Chapter Text
Maybe Trinity should just get it over with.
It shouldn’t be hard, right? Not for her.
She can do this. Has, many times before.
(Just without knowing their name.)
Turning over in bed, Trinity tugs herself deeper beneath the blanket and studies her girlfriend. Tight dark-brown curls have escaped whatever losing battle Baran fought with them before sleep, spilling over her shoulders in soft, chaotic loops.
Her eyes are half closed, somewhere in that drifting country between waking and dreaming, and Trinity smiles despite herself. Baran looks softer like this. Unburdened and younger, somehow.
It shouldn’t be hard. Not with her.
Baran would be gentle too, probably. Which is, in its own deeply inconvenient way, part of the problem. Baran approaches everything with this unbearable attention and diligence, leaving no room to hide inside her care.
She probably knows already, Trinity thinks suddenly, stifling a sigh before it can fully escape. Knows something about her girlfriend is wrong in a way that runs deeper than quirks or caution.
Broken, maybe beyond repair. Baran is just too kind to drag it into the light before Trinity’s ready.
In the half-dark, Trinity shifts again and turns to stare at the ceiling. Floating shadows bloom there when she squints, strange little shapes drifting lazily through the dark. It’s been almost three months now since they became official. One month since she’d been introduced to Kaveh.
Which should feel like a bigger step, if she thinks about it, to a normal person.
And Trinity thinks about it constantly.
Mostly at night, when there’s nothing between her and her thoughts except darkness and poor decisions. She thinks herself into things and out of them again with varying degrees of success, which is to say not much success at all.
Because the situation is actually very simple: she shouldn’t really have this. Never thought she would.
She’s in love, no doubt about that. Horrifyingly attached. Dependent, maybe, on the quiet stability that comes with Baran—the warmth of her body beside hers, the fact that being loved by her has started to feel normal.
Still, Trinity can’t stop feeling like there’s an expiration date lurking somewhere ahead of them. The invisible sword of Damocles dangling over Baran’s bed right now, suspended by a thread Trinity can’t even see.
Because even Baran’s patience has to wear thin eventually.
Trinity just hopes she figures it out before then. Figures out how to sleep with someone who actually knows her. Someone who never would, but could—and that’s the point, isn’t it?—destroy her if she wanted to.
Make it matter.
Have access and abuse it.
Just like—
“I can hear you thinking, eshgahm.”
The pillows rustle beside her and Baran’s sleepy voice cuts gently through the silence of the bedroom.
Trinity swallows and keeps her eyes fixed upward. There’s no point pretending. But the words won’t come right now. They’re all stuck somewhere behind the knot tightening in her throat.
More soft rustling comes from her right as Baran shifts upright beside her, slowly entering Trinity’s field of vision.
“Nightmare?”
Pressing her lips together, Trinity shakes her head. She’s been having them more recently. Probably because she keeps thinking about... this.
Baran nods once, slow and thoughtful, and carefully nudges Trinity’s side until she finally turns to look at her. Even in the dim light, Trinity can feel those intensely brown eyes fixed on her, gentler now, threaded through with concern.
“It’s...” she starts, already realizing there’s nowhere safe enough to put this yet. “It’s nothing.”
The words sound flimsy even to her own ears.
Baran nods again.
Without looking away, she reaches out slowly and lets her hand settle against the side of Trinity’s head. Slender fingers slip carefully into her hair, stroking against her scalp in slow, absent circles.
“Can I know about the nothing later?” she asks softly.
Trinity represses another sigh.
The gentleness sometimes feels unbearable. Unearned. Like being handed something fragile and expensive when your hands are already shaking.
But she nods.
“I hope so.”
Then she reaches out and tugs Baran closer. Partly because she wants to hold her—God, she really does—but also because she needs those devastatingly perceptive eyes somewhere other than on her face.
Baran goes willingly, folding herself against Trinity beneath the blanket.
Her body is warm and familiar, and Trinity relaxes instinctively against her before she can stop herself.
See? she thinks helplessly. It shouldn’t be so hard to go from this to—
“Good night, Trin,” Baran whispers into her hair.
Trinity lets her forehead rest against Baran’s shoulder and breathes out slowly, the tension leaving her in pieces instead of all at once.
“Night.”
