their faces, she feels her cunt throb at the sight of white slick that coats them and beads on their tips. With a smirk, she runs her tongue around them to clean them off before sliding them inside her mouth to taste her fully. She takes them out with a popping sound.
“Another satisfied customer.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Garcia breathes out with a weak shove to Santos’s shoulder.
It’s silent between them for a beat, but their eyes seem to be whispering to each other in a language neither is able to comprehend. They communicate sentiments that they’re both incapable of voicing, ones that, if acknowledged, threaten to destabilize the shaky foundation of whatever this amorphous thing is that they’ve established together.
The unexpected depth in Garcia’s eyes strikes Santos like a punch to the gut. But the instant she looks away from their intensity, Garcia brings her hands to her hips and adjusts her thigh so that it’s wedged between her legs. Santos breathes out in surprise and falls forward flush against her again, head turned into the crook of Garcia’s neck. She grinds down against her once, twice, then again, and lets out a shaky whine.
“You think you could come like this?”
Santos exhales with a laugh and feels the heat of blood rushing to her face, rushing all over, at the way Garcia seems to reduce her into a stumbling teenage boy. “Don’t ask stupid fucking questions,” she mutters into her neck.
Garcia slips her hands under Santos’s shorts and squeezes her ass while pressing her against her thigh again. She starts a rough, unrelenting rhythm and Santos has to bite into her neck to stifle her whimpers, partly because of the thin walls of her apartment, but mostly to keep from revealing just how humiliatingly easy she is for Garcia’s touch—even with layers of clothing between them.
They become one body, bones and muscles moving with a synchronicity that has the bed frame shaking below them from their joint force. By this point, Santos has shed whatever layers of pride she had left and is thrusting against Garcia so vigorously that she barely registers the tug at her head that’s pulling her mouth away from her neck.
“No marks, Trinity,” she hisses.
She groans in frustration but settles for clutching at Garcia’s side, her lips brushing against Garcia’s neck with each movement of her hips. She groans even louder at the sound of Garcia’s alarm going off.
“Turn that shit off,” she grumbles.
Garcia reaches over to tap her phone. “We have to get up.”
Santos tries to continue grinding on her thigh, but Garcia is quick to still her hips and sit the both of them up.
“Trinity.”
“You’re so mean.” She drops her head onto Garcia’s shoulder.
“We hardly have enough time to shower before heading out.” When Santos doesn’t move to get off her lap, Garcia sighs and wraps her arms around her to pull her up with her. “Come on.”
Santos stands only with the support of Garcia and plops back down onto the mattress once Garcia goes to start gathering their work clothes. She becomes acutely aware of her wetness that has soaked through her shorts and eyes Garcia’s thigh to see if she left a wet spot behind.
“Hey.”
When Santos looks up to meet her eyes, Garcia holds out a hand.
She lets herself be helped up without a fight for once and follows after her. She wonders in the back of her mind when exactly she became one to stand down so easily and heed Garcia's beck and call, if there would be a limit to where she would follow.
Garcia leans over to turn on the shower to let it warm up and tries not to think too hard about the fact that this is the first time they’re showering together like this. She’s not even sure if Santos is aware of this fact. But, really, they have no choice in the matter. They can’t walk into the hospital reeking of sex and sweat, and there’s no time to take turns. It’s her own fault for letting time get away from her. So it doesn’t mean anything. Really.
She strips off her clothes quickly and swaps out her bonnet for her shower cap. When she sees that Santos has yet to start undressing, she reaches out to pull her shirt over her head, then tugs off her shorts and boxers in one motion. Santos lets her do so without a fight, and Garcia spots the faint smile on Santos’s lips afterward.
“What?” she asks.
Santos’s face goes blank. “What?”
“Nothing,” Garcia says with a shake of her head. She motions to the shower. “Get in.”
Santos’s eyes dart between her and the shower with poorly concealed confusion written across her face. When she finally steps in, Garcia slips in behind her.
The mood has turned awkward somehow, as if things are strictly business between the two of them—as if they haven’t spent the night together several times a week for months. Garcia reaches out for the bottle of her body wash that she keeps here and makes quick work of scrubbing while Santos shampoos her hair and rinses it under the stream of water. They wordlessly switch places, and some of that initial awkwardness dissipates as their bodies naturally maneuver around each other as if in each other's orbit.
