Loathing
Trinity Santos X Intern!Reader
Summary: Your fellow intern Santos hates you....or does she?
Warnings: miscommunication (or lack there of), rivals to lovers (kind of), wlw, she/her pronouns for reader, pinning, rude patients, workplace tension, kissing, Santos not knowing how to do the whole feeling thing, fluff, happy ending, not proofread, no use of y/n
Word count: 3.1K
a/n: okay so where are all the fics of my girl? Like come on give them to meeeee
She hates you. You’re sure of it. And every time she interacts with you, it only confirms it.
Santos doesn’t speak to you unless she has to, and when she does, it’s always that passive-aggressive, clipped, razor-edged tone. She’s known for teasing the other med students—hell, she makes Dennis turn beet red at least twice a shift—but it’s not like that with you.
With you, it’s… colder. Sharper. Not playful at all.
She doesn’t joke. She doesn’t drop a snarky line just to see if she can make you crack a smile. She doesn’t even give you the raised eyebrow she gives literally everyone else.
No—whatever she has for you, it isn’t sarcasm. It feels like genuine dislike.
You try not to be bothered by it, try to focus on everyone else. But you can always feel her stare on the back of your head — a gaze so intense you’re shocked she hasn’t burned two holes through your skull yet.
And to make matters worse, she’s so eager. So eager to learn, to jump in, to get her hands bloody.
And you’re… not like that.
You’d rather observe first, wait for someone to tell you to go in. You never throw yourself at a procedure unless you’re one hundred percent sure you can do it right. You’re here to learn, sure — but Santos’ speed seems about a thousand times faster than yours.
Santos had made a big impression since day one, and not just on you. Garcia seemed to take a liking to her immediately, Santos’ prickly nature sliding right off the older surgeon like it was nothing.
It stung a little — you had to admit that. The way that even when you were in the room, Garcia would immediately call for Santos to jump in and help her. It was as if you were invisible, and you hated feeling like that.
The others tried to keep your morale high. At the end of your first shift you’d gotten good words from Robby, Samira, and Collins. It made your chest fill with pride, a soft smile tugging at your lips.
But all of it washed away the moment your eyes found the look on Santos’ face.
It wasn’t a scowl, exactly — but it definitely wasn’t a smile.
You thought maybe with time it would get better. You really tried to keep a positive outlook despite every bad interaction. But a week passed, and nothing changed in your dynamic. Santos still hated your guts. And you still had no clue why.
It was starting to take a toll on you. Keeping a positive attitude got harder and harder when nothing good seemed to come from it. It had gotten to the point where if you kept it in any longer, you were going to burst — so when Whitaker least expected it, you practically jumped at him.
His eyes widened as you grabbed his forearm, tugging him closer so you could speak softly.
“You’re close with Santos, right?”
“Uhhh… depends what you mean by close.”
You give him a look that pretty much broadcasts the impatience you’ve been feeling all week, and he swallows dryly before continuing.
“Yeah, I guess you could call us close.”
“Great. Do you know why she hates me?”
Whitaker looks genuinely confused.
“Hates you?” he repeats. “Santos doesn’t hate you.”
“Whitaker,” you say slowly, “she definitely hates me.”
“She— she really doesn’t,” he insists, raising his hands. “I promise.”
“Oh, right. Yeah. Totally,” you snap softly. “So she treats literally everyone else the same way she treats me?”
He opens his mouth, but you barrel right over him.
“Does she ignore everyone else when they talk? No? Just me? Great.”
You tick off a finger.
“Does she sigh — loudly, dramatically, like she’s auditioning for a telenovela — every time I’m assigned to the same patient as her? No? Just me? Weird.”
Another finger.
“Does she grab the chart out of your hands before you’ve even finished reading it?”
Finger three.
“Or roll her eyes when I walk in? Or tell me — tell me, Whitaker — ‘maybe next time’ when I ask to practice suturing?”
Whitaker winces. “Okay, that one sounds harsh but—”
“And!” You raise a fourth, triumphant finger. “She glared at me today because I — apparently — breathe too loud.”
Whitaker just stares at you, mouth opening and closing like he’s buffering. He looks like he’s about to say something when Robby’s voice cuts through the room, calling out for Whitaker’s help.
Whitaker jumps like he’s been rescued from a burning building.
“Oh thank God,” he mutters under his breath.
You narrow your eyes at him.
“This conversation is not over.”
He nods quickly, practically fleeing. “Yep! Cool! Totally! We’ll… circle back!”
You watched him go, a tired sigh leaving your lips as you try to get back to work. Of course, that peace lasts… oh, about three seconds.
Because the moment you turn around, you nearly collide with her.
Trinity Santos.
She stops short, eyes flicking up to meet yours — sharp, assessing, and way too intense for someone who supposedly doesn’t hate you. Her jaw ticks once, barely, like your existence has personally delayed her entire schedule.
“Move,” she says quietly, not rude exactly, but clipped enough to make your stomach twist.
You step aside immediately, pulse skittering in your throat.
“Sorry,” you mutter.
She doesn’t respond. She just brushes past you, gloves snapped on, expression unreadable — but not before you catch the way her gaze drags over you for half a second too long. Almost like she was… checking something.
“Right,” you mumble under your breath. “Totally normal. Totally fine. She absolutely doesn’t hate me. Sure.”
At some point McKay seemed to notice that you were overwhelmed. She didn’t even ask you about it—just came up beside you and said something like, “Hey, I could use some help in chairs if you’re up for it.” You’d just nodded, grateful for an excuse to be somewhere else. Somewhere you knew Santos wouldn’t go.
Oh, no—not perfect Santos. She’d never be caught dead working in chairs.
You’re rushing around with McKay, moving in and out of the waiting room as you bring in the patients you can treat. Every time you step outside, someone complains about something, and you try your best to remain professional—explaining for the fiftieth time that yes, the doctors know the wait is long, yes, they are doing everything they can, yes, the triage system is real and actually isn’t a conspiracy designed to personally ruin this one guy’s afternoon.
And then this dude just loses it.
Raises his voice. Gets snappy. Makes some snide comment like,
“Well maybe if you were actually competent, I wouldn’t be sitting here for three hours.”
You swallow it. You try again, patient, professional.
“Sir, I promise we’re—”
“No. Don’t ‘sir’ me. You people don’t care. I’ve seen cashiers put in more effort.”
And that’s the moment you feel it—that little crack right behind your ribcage, where the exhaustion meets the embarrassment meets the frustration you’ve been holding for days.
Your throat tightens. Heat prickles behind your eyes. McKay notices, stepping a little closer as if ready to intervene but someone else beats her to it.
A voice slices cleanly through the air, cold and razor-sharp:
“Hey.”
Your stomach drops.
You’d know that voice anywhere.
Santos.
She’s standing there in her black scrubs, gloves still half-crumpled in her hand, chest rising like she sprinted here. Her eyes are locked on the man—flat, hard, absolutely lethal.
“She is qualified,” Santos says, stepping forward with that quiet, controlled fury she usually reserves for assholes. “She’s more than qualified. And she’s been running herself ragged all day trying to keep things moving for everyone in this room.”
The man blinks, taken aback by the intensity aimed directly at him.
Santos doesn’t stop.
“So unless you’re actively dying—which you’re not—sit down, wait your damn turn, and stop taking out your impatience on the staff who are trying to help you.”
The room goes silent. Not frozen—stunned.
McKay’s eyebrows hit her hairline. The man sputters something that vaguely resembles “sorry.”
But you— you just stand there. