Work Text:
It’s been eight years since Trinity’s shared space with a man after the last guy took her bedroom door off the hinges under the pretext that it was ‘his home, his rules’ despite the fact he was only ever fucking her mother. The ‘hobosexual’ epidemic probably started with her mom as patient zero. Turns out that when you get used to one white man making your life a miserable hell, freedom gets boring, so you find a few more to keep your nervous system from getting an actual break.
Although Trinity suffered a revolving door of college roommates that just craved to fuck in their dorm room, the outcome of a lengthy court trial with her coach and gymnastics doctor coupled with a gymnastics scholarship let Trinity say a final fuck you to strangers in her personal space, and entered MS1 with a sweet apartment all to herself.
The first thing Trinity did was change the locks, and add finger-length screws. She made sure her windows were latched every time she left the house. The jangle of keys from outside startled her awake every time, so she got herself a ring camera, locked her bedroom doors, and when she ordered food, it was always ‘leave in front of doors’.
At first, every creak and crackle of the wood as the apartment settled from heat and cold made her startle up in the bed, heart pounding in her ears. The thumping of the boiler, the rushing of water through the pipes, her neighbours late-night beef with stairs, drunk giggling, loud yelling: it was the cacophony of freedom that made her pace around her apartment in pitch darkness until dawn made clear no intruder would burst through her front door, no ghosts from her past would appear to do as they saw fit to her much younger self, and there was truly no one but her there.
If she wanted to throw her dirty clothes on the floor, leave the dishes for a week in the sink, come to stale air and a load of laundry for folding, that was her own business. If trash piled up with takeaway boxes, there was nobody to complain, or worse, order her to take care of it. Sure she lived in a squalor for the first few months, but they were a cathartic few months.
She got about maintaining her apartment around the time she got used to all the noises that accompanied it, and it was a nice coexistence. She must’ve been at the edge of sanity when she gave Dennis a key. After seven whole flights of stairs, she had expected following Dennis to result in something nefarious like Dennis being Gloria’s spy or selling hospital drugs, not a laptop, a bag of clothes, and Chaka Khan.
It was probably Chaka Khan that sealed the deal. Who even listens to Chaka Khan except 40 year old queer dudes in even more queer pubs?
Besides, after all the horrors they swallowed for fifteen hours, Dennis deserved a normal bed, and a door that locked. That the first month after Dennis became her new roommate she locked her own bedroom doors was beside the point. Trinity just doesn’t trust like that. The click from Dennis’ bedroom told a similar story.
Dennis is still quiet, skirting around the apartment like a cockroach when the light turns on. He walks on the balls of his feet, avoids corners of the couch like he’s seeing them for the first time, and always jams himself on the bathroom door handle. There’s no jangle of keys because he only has the one, rawdogging life without even a keychain. He curses loudly, and listens to his music on earphones, especially when cooking. Trinity startles him in the kitchen nine times out of ten, and makes mac and cheese go flying three feet into the living room. Dennis looks at those bits of noodle with sad droopy eye like the wasted mouthful left him starving, then cleans it up with a huff.
The first month, he fixes the leaking tap. In winter he fixes the heater in her room, and puts up the posters Trinity has been wanting to do for weeks. For some reason he knows how to fix a flickering light without getting electrocuted, and keeps the common areas spotless.
“Look,” she says one morning, sitting at the dining table with him. She leans in to make a point of it. “You don’t touch my stuff, I don’t touch yours. I hate when somebody moves my shit around and then I can’t find it.”
“Oh,” Dennis says, looking relieved for whatever reason. “Of course.”
That’s how she finds Dennis one evening after shift, sitting on a single couch cushion and behaving like her laptop on the other is a very territorial dog growling at him.
“Bro,” she laughs, shakes her head and moves her laptop.
“Can I have one of these?” he asks, midwinter, pointing at a drawer full of protein bars she got addicted to a week back. She got a double pack with the excuse that both she and Dennis might bring them to work.
“No,” she rolls her eyes sarcastically, and returns to her show.
She doesn’t see the shrug of his shoulders or him closing the drawer, but she does notice a couple of days later that there’s a suspicious number of protein bars left.
“You don’t like them?”
“Haven’t tried them.”
She gives him a long look.
“You said not to take.”
“Oh my god,” she rolls her eyes again, and launches one at Dennis who startles like a flightless bird, flaps his arms around, and glares at her.