As she’s rinsing off her body with her back to Santos, Garcia can feel her gaze burning across her skin, following the path of her hands. She turns around and sees her standing there with wide eyes that tug at her; their force is strong enough that she finds herself reaching out to bring her in close. It’s only a few seconds before enough reason kicks in for her to turn the touch into something utilitarian, and she positions Santos under the water to wash the conditioner out of her hair.
“You’re taking forever, Trin,” she grumbles.
Santos just hums and flutters her eyes shut as Garcia runs her fingers through her hair.
Santos is being unusually quiet. It unnerves Garcia, but she doesn’t ask what’s on her mind—it’s not what they do. It would go against the strictly casual terms of their arrangement, and the only reason they’ve been able to keep this going for so long is because they don’t talk like that. And it all works perfectly.
Garcia is able to have all the parts of her life in their neat little boxes with nothing spilling over into the other. Sure, they met at work and she flirted with her in front of colleagues and patients alike, but it’s not like they’re building a life together. So what if she brings her up randomly when she’s not even in the room? It’s her way of staking her claim, especially after noticing that Ellis had taken a liking to her. It’s casual and exclusive and purely physical—a method of stress-relief for them both. And they’re both adults. If feelings change, they’ll simply communicate that and break things off. Until then, things are smooth sailing.
Once Garcia reassures herself with these facts, she washes her own face and then grabs her body wash instead of Santos’s to start scrubbing her body for her. She’s caught whiffs of her shea butter scent on Santos before, whether when wedged close together in trauma bays, when leaning shoulder to shoulder on her couch, or when wrapped around each other in her bed. It’s clear she prefers hers over her own—it is of higher quality after all. If Santos notices her choice of body wash just then, she doesn’t say anything about it. She just stands there as Garcia delicately runs her hands over her body, eyes shut and subtly leaning into each touch like a puppy.
When Santos lets out a faint whimper at the feel of her hands over her breasts, Garcia thinks back to how she left her high and dry on her bed and takes pity on her for once. Typically, she’d draw out the waiting for her: she’d text her that she’s not allowed to touch herself, ignore meeting her gaze at work, and not hit her up for a few days. But there’s something about the mood of this morning that has softened her a bit, and she wants to make Santos feel good now. She wants to give Santos what she clearly wants but isn’t asking for in this moment. She wants to give rather than take for once.
Garcia pinches Santos’s nipples with both hands, and Santos reacts instantly, eyes fluttering open with a small moan.
“Don’t tease,” she whines.
“I’m not.” Garcia brings her closer to her for a kiss as she continues kneading her breasts.
Santos pulls away, eyebrows furrowed. “I’m serious.” She stills Garcia’s hands by grabbing at her wrists. “Don’t start what you can’t finish.”
Garcia bites back the retort that’s about to fly out of her mouth, something about Santos thinking she’s one to tell her what to do, one to say anything about finishing. Instead, she leans in to press a kiss against her cheek. “I’ll take care of you.”
The double meaning hangs so heavily between them that Garcia has to manually shift the mood back by running her hand down Santos’s belly.
“I thought we had to hurry?” There’s a small smile growing on Santos’s face that Garcia can’t help but mirror.
“We’ll just have to skip breakfast,” she says.
Santos’s eyes widen. “Really?”
Garcia can be a bit stubborn and particular about her routines—of which breakfast is an integral part. It’s a habit she’s been adamantly trying to get Santos to adopt, but of course Santos has been resistant all throughout.
She nods anyway, hoping that the feel of Santos coming undone on her fingers will keep her sated at work instead.
She sees Santos’s smile grows wider before she clamps down on it, but it still threatens to break free from her pursed lips. Garcia’s heart aches for a moment and it leaves her feeling as if she’s stranded on an unsteady boat, braving the crashing waves without an inch of land in sight. But that feeling is easily stifled when she realizes that it’s probably just heartburn from the takeout last night. She makes a mental note to take an antacid next time.
Santos wraps her arms around Garcia’s shoulders and brings her closer. “I guess you’d better get to work then.”
Garcia glares at her. “Don’t push it.”
She slides her hand down lower, brushing over the hair on her cunt before curling her fingers to reach her opening. She lazily drags the wetness that’s now on her fingers up to her clit and revels in the small gasps Santos lets out against her as she rubs circles there.