It doesn’t really come up again the next morning. But Trinity knows it’s there—the conversation, waiting for them somewhere just beneath the surface.
She can feel it the next evening as they lounge on the couch together. Baran’s just come back from a twelve-hour shift at the VA and somehow looks more alive than Trinity does, despite Trinity having had the entire day off.
Probably because she spent most of it grovelling around the apartment, hanging out at Baran’s place because it still feels easier than being at her own.
Still alone, technically. But alone in Baran’s presence is different somehow.
Trinity cooked. Did laundry. Fixed the leaking sink in the kitchen after spending twenty annoyed minutes under it with a wrench between her teeth and water dripping onto her sleeve.
At one point in the afternoon she’d nearly called work to ask if anyone needed cover for a shift, just because she’d felt this restless, crawling need to have something to do with herself.
Anything but sit still long enough to think.
Now, though, her thoughts have finally quieted a little, muted by the steady warmth of Baran behind her. Trinity’s tucked against her girlfriend with her back pressed to Baran’s chest, one of Baran’s arms looped lazily around her middle beneath the blanket.
There’s a heartbeat against her cheek.
The TV hums softly in the background, filling the apartment with light that paints everything gold and shadowed by turns. Somewhere outside, a car passes through the wet evening streets, tires hissing faintly against concrete.
Baran smells like hospital soap and her new conditioner.
They don’t talk much.
But Trinity knows it’s coming anyway. Instinctively. She can feel the shape of the conversation waiting. Baran, waiting.
And Trinity is nothing if not a problem solver.
Right?
Baran’s arm is still around her waist beneath the blanket. Every so often her thumb strokes absently against Trinity’s stomach through the fabric of her shirt, not asking for anything. Just there.
The tenderness of it makes something ache.
Trinity stares at the television light for a long moment before she abruptly turns in Baran’s arms.
Baran blinks, surprised. “Hi,” she says, voice roughened from exhaustion and disuse.
Trinity doesn’t answer.
She kisses her instead.
Baran makes a soft sound against her mouth, startled at first more than anything else, but it only takes a heartbeat before she melts into it. Her hand slides instinctively to Trinity’s waist, warm even through the layers between them.
The kiss deepens quickly.
Maybe too quickly.
But Trinity keeps going because if she hesitates now she’ll lose whatever momentum she’s managed to build inside herself. So she presses closer, one hand curling into the fabric of Baran’s shirt while she kisses her harder, deeper, until Baran’s breathing changes beneath her.
“Oh,” Baran whispers against her mouth, sounding almost dazed.
And God, that does something to Trinity. Something dangerous.
Because she can feel how careful Baran’s been these past months. How restrained. Like she’s been trying to let Trinity set every pace and boundary herself without ever making her feel pressured by it.
Which means Baran probably wants this.
Has probably wanted this for a while.
So she pushes forward.
She shifts until she’s half sprawled over Baran on the couch, guiding everything before Baran can. Keeping control of the angle of the kiss, the pressure of hands, the rhythm of it all. Baran follows willingly beneath her, breath warm and uneven against Trinity’s lips.
This is the furthest they’ve ever gone.
Until now.
Her pulse jumps hard, but she ignores it.
Instead she reaches down, grabs the hem of her hoodie, and pulls it over her head in one quick motion before she can think too hard about it. Cool air brushes against her skin immediately, making goosebumps rise along her arms.
Baran’s eyes flick downward instinctively.
Her pupils widen, but not hungry or greedy. It's more like awe.
“You’re beautiful,” she says softly, like it slipped out accidentally.
The sincerity of it nearly undoes Trinity on the spot. So she kisses her again before she has to react.
Harder this time.
Baran’s hands settle hesitantly against her waist, thumbs brushing exposed skin now. The touch sends heat through Trinity at first—real heat, real want—and relief blooms briefly inside her.
See?
Fine.
She’s fine.
This is fine.
The couch creaks softly beneath them as they shift together, the blanket tangling around their legs. Baran’s curls are damp against Trinity’s fingers where she cups the back of her head.
Their mouths part and reconnect messily, breathless now, and somewhere in the middle of it Baran laughs quietly when Trinity nearly elbows her in the shoulder trying to reposition herself.
The sound is so fond it hurts.
Pleasure starts to unfurl low in Trinity’s stomach.