He’s not a big sweet-tooth, Dennis, but he takes those protein bars to work. A week later, a package of them appears in their pantry, and Trinity thinks Dennis should sooner save money than buy things she can purchase for them both.
A month later, he reminds her to take her laundry out of the washing machine before it starts stinking, and she says “no” the same way she’s always told her mother before doing it anyway. Except, she completely forgets to do it. Hours later she goes to find her wet laundry still in the machine, and Dennis’ scrubs he needs for tomorrow waiting dejectedly on the side.
She scrunches up her face, passes a hand across her hair, and says, “Huckleberry, what the hell?”
But Dennis is gone, leaving her with the dilemma of letting him wear hospital scrubs or touching his shit. As an apology. Does that work? She takes her laundry out, puts on nitrile gloves, stuffs his scrubs in, and when he comes back she play-kicks him and says, “I did your laundry. Say thank you.”
“Thank...you?” he says, while pulling a face.
“Annoy me next time a little more. Now my load stinks. Ugh, don’t pull that face, that’s not what I meant, gross.”
Thoroughly amused, Dennis’ eyebrows keep rising until she turns around and leaves.
About the time he graduates med-school, she’s stopped locking her bedroom doors. To celebrate, Santos calls Javadi and Melissa who invite Matteo, Mohan and Donnie. Bar hopping with so many people is easy when Mohan and Donnie, expertly, say bye two hours later.
“I bet you can’t take three shots,” Santos tells Javadi. Freshly turned 21, with Matteo watching, her competitive little Ms. Congeniality streak flares up. She takes the three shots and three more, throws money at Santos to keep ordering, and ends up asleep in the back of a cab with Matteo who says, “I’ll drop her off, no worries.”
Trinity doesn’t trust like that. Matteo is great, but there’s a pretty young girl who’s defenceless and men, she’s experienced, are beasts no matter how tame.
“You know where she lives?”
“We’ve babysat Harrison together before. Walked her back a few times. Dr. Javadi’s place? Woof. You don't wanna know how surgeons live.”
Trinity’s fingers dig into her denim jacket, over the little embroidered flowers Dennis put together when patching her sleeve.
As if sensing Trinity’s discomfort Melissa, who's never read a room in her life, says, “Maybe it’s time for me to go as well. Let’s split the fare. You two’ve drank enough, and I’m still sober.”
Trinity gives Melissa a look, but if there’s something meaningful behind it, she’s not sure. Mel looks like she always does: sure of herself, confident, and reassuringly honest.
By the time the taxi pulls away, Dennis has sobered up a little from the cold air.
“The night is still young my curly haired friend,” Trinity says, slinging her arm around his shoulders and dragging him off. “You ever been to a gay pub?”
Dennis snorts. “More than you.”
“Oh?” She delights when Dennis gets sassy. “What the fuck are we pussyfooting around for then?”
Dennis, as it turns out, is somewhat of a catnip to intoxicated older men. He’s got a certain youthful tenderness about him that becomes alluring when spiked with alcohol. He plays with one guy’s shirt buttons, squeezes another’s hairy forearm, and leans in to give a ‘come hither’ look to the other, smirking and laughing all the while. As a result, Dennis gets their drinks taken care of because apparently when you mix Dennis with alcohol you get an easy-going confident flirt. There’s a rhythm to it: a nice word, a smile, a thanks with an eye-crease, a lean in, interest that's absolutely irresistible to the 35-50 demographic.
So Dennis has a taste for older guys. Groundbreaking. Trinity turns away, embarrassed by how pathetically predictable it is.
“Shit,” she says, “it’s really not your first time.”
“Trin,” Dennis laughs, “I was going to gay clubs in Broken Bow. Broken Bow. There’s like...five gay dudes and a lesbian there.”
“No wonder they ran you out, village slut.”
She watches his reaction, unsure if they’re there yet with the insults. Huckleberry is sensitive like that. But Dennis throws his head back and laughs in a carefree easy way she’s never heard before. It unwinds all her worries.
“Okay so, deal is, we hook up, we go to their place.”
“No,you don’t like people in your space? You?”
“Shut up.”
“Bold of you to assume you’ll hook anything at all.”
Trinity gives Dennis a wide mouthed look, then hits him on the arm.
“Who taught you to talk like that?”
Dennis’ giggles draw eyes. “You!”
“Text me when you get there. And when you leave his place. And when you get home.”
“Trin...” he starts, but something shifts behind his eyes.
Trinity senses he’s about to get grossly emotional, and she clenches up, ready for it, when his phone buzzes.
“Is that fucking...Grindr?”
“Shush,” he says, holding up his finger, engrossed by whatever message he got.
They do end up parting ways, and Trinity gets all those texts. Not that the last one was needed since Dennis stumbles around the apartment like he's hoping to raise the living dead. Trinity goes out just in case the idiot slips in the shower.
“Pervert,” he accuses, but lets her sit outside the bathroom just in case.
“God,” he narrates, “best night of my life.”
“Gross, don’t share any more.”
“You’d never believe...oh my god. I think I went blind for two minutes.”
Trinity cackles, shocked by Dennis’ frankness.
He gets out of the bathroom, hair wet from the shower, and leans on the door, looking down at her. “Hey,” he says, “thanks.” It’s so heavy Trinity can barely swallow it.
“You’re welcome,” she replies, and gets out of the situation before he can say anything else.
Soon, he’s accepted as an intern in the ER, which they also celebrate together with Trinity moving up a year.
As if unchained, Dennis’ presence in their apartment grows negatively proportional to the number of nights he goes out. Where he finds the strength after twelve hour shifts to fuck every other night is neither here nor there, but the way he comes back with an infectiously good mood, cooking mac and cheese at two in the morning with bruises on his neck is criminal.
“You’re such a light sleeper,” he tells her one evening. “Want any?”
“Keep your white people food.”
Dennis makes a face as if he wants to correct her, and then thinks better of it.
“You know,” she says, “maybe it’s time to get a haircut.”
“Okay?”
“You, idiot.”
“Oh,” he says, shaking the curls from his eyes. “Maybe, yeah.”
He's grown reluctantly attached to his mullet where before she had to talk him into growing it out. Trinity wonders if it has anything to do with his hookup ratio.
“You’re being safe?”
“With...hair scissors?”
Trinity gives him a look, and he shrinks. “Oh, uh, yeah. We’re....yeah.”
“You gotta get tested man.”
“I know.”
“I mean we work in the same ER. How many causes of gonorrhea can we really take?”
“God, I know,” he sighs. “I pray for a broken femur.”
“That’s kinda fucked up.”
He half-turns with the spatula in his hand, and dramatically shakes his hands. “Okay Ms.’Can I do a chest tube?’.”
“Yeah and what about it?”
Their laughs linger in the air. The sound of cheesy cooked noodles getting mixed in the pot soon grows inconspicuous.
“Hey,” she says, “you ever been on Vine?”
“...yes?”
Trinity smirks. “That's what good pussy sounds li-”
“Trinity!” he shrieks much to her delight.
After she's finished cackling, Dennis serves himself a whole casserole worth of mac and cheese that looks...actually pretty great.
“And what about my plate?”
“You said—”
“Shush.”
They spend a number of nights like that until Trinity gets bored of it, and sleeps through more nights than she wakes. Dennis becomes background noise of the apartment, in line with the washing machine spin cycle and the incessant yapping of the neighborhood dog.
Second year of residency is about the same as the first, only now she has a twelve-hour Dennis-bullying window when they work the same days. She’s so familiar with the ER she finds his hiding places with her eyes closed. She’s also felt out all of her coworkers. Trinity doesn’t like surprises. Juxtoposingly, working in the ER where you get a revolving door of crazy is marginally better than surgmed where she has to sit with the same crazy for weeks.
A nurse celebrates her birthday in the break room , a few balloons pop, and Trinity becomes jumpy and intolerable, but they get to the cutting and fixing, and she can do it all day. She’s already observed a few surgeries thanks to Garcia; it’s definitely Trinity’s wheelhouse. But the ER is eventful, and she gets to watch Robby manhandling Dennis around the ER much to Dennis’ pink-cheeked resignation. Trinity has a set row of stitches in her scrubs that Dennis fixed up after a bone saw incident.
Plus, every time Dennis has to sit down after Robby’s hands were on him with that long-suffering but horny look on his face is so amusing, she has to sidle up to him and go, “Isn’t this your turf, loverboy?” And, jokingly, “Maybe he would relax a little if you relaxed yo—”
“Don’t. Just don’t.”
Dennis always wheels away to the side to put his face in his hands and sighs loudly. She laugh at him until her eyes are wet with tears.
It’s no secret Dennis is Robby’s new favourite. It’s no secret to Trinity that Dennis leans into Robby, smiles with his eyes, cocks his head to the side despite his marked up neck, and does that little once-over ‘thank you’ that’s so familiar from all the times going out because it’s worked on every single guy. Dennis is clearly into Robby. Again, revolutionary. He’s into older men, after all, and Robby hits that sweet spot between ‘old enough’ and ‘authority figure’ that gives all Dennis’ issues a nice strumming.
But Robby’s crossing his arms in front of him as well, as if showing off. He’s rocking on his feet, standing stupidly close, and when it’s Dennis that sidles up to him, doesn’t create distance. Any other guy would’ve been intimidated or weirded out by the closeness but...not Robby. Robby doesn’t flirt back in any obvious manner, but she catches him throwing Dennis looks across the ER, and it raises pink flags in her mind she can no longer unsee.
At home, she sits next to Dennis, mulling over her words but ultimately...what is there to say? ‘Denny-boy, pretty sure Dr. Robby wants a piece of your ass’? Knowing Dennis, she’d find them cracking in the stairwell literally the next shift. She gives up before giving him any ideas.
One evening, as the noise of the traffic floats up to her window like warm air, so does the creaking of the kitchen floorboards. The stillness in the air falls about her skin, gently beaching her consciousness onto reality. More creaking. It’s diluted and undefined through her bedroom door. Her ears prickle and strain for the noise, trying to tag it, deem it familiar, safe. Groggy and still fatigued, she reassures herself that it can only be Dennis. But if it’s only Dennis, why wake up? Why the need for reassurance?
A distant floodlight looks right at her bedroom, lightning it in every corner. She never closes her blinds. After more unfamiliar thudding from the kitchen, she reaches underneath her bed for the baseball bat. If it’s only Dennis, he’ll never know. If it’s only Dennis...
To make as little noise as possible, Trinity slips through a gap in her doors. Her pajamas are a fit, so she won’t get grabbed easily, and the bat has a sock on it just in case.
Intrusive light from outdoors swaddles the living room in familiar intruder-free shadows, helping Trinity avoid the couch, but render the kitchen a pitt of darkness. Her socked feet land softly, avoiding all the creaking floorboards as she creeps up to the cased opening.
God, she thinks, I hope it’s a racoon. There’s no way a racoon could get into her trash, but she desperately doesn’t want a burglar in her home.
Without the barrier of doors, the heavy steps are louder, as is the clatter from someone who obviously doesn’t know their way around. Dennis must’ve left the front doors unlocked, the idiot. Their wallets are by the front door. What’s a burglar doing in the kitchen?
Trinity rounds the corner. Her eyes haven’t adjusted yet when she hears the tap running. There’s greyness around a huge dark mass, far taller and bigger than Dennis. Adrenaline spikes through her blood.
Trinity swings without further pause. The crack of the bat rings out just like the thudding of the figure-mass-man hitting the wood below. It sounds like a building’s collapsed in the silence of the evening.
A loud, “Oh, fuck,” rings out, followed by a groan.
Trinity immediately backs off for fear of being grabbed, and flicks on the lights. The span of her kitchen floor is covered in a mass of a huge, shirtless man feeling about his nape.
“Hope you’re ready to go to jail, asshole,” she says.
From behind, she hears Dennis’ nervous steps, the shuffling, the, “What the hell—” The lights come on in the whole apartment, Dennis standing by the switches, flustered. “Trinity?!”
“Oh good, you’re awake. Need you to get something and tie this idiot with one of your impossible knots while I call the police.”
Dennis stands stock still, having gone pale.
“Uh,” he says smartly. “I...I invited him.” Skirting around her, like she might swing at him too, he rushes over and down to his knees.
The pieces slowly rearrange themselves.
“You know him.” Then, “You brought a man into my home?”
“Je-sus, Santos,” the man says in a voice far too familiar for liking. “What the fuck?”
The man looks up at her, and aside from the bitten bleeding lip, two eyes of Dr. Robby Robinavitch stare at her. Dr. Robby is in her apartment. Dr. Robby is shirtless, and in her apartment.
“I fucking knew you were a creep,” she spits, to his bewildered face. “What the fuck are you going about—” she takes stock of Dennis, also shirtless, with bruises on his neck and marks on his shouldersblades, and her voice goes shrill, “—fucking your intern? This is so...so wrong. So wrong. On so many levels. Fuck. Fuck.”
She turns away to pace, then whips back around because she’s not giving them her back, and suddenly she’s regretting never talking to Dennis about this. He’s starved for affection and attention, of course he’d fall for Robby’s tricks.
“It’s okay,” she hears in the background, “my traps got hit, not the nape.”
“Are you sure?” comes Dennis’ worried, uncertain voice.
She wheels around. “And you, what the fuck! We had a deal!”
“It’s just,” Dennis says nervously, “we fell asleep and you came back and...”
“He’s been here before?”
“Only a few times, it’s...”
“Oh my god.”
“Okay, everybody calm down,” Robby says, sitting back on his haunches. “I think there’s a misunderstanding.”
“You’re fucking your intern. This is beyond a misunderstanding. This is an ethic’s board issue. This is an HR call. This is Lewinsky-type of fucked up. Taking advantage of Dennis...Dennis? Really?”
“Please don’t do that,” Dennis says, standing up. He gets a cold compress for the fuck. “It’s not what you think. We’ve been...dating.”
He’s uncertain about it until Robby nods. The poor fucker smiles, looks thrilled. Trinity’s going to be sick.
“I’m renovating my apartment so it’s not exactly habitable yet.” Met with her silence, Robby continues, “I’m making more space for Den.”
“Oh,” says Dennis.
“I’m not asking you to move in,” Robby says, getting on his feet just to sit in her kitchen chair. “But it would be nice if you would stay over...when you want.”
“Why aren’t you asking him to move in?” Trinity asks, offended on Dennis’ behalf.
Robby looks towards the ceiling, then opens his arms in a ‘come on’ way. “Because he’s my resident? Because I like him to have a choice? Probably because half of the reasons why you’re worried too.”
“Michael...”
Dennis and Robby share a long look, and it’s so soppy and loving, Trinity wants to gag.
“Also,” Dennis says, after a moment of squeezing Robby’s arm, “I sort of...started it anyway. Michael was reluctant.”
“Oh no, a hot piece of twenty year old ass is chasing me, what am I to do,” Trinity mocks. She’s yet to put down the bat, so when she waves her hands around, they move out of the way. “I should've known. You do love your...old, tall and hairy.”
Robby’s brow quirks and Dennis purses his lips.
“Oh, I see now,” Robby mutters after a lingering silence. Dennis flushes. “How much experience are we talking?”
Dennis clears his throat. “Enough.”
“Am I your type, Denny?”
Pink blotches spread across Dennis’ chest. The brazen brat throws Trinity a look like she just killed his puppy. She’s never seen him so meek. But Dennis wouldn’t be Dennis without going, “I thought that was clear by now.”
Robby hums, eyes narrowed, like he’s going to tease Dennis about it later, and Dennis looks like a whimpering rabbit. They’re one HR call away from Dennis’ career ending before it’s even begun and he’s flirting. And he’s still shirtless. Ugh, gross.
Trinity needs to go to bed.
“Den, need you for a minute.” She drags him to her room, and shuts the doors. She gives him a long look, which he returns, then she says, “He didn’t talk you into this.”
“Nope.”
“Sometimes, when an authority figure picks you, and makes you feel special...”
“We started talking on Grindr. Didn’t know it was him at first. We got a few drinks after I did know it was him, and then I chased Michael down until he couldn’t run away. First time we fucked—” “Gross.” “—was that night we celebrated my graduation.” He lifts his arms, and gently places them on her shoulders. “Trin.” He smiles. “Thank you for looking out for me.”
Suddenly, she can’t talk around the knot in her throat, so she just nods.
“I know we don’t talk about it,” he says, “but I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I’m sorry for making you scared and worried tonight. I’m fine, really. More than fine. Michael’s...” Dennis thinks better of it, and lets that thread go. “...really good to me. Besides, I’m having fun, and it’s not that serious. We talked about it.”
“He asked you to not-move in together,” Trinity points out.
Dennis nods. “Options. Casual. Trust me, I’ve had enough asshole men in my life, I’m not going to tolerate one in my precious free time.”
That’s what they all say. Then Trinity’s begging them to break up three months after so much emotional abuse it could fill a practice.
“This is such a fuckup, Huckleberry. Whatever happens, the hospital will get rid of you first, you know that right? He’ll just get a slap on the wrist. You shit where you eat now, and you have to stick it out for three more years.”