With her other hand, she brings Santos’s lips to hers and runs her thumb along the dimple on her chin as she slips her tongue inside. She pulls back before going back in to bite on Santos’s bottom lip while sliding two fingers inside her opening, which allows for Santos’s moan to tumble out with abandon, her face flushing an even deeper red. As Garcia watches her, she feels the need to swallow her whole, fears she wouldn’t get enough of her even then; but she settles for adding another finger.
Santos slumps against her and presses the side of her face against her shoulder as she hangs off her with her arms wrapped around her neck, and Garcia has to lean against the shower wall to support them both. They meld into one body again, their pleasure bouncing off one another’s and forming a positive feedback loop that Garcia wants to remain in in perpetuity. She always teases Santos for how she can come untouched, but she’s about halfway there herself by now.
“Harder,” Santos gasps beside her ear.
Garcia presses a kiss to her temple and wraps her other arm around to grab her ass and support her before thrusting her curled fingers deeper into her cunt and pumping with a harsher rhythm. At the sharp cry Santos lets out, Garcia hums contentedly and starts grinding her palm against her clit.
Santos is leaning her entire body weight against her now; her hips jerk with each pump of Garcia's fingers as she sings short, husky moans into her ear at the new angle. They fall into a hot, wet, breathless trance in which time seems to stretch out infinitely—that is, until the sound of loud, incessant knocking at the bedroom door snaps them both out of it.
“We gotta leave in ten!” Whitaker yells over the sound of the shower.
“I’m going to kill him,” Santos says, forcing each syllable out.
Garcia starts slipping her fingers out and Santos pulls back quickly to level her with a glare. “I’m going to kill you, too.”
She keeps her fingers shallowly inside her. “How bad do you wanna come?”
“Fuck you.”
“Be good, Trinity.” She brings her thumb to her clit and brushes lightly against it, then quickly pecks her forehead. It seems to placate her a bit.
“Please.” Santos stares up at her through her eyelashes, wide-eyed, with her eyebrows raised and furrowed in frustration. Garcia would probably do anything she asked of her right now, and it isn’t this realization that scares her, but the fact that it doesn’t scare her.
“Can you be quick?”
“Can you?”
Garcia plunges her fingers deep inside again as she mutters, “That mouth of yours.”
“You love it.”
That one word lingers in the steamy air. The rhythm of Garcia’s fingers falters for a second at it, before increasing to cover up for the fact, and Santos hides her face in Garcia’s neck as she settles into the sensation.
Garcia gets rougher with her thrusts, and she’s practically holding Santos up by the cunt now. Her other hand alternates between scratching across her ass and grabbing at it with her nails. All the while, Santos is flush against her and letting out one long, drawn-out whine that is only broken up by her shaky pants. She seems moments away from dissolving and slipping through her hands to swirl down the drain—and yet it still doesn’t seem to be enough. The only other time she’s seen Santos this insatiable, their night had ended with her whole hand up her cunt.
So she drifts the hand that’s on her ass down to her perineum before dragging a finger back up to rub circles against the hole between her cheeks. Santos buckles against her with a guttural groan, her arms wrapped around Garcia’s neck almost suffocating her now (not that Garcia minds). As she slips another finger into her cunt and curls them roughly against her front wall, she pushes the tip of her pinky finger inside her hole and finally feels Santos start to tremble against her. Her orgasm tears through her and she pulses around Garcia’s fingers while gasping for air in between throaty moans. When her grip around her neck loosens with the rest of her muscles and she starts sliding down against her body, Garcia snakes her arm around her and holds onto her tight.
“I’ve got you, baby,” she croons.
She continues pumping her fingers into her cunt to help her come down while peppering kisses onto the side of her head, and the sweet whimpers that float out of Santos nearly make her forget the time crunch they’re under. When she finally removes her fingers, Santos groans in protest and stays glued to her.
“There’s no time, Trinity,” she says softly.
“Life is so cruel,” she mumbles.
Garcia reaches a hand out to turn off the water and then to grab Santos’s towel. She dries her off as best she can considering she still refuses to budge, and then struggles to dry herself off with one hand. She wraps the towel around them both and hangs up her shower cap before practically carrying Santos out of the shower with her.
