"When she worries the voicemail will cut off, Santos desperately reiterates once more, “And I’m here,” before hitting the end call button."
A familiar feeling spreads up from her stomach and blooms in her chest, reminding her of hot rain, and traded figurines, and a band of stars smeared across an otherwise jet-black sky.
Garcia's fingers course through silky hair, over and over, while cinnamon coats her nostrils and her head grows heavy from the warmth across her body. And she falls asleep like that. With the woman she’s only supposed to be fucking causing her lips to turn up in a small smile of triumph before fully relaxing, her thoughts filling with colorful images and then emptying into nothing at all…
Garcia’s startled awake when someone presses against her from behind, eyes blinking rapidly as her body tenses.
But it’s just Santos, of course. Garcia's foggy brain quickly switches from alarmed to pleased, faintly registering that she'd been dreaming of her, although she can’t quite grasp the details.
Santos’ breath hits the back of her neck in shallow puffs. To Garcia's surprise, it isn't irritating her like it has with others in the past. If anything, it makes Garcia curl into her more, laying an arm over Santos', wondering if their new proximity will help her return to wherever her mind was faster…
When her alarm rings, Santos doesn’t stir, as usual. But what’s very unusual is how Garcia’s hanging off the side of her king-sized bed, the edge of her shoulder wedged into her nightstand. After tapping her phone screen, Garcia's vision adjusts to the darkness, and she sees that Santos is right there, with Garcia on her back and Santos squished up next to her.
Again, she doesn’t find herself getting annoyed by the lack of space, but rather thinks that Santos’ unconscious desire to be as close as possible is kind of adorable.
Garcia twists, carefully extracting herself to get ready, while she watches Santos’ face scrunch unhappily the moment she's out of reach.
And it’s fucking adorable.
Which... is a problem.
With a loaded sigh, Garcia walks to her dresser, gathering her clothes to change in the bathroom. After zipping up her jacket, she realizes she does this every day now, whether Santos stays over or not. Her things are laid out the night before, and she dresses in here.
But that’s convenient, anyway. It makes my mornings more efficient.
Once outside, Garcia presses start on her app and elects for a speed workout that she planned to do tomorrow but moved to today. The sun isn't up this early—along with most people in the city—and she only occasionally passes a fellow runner on the cold jog.
For thirty seconds, Garcia bolts down the path, barely taking in air, pushing herself to the limit. There's no energy to focus on anything but her tearing muscles as an EDM song blasts in her AirPods.
She checks her shaky watch and counts down the last… three… seconds…
And then she slows, gasping from the harsh burn in her lungs. Her legs carry her at a recovery pace while she gears up for the next interval due in one and a half minutes.
That’s when the nagging can be heard even above her music.
You have feelings for Trinity.
Garcia rolls her eyes and stubbornly denies, I don’t. Oxytocin, serotonin, dopamine. All bonding chemicals released during sex, and we’re fucking enough that it’d be strange if I didn’t begin to feel attached.
Uh huh. And the difference is that romantic feelings are, what, exactly? Non-chemical?
Feelings are more, Garcia insists to herself. They mean wanting to actually be with someone. Which I don’t.
You don’t.
I don’t.
So, you weren’t dreaming about going to the movies together last night? Or walking around your neighborhood holding hands last week? And I remember one from a while back where you were getting drinks after a dinner out, just the two of you…
Garcia frowns, staring at the fifty-three seconds she has left before she'll be in too much pain to think again.
That doesn’t mean I want to be with her. That only means I want to spend more time with her.
By going on dates.
...
...
...So?
You want to date her.
Cállate.
With thirty seconds still remaining, Garcia resets her timer, turns up the volume, and takes off in a rapid sprint, determined to run fast and away.
As always, this may change while writing/editing the rest of the fic, but that's the current version ✨
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