“Yeah,” Dennis says. “I guess I just thought we could both compartmentalise. I don’t know, we’re just...different people outside the ER.”
“Obviously. Still fucked you brought himhere though.”
“It’s ‘Robby’,” Dennis says, like that’s supposed to mean something. To be fair, it is.
First day, Robby trusted her enough to confront Langdon. She isn’t under any delusion it’s for morally good reasons; he’s covering his and PTMC’s ass. Still, he did something about it when everyone else essentially told her to fuck off. She’s into her RS2 now, and Robby’s saved her ass more times than she can count, and she’s sort of indebted to him because he clearly sees she wants to go into surgery, and gives her the opportunities to learn.
Robby is a good attending, but Trinity’s known people who were good professionals but have ended up being horrors in their private life.
“I don’t know what you see in him,” she says, not because she can’t find the value, but because she’s not privy to Robby’s private life.
Understanding her meaning, Dennis replies, “Hard shell, but gooey in the middle. Like you.”
Trinity snorts, shakes her head. “Okay, alright, cheeky asshole, go, walk in front of me.”
They walk back to the kitchen where Robby’s manifested a shirt, and cleaned up the blood from himself and the floor.
“How’s the lip?” she asks, and he just gives her a look. “I’m not sorry I did it, but I’m sorry you got hurt.”
“Appreciate it,” he shrugs.
“Look. It’s really uncomfortable to see you like this privately, and I hope I don’t again. You’re my attending. I like to keep clear lines.”
“Understandable. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for giving you a fright at...” he squits. God he needs to squit to read numbers. Why is Dennis into geriatric men? “...Three in the morning, and making you feel unsafe in your own home. I’ve overstayed my welcome as is.”
“I just don’t like professional and personal lines blurring.”
“Is that why you flirt with Garcia at work?” Dennis snarks.
“Yeah,” Trinity replies. “At work. Not home. It’s a bad idea.” She crosses her arms. “If anybody sees you and reports you...it’s your ass on the line, Dennis. That’s what’s got me worried. You worked so hard to get here, it wouldn’t be fair.”
Dennis isn’t touchy. Trinity isn’t either. It’s like there’s a forcefield of personal space between them that they both respect. It comes from a mutual understanding that touch, most times in their life, came unwelcomed. This time, Dennis slowly touches her shoulder, then rubs her back as if in thanks. There’s that look on his face again like he really wants to thank her again, but isn’t saying it because it’s difficult for her to hear it.
“That has been,” Robby sighs, “an ongoing worry. There’s only so much plausible deniability we can get before someone sees us holding hands. Forget about it if we’re at a bar.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dennis complains.
“You become a menace when you drink.”
Trinity can imagine all that easy going charm turning on Robby. She sighs.
“So you don’t manhandle me into your lap every time? Because—”
There’s a smirk playing at Robby’s lips, eyes creasing at the sides with his amusement.
“If I don’t hold onto you, someone else will.”
“And what about it?”
A flash of teeth from Robby, and a cocked hip from Dennis, and Trinity’s going to be sick.
“Probably talk about real world issues instead of thinking with your dick?” she interrupts. “I don’t know, just throwing ideas out there.”
“I’m going to head out,” Robby says, standing. “It’s better to have this conversation when not sleep deprived. Santos...thanks.”
She nods, and walks him out before returning to her bed. From her window, she spots Dennis in his bathrobe standing by the curb with Robby. Despite all that worry for their privacy, Robby touches Dennis’ arm, kisses him gently. When they hug, Robby rubs his cheek on top of Dennis’ curls, and closes his eyes while petting his back. It’s familiar, domestic. She hopes Robby isn’t going to turn out an apoplectic asshole who’s going to have Dennis crying on her couch like a slew of ex-boyfriends have rendered her other friends inconsolable. Hope is distant from realistic expectations, though. She no longer trusts like that.
If Robby’s willing to date his intern and hide it...what else is he prepared to do to get his way with Dennis?
She takes a picture of the couple. Not soon after, Robby drives away on his bike, and the front doors open and close when Dennis comes back inside. Feet hesitate at her doors, before meandering away.
As she lies down, the discomfort in her chest unfolds into disappointment. Trinity replaces the bat underneath her bed, and turns on her side. She opens her notes app, documenting the encounter. Just in case.