“Can you stand?” Garcia asks.
Santos grunts noncommittally.
Garcia hesitantly lets her go and is relieved when she doesn’t fold onto the floor. She washes her hands and makes quick work of rubbing lotion into both of their skins before slipping Santos’s undershirt and scrubs on for her; and she feels warmth bloom within her when Santos leans her hand on her shoulder for support as she’s slipping on her underwear and pants. She applies her moisturizer to Santos’s face and then to her own before handing Santos her toothbrush with a glob of toothpaste on its bristles. She points at the toilet. “Pee.” Then Garcia gets dressed and grabs her own toothbrush.
Santos sits on the toilet as she brushes, and Garcia regards her as she does so herself. She glares at Garcia out of the corner of her eye. “Do you mind?”
“Are you serious?” Garcia says with a mouth full of foam. She catches the small smirk on Santos’s face and rolls her eyes before spitting into the sink and turning on the faucet. “Funny.”
Santos flushes and moves toward the sink. “Excuse me.” Garcia barely moves in time for her to spit into it. She has a scowl on her face as she starts styling her hair behind Santos, and she keeps having to move to get a better view of herself in the mirror. As Garcia finishes with her bun and sets her styling gel and brush back in their drawer, Santos hastily throws her hair up in a ponytail and looks over Garcia.
“You look nice." Garcia’s hands reflexively come up to tuck some strands of hair behind Santos’s ears. Santos reaches out to point at her neck. “You have something there, though.”
Garcia bumps Santos aside to lean closer to the mirror and sees a hickey with a bite mark around it on her neck. “Trinity,” she hisses.
The only way to cover it would be makeup or a turtleneck undershirt, and there’s certainly no time for makeup. She’s already dreading the comments she’s going to get about her undershirt, how she may as well walk around work with a sign that says “I have a hickey!” But beneath her annoyance, there’s a small pride at Santos having claimed her visibly in this way. In fact, she would flaunt the mark if it didn’t make her look incredibly unprofessional.
She points at Santos. “You are so going to pay for this later.”
“And I’m counting on it,” Santos says as she leaves the bathroom.
Garcia quickly uses the toilet before following behind her and grabbing her bag from the floor and her phone from the nightstand. When she’s beside her bed, her instincts kick in and she starts making Santos’s bed without thinking.
“Hello? Leave it, oh my god,” Santos says. She throws a shirt at Garcia. “It’s a turtleneck.”
Garcia glowers at her as she shrugs off her scrub shirt to slide it on under. When she’s finished, she heads over to open her bedroom door for the both of them, and they nearly walk into Whitaker who’s at the door with his hand raised about to knock.
“Oh, uh, hey.” He looks from Santos over to Garcia. “Um, can you driv—”
“Let’s go,” Garcia says as she pushes past him.
She hears him whisper to Santos behind her, “Why is she acting like I’m the one who’s making us late?”
They’re now in what Garcia has dubbed the slowest elevator in the world on their way down to her car. The questionable mechanical whirring that surrounds them seems to shift Garcia back into the present, and she finally slows down enough to grapple with the events of the morning and the night before. It had all felt so natural with Santos, even with the slight hiccups that almost threatened to blow the whole thing wide open. She doesn’t let herself acknowledge how she wouldn’t mind getting used to something like this—to their slow, lazy mornings, or to the weight of Santos slumped against her last night, her soft snores tickling against her neck. She compares their arrangement to past consistent hookups she’s had, and they pale in comparison. But she can’t quite pinpoint exactly what it is about Santos that’s different.
Santos shifts beside her in the elevator, their arms brushing, and the touch seems to burn her. An uncharacteristic panic flares in her chest: one that never even makes an appearance when a patient is coding in front of her. She shuts it down immediately, chases it out of the recesses of her mind. Instead, she focuses on what lies ahead: work.
The elevator dings,and Santos and Whitaker rush out behind her as they try to keep up with her brisk pace.
They're in her car, and she’s just pulled out of the parking spot when Santos leans down to rummage in her bag.
“Here.” She places a protein bar on the center console and quickly goes back to her phone to scroll, but Garcia still catches a glimpse of the blush overtaking her face.
It isn’t until later on in her shift, when she’s sorely regretting skipping breakfast, that Garcia slides it out of her pocket and notices that it’s her favorite kind.