But then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, something underneath it changes. The warmth starts turning sour.
A subtle wrongness creeps inward like cold water leaking beneath a locked door.
Trinity pushes through it.
Closes her eyes.
She keeps kissing Baran to stay anchored. Keeps one hand firm against her hip, guiding her carefully.
Baran’s breathing catches when Trinity guides one of her hands higher.
“Trin,” she murmurs softly against her mouth.
“It’s okay,” Trinity says quickly.
Too quickly.
But Baran pauses anyway, immediately.
Her hand stills where Trinity placed it, and when Trinity pulls back just enough to look at her, Baran’s expression is open and concerned and devastatingly attentive.
“We don’t have to—” she starts gently.
“I want to.”
Baran searches her face for a long moment. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m sure.”
Because she can do this. She has. Many times before.
Baran still looks uncertain, but eventually she nods slowly and lets Trinity guide her hand again.
The apartment suddenly feels too warm.
Trinity becomes acutely aware of everything all at once:
the rough weave of the couch fabric beneath her knees, the sound of rain outside.
Her own heartbeat pounding too hard against her ribs.
Baran kisses her jaw carefully.
The affection in it makes panic flimmer deep inside Trinity’s stomach.
But she keeps going.
Focus on her, Trinity tells herself desperately. Focus on how much she wants this. How patient she’s been.
Baran exhales shakily when Trinity presses closer again, and for a second Trinity manages to hold onto that reaction. Onto the evidence that she’s making Baran feel good.
Maybe if Baran’s happy enough, if Trinity does this well enough...
The room feels farther away suddenly. Sounds muffled. Her own body strangely distant beneath her skin.
Baran says her name softly at one point and it takes Trinity an extra beat to recognize it.
Still she keeps moving. Keeps kissing her.
Then Baran’s hand brushes lower than her hip and Trinity’s entire body locks.
Everything stops.
Trinity's frozen solid.
And suddenly she is small.
Trapped and terrified in a way that has no language attached to it anymore.
Another set of eyes appears, watching her from behind Baran's shoulders. They study her, attentively, above a spikey beard and a grin.
The feeling comes before memory.
Overwhelming helplessness flooding her bloodstream so violently it steals the air from her lungs.
Pressure.
Hands.
The impossible certainty that 'no' doesn’t matter.
That her body isn’t hers anymore.
The room around her dissolves into abstract fragments—darkness and weight and the sensation of being pinned inside herself while somewhere far away someone keeps speaking.
(Just let it happen.)
Trinity can’t move. (Because she should'nt-)
Can’t breathe.
Can’t—
“Trinity?”
The velvet voice comes through muffled as reality bleeds back in by inches.
The couch beneath her. TV light. Rain against glass.
Baran.
There’s no movement anymore. No kissing and no hands touching her.
Baran’s sitting several inches away now, visibly holding herself back from reaching for her. Her face is pale with concern, eyes huge and frightened.
“Hey,” she says gently. “Hey, you’re okay. You’re okay.”
Trinity blinks at her, thoughts lagging a moment behind. Then horror crashes into her all at once.
Oh God.
Oh God.
No.
Her chest tightens so violently it feels like it's tearing.
“I—” The word catches uselessly in her throat.
Air suddenly won’t go in properly. Every breath comes too fast and too shallow, her lungs refusing to fill no matter how hard she tries. Heat flashes over her skin, followed immediately by cold.
No no no.
Not here.
He's not here.
(But he is.)
Not with Baran.
Humiliation surges through her so hard it borders on nausea.
She can’t even—
She can’t even do this.
“I’m sorry,” she hears herself say, already scrambling backward off the couch. “Fuck—I’m sorry—”
“Trinity, you don’t need to apologize—”
But Trinity’s already moving.
The apartment tilts strangely around her as she stumbles toward the bathroom, vision tunneling at the edges. Her hands are shaking so badly she nearly misses the doorknob entirely before finally managing to slam the door shut behind her.
Lock it.
Lock it.
The click sounds deafening.
Then she’s gripping the sink hard enough her knuckles ache while she tries to breathe through lungs that suddenly feel much too small.
Her reflection looks wrong. Too pale. Eyes blown wide. Sweat dampening the hair at her temples. She turns the tap on with trembling hands and splashes cold water against her face once.
Then again.
It barely helps.
Her heart keeps hammering violently against her ribs.
Outside the door there’s nothing for a moment.
Then, carefully: “Trin?”
“Please, go,” Trinity says immediately, voice breaking.
She presses both palms against the sink, bowing over it hard as another wave of nausea crashes through her body.
The eyes.
The eyes are behind her now, in the mirror. Watching her fall apart even fifteen years later. Satisfied.
Trinity chokes on the next breath.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Baran says softly from the other side of the door. The gentleness in her voice makes fresh shame claw up Trinity’s throat.
“Y- You shouldn’t have to deal with this,” she chokes out. “Jesus Christ.”
“Hey.” Baran’s voice stays calm.“I want to.”
“No, you don’t.”
Trinity slides slowly downward until she’s sitting on the bathroom floor with her back pressed against the door. The tile is cold beneath her bare feet.
Everything hurts. Not even physically. Just... everywhere else.
There are no hands on her, not anymore.
Just eyes.
Proud, as they move from Trinity to her parents, congratulating them for their daughters achievements.
Knowing, later, when she complies.
Again.
Trinity curls inward, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes as tears finally spill over.
It's humiliating.
On the other side of the door she hears quiet movement before Baran sits down too.
“Can you listen to me for a second?” Baran asks gently.
Trinity can’t answer, but Baran keeps going anyway.
“This isn’t a problem,” she says softly. “Okay? You are not a problem.” Trinity lets out a strangled sound that might’ve been a laugh in another life.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. Ever. Not with me.”
More tears slip down Trinity’s face. She presses her forehead against her knees.
That's not the problem.
Trinity wanted. She just can't.
“I’m here,” Baran continues quietly. “I’m not upset with you. I’m not going anywhere.”
Each word lands carefully, like Baran’s building something brick by brick.
“I love you.”
That one hurts the worst. Because some desperate, terrified part of her believes her. And another part still can’t understand why.
She cries silently against her knees while Baran stays on the other side of the door talking to her in that same low voice. Sometimes reminding her to breathe slower. Sometimes just telling things about her workday.
Trinity thinks she hears something about a patients pet.
Followed by small ordinary things to tether her back to herself.
Eventually the panic loosens enough for exhaustion to take its place.
Trinity sits there hollowed out and shaky, staring at the tiles for a long time before finally getting up and unlocking the door.
For a second she can’t make herself open it. Then she does.
Baran’s sitting exactly where she said she’d be, waiting.Her curls are mussed from running her hands through them, and her eyes look red-rimmed. The sight of it sends fresh devastation crashing through Trinity’s chest.
Oh God. She made Baran cry.
Baran’s holding Trinity’s discarded hoodie folded loosely in her lap like she didn’t know what else to do with it.
When their eyes meet, Baran stands slowly.
“Can I...?” she asks quietly, opening her arms. Trinity makes a small helpless sound and immediately folds into her.
Baran catches her gently, wrapping both arms around her without squeezing too tightly. Warmth surrounds Trinity instantly, familiar and heartbreakingly safe.
“I’m sorry,” Trinity whispers against her shoulder, voice shredded raw. “I’m so sorry.” Baran holds her tighter.
“You never have to apologize for that,” she murmurs into Trinity’s hair.
Trinity starts crying again.
Baran just keeps holding her through it, one hand stroking slowly up and down her back.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers.
Again and again.
“I’ve got you.”
After a few more moments, Baran helps her back into the shirt.
The fabric is still faintly warm from Baran clutching it, and Trinity's stomach twists as her girlfriend guides her arms through the sleeves without making a single comment.
“Okay?” Baran asks quietly once the hoodie’s settled properly over her shoulders again.
Trinity nods automatically even though the answer is obviously no. Baran doesn’t call her on it.
The walk back into the living room feels strangely long. Trinity’s legs still feel vaguely unsteady beneath her, her body heavy and hollowed out all at once.
The blanket still lies tangled half on the floor near the couch. One of the cushions is crooked from where Trinity shoved herself backward in panic. The TV screen has gone dark.
Trinity instinctively veers toward the armchair instead of the couch. Farther away and safer somehow.
She sinks into it heavily, curling one sleeve over her hand before pressing it briefly against her mouth. Her eyes burn again immediately, exhaustion dragging at every part of her body now that the adrenaline is fading.
Baran doesn’t try to sit beside her, even though they usually, snugly, fit on there together. Instead she stays standing a few feet away.
For a while neither of them says anything.
Trinity sniffles once despite herself and immediately feels humiliated by the sound. Baran pretends not to notice.
“I’ll just go get you some water, okay?” she says softly after a moment. Trinity nods again.
Baran squeezes her shoulder once—brief enough not to overwhelm her—then disappears toward the kitchen.
The second she’s alone, Trinity leans her head back against the chair and closes her eyes.
God.
She fucked up.
The thought loops uselessly through her head while exhaustion presses heavily at the base of her skull.
Then the doorbell rings.
Trinity startles hard enough her stomach flips, then sits up straighter.
From the kitchen she hears Baran curse quietly under her breath before footsteps cross the apartment.
A moment later the front door opens and voices drift through the hallway into the living room.
Trinity stiffens slightly. Amir. Baran’s ex.
Their voices stay low near the door, hushed in the way parents talk when they think someone else might be sleeping or upset nearby. Trinity can’t make out most of the words, only tones: Amir sounding tired, Baran calm but strained in that particular way she gets when juggling too many things at once.
Trinity suddenly becomes acutely aware of the state she's in.
She should probably go hide in the bedroom before—
“Trinity!”
The shout arrives before she can move.
Kaveh barrels into the living room like a tiny weather event, already halfway out of his raincoat while tugging off one boot with visible determination. His cheeks are pink from cold and excitement.
He heads straight toward the armchair. Then stops abruptly.
Trinity still hears quiet voices near the front door behind him, Amir and Baran apparently occupied with something very urgent.
Kaveh, meanwhile, stares at her. Really stares, the same way Baran does sometimes. Attentive in a way that feels oddly wise coming from someone so small.
“Oh,” he says softly.
His little face shifts subtly as he takes her in: the red eyes, the hunched posture and the exhaustion Trinity knows must still be written all over her.
Then, without another word, he reaches slowly for his tiny spiderman backpack. Trinity watches numbly as he unzips it and pulls out a battered hardcover book.
The corners are bent from use and there’s a faint juice stain on one page near the middle because Kaveh once got overexcited about triceratops facts during breakfast.
Trinity knows most of the book by heart by now.
Kaveh approaches again carefully, clutching it against his chest. Then he nods toward Trinity’s lap.
“Can I sit anyway?”
Trinity swallows hard against another sudden rush of tears and manages a small nod.
“Yeah,” she says hoarsely. “Course you can.”
Kaveh climbs into her lap with all the awkward determination of a four-year-old who thinks he’s extremely independent. Trinity automatically steadies him with both hands, and only then realizes he’s wetter from the rain than she first thought. His sweater is damp at the shoulders.
It doesn’t matter.
The warmth of his small body settles carefully against hers. Kaveh wiggles until he’s comfortable and opens the book between them.
Usually this is the point where he shoves it into Trinity’s hands and demands she do “the scary T-Rex voice.”
But tonight he doesn’t. Instead he flips carefully through the pages until he finds his favorite chapter: pterodactyls.
Well.
Pterosaurs technically.
Trinity made the mistake of explaining the distinction once and now Kaveh corrects even strangers with alarming confidence.
He glances up at her first, brown eyes serious beneath damp curls bouncing against his forehead, making sure she’s paying attention. Then he nods once to himself and leans back against her chest.
And starts reading, clumsily.
“The ptero... ptero-dac-tyl had big wings,” he says with immense concentration. “It could glide over the oc-cee-an looking for fish.”
He stumbles hard over ocean, frowning at the page like it personally offended him. Trinity bites the inside of her cheek immediately.
“Oh!” Kaveh says, correcting himself proudly. “Ocean.”
“Very good,” Trinity whispers. Her voice feels dangerously thin.
Kaveh continues reading with solemn determination, one finger tracking beneath the words as he goes.
And suddenly Trinity wants to cry again.
Because Baran raised someone this gentle. Because despite everything, for reasons Trinity still cannot fully understand, they both keep choosing her.
A few minutes later, Baran reappears before them, holding her sons rain coat. Kaveh doesn't notice that Baran glances at Trinity, lifting her eyebrows in silent question.
Trinity manages a small smile and nods.