Trinity pulling you in with a firm hand at your hip, slotting you inbetween her legs where she’s sat on the edge of the kitchen counter. You were supposed to be making carbonara—date night, just you, Trin, and home cooked food served under intimate candlelight, paired with whatever red wine was going the cheapest down at the corner store. A slow, steady date, that’s what you had promised. Something easy, and low effort after a gruelling shift at the Pitt. But Trinity had taken one look at you, sweatpants low around the hips, one of her old college sweaters snug around your shoulders, and that little pout upon your face from concentrating too hard, and known there would be nothing slow and steady about tonight.
“Trin,” You had laughed against her incessant mouth, hot and feverish and devouring, “the sauce—“
“Forget the sauce. Just—Please.” And who were you to deny her?
Your hands cradled Trinity’s face, tucking her hair behind her ear to avoid it falling between your spit-slicked mouths, and pulling her in impossibly closer. Noses pressing against one another and eyelashes tickling one another’s skin as Trinity’s hands begin to wander, nowhere in particular at first, along your waist and up your sides, getting the lay of the land before trailing up, fingers skimming the wire of your bra so delicately that if you didn’t know Trin as intimately as you do, you could have believed it to be accidental. And then she’s cupping your boobs over your bra, thumb pressing over where she knew your nipples would be beneath the fabric.
You keen, breathing in and arching yourself further into her touch. Your lips start tracing the outline of her, gentle as you pepper kisses to the curve of her jaw and the sensitive skin of her neck—she shivers at your touch, her fingers twitching around you as you go—and then dropping to the junction where shoulder meets neck, teeth nipping where you know her to be the most vulnerable and soothing the sting with the heat of your tongue when Trinity moans.
“Before this goes further, please let me turn the stove off. I’m not risking a house fire.”
“Not even for this? For me?”
She lets you pull away regardless, her eyes searing into you as you pad over to the pasta sauce and turn the hob, moving the pan away before making your inevitable path back to Trinity. And then you’re crashing together, all the intensity of stars colliding. This time it’s all tongue, and teeth, and spit. Your hands find the waistband of Trinity’s jeans, popping the button with no great difficulty and letting your fingers dip into her underwear, Trin shivers, breathless; you pull back to watch her, the strands of hair sticking to her face, her eyes hooded but no less intense as she meets your gaze head on, a challenge, as always. And her mouth—fuck!—parted on a gentle moan, lips flushed and swollen, glistening under candlelight from your spit. All yours for the taking.
You pull her closer still by the belt loops, “Bedroom. Now.”
Trinity spending the night at yours for the first time, the relationship still finding its feet as you work around Trinity’s horrendous ER schedule—which, more than once, you had referred to as the ‘most toxic relationship since Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown’. It had been a very relaxed evening, takeout and the latest episodes of Love Island that you had dutifully resisted watching until Trin could find time in her hectic schedule to curl up into you on your couch and start her running commentary that you have come to find more entertaining than the show itself.
Everything was still new to Trinity in an oddly endearing way, like Bambi finding his legs on ice. She’d still knock her hip into your kitchen island because it was exactly .5 inches longer than the one in her apartment; and turn to put dishes on the drying rack to her right when yours was actually on the left; and even toss the TV remote onto your carpet because instinct said she had a coffee table, she did of course, back in the living room at her place, but you did not.
Which is why she’s stunned at the sight of you propped on your bathroom sink, a thousand (and that’s hardly an exaggeration!) different creams and ointments spread around you as you dutifully begin your nighttime routine.
“I get acne.” You shrug, in lieu of an explanation and Trinity can’t seem to shut her mouth—jaw still hanging as she looks from you to the nearest bottle that reads Low pH Good Morning Cleanser. You see Trinity’s stare, “That’s for my morning routine.”
“You do all of this? Every day? Twice a day?”
“Uh, yeah? What else would I do?”
Trinity blushes, hand rubbing at the back of her neck. “I don’t know, just splash your face with water? Maybe.”
You are stunned dumb. Blinking at her with the sporadic pace of what you could only describe as the morse code equivalent of a keyboard smash. How did you not know this about your girlfriend? It doesn’t feel like a pertinent question, a make or break like ‘do you want kids?’ or ‘would you sleep closest to the door—no matter what side of the bed that is—and protect me from any intruders that might try and murder us?’, but it does somehow feel like something that you should have known before the 3 month stage of your relationship.
The life of an ER doctor strikes again.
“We’ll have to start you out on something more delicate, I don’t want to overwhelm your skin. Would you say your skin is more oily or dry?” You drop from your perch on the sink, washing off your hands and gently taking Trinity’s face into your hands. “I’m thinking maybe we just exfoliate today and see what happens. And some moisturiser, obviously.”
“Obviously.” Trinity takes your vacated seat, getting on her tippy-toes to reach the lip of the sink. Her feet swing like a little kid’s as she watches you pick out the different bottles, turning them in your hands, weighing them, before either putting them back down with a shake of your head or giving them over for Trinity to hold. “Uh, this feels like more than just exfoliating.”
“Well, I have to cleanse your skin first. Gets all the icky stuff off your skin, and then we can exfoliate. I just—you’re a doctor, don’t you tell your patients about the importance of skincare?”
“Normally they come in with more problems than bad skincare.” Trinity hums, eyelids fluttering shut as you start gently rubbing what she suspects is the oil cleanser into her skin. It doesn’t smell of anything in particular, which means she can get the perfect whiff of you. She hadn’t realised how much she enjoyed the smell of you until she was stuck in the ER, and the cloying smell of antiseptic and iron bombards her senses.
Being in your apartment just solidifies it, being surrounded by your smell; whatever fruity body spray you had fallen in love with that week, the smell of your deodorant—usually something gentle, like vanilla, or that Wild deodorant with the smell ‘Thunderstorm’ which Trinity didn’t know was such an obvious smell until she was tucked under your arm and pretending she wasn’t turning her nose closer to your armpit whenever she got the chance.
She could almost curse the Pitt for denying her more time with you. For times like this, intimate and so pitifully mundane that if she told Dennis how lovestruck she was from you simply caring about basic skincare, he might send her upstairs for a Psych eval.
And he almost does, when he sees her the next morning, scrutinising her as she leans her elbows upon the desk at Central. “Since when did you know how to moisturise?”
“Uh, around about the same time you learnt how to keep your scrubs free of bodily-fluid, Fuckleberry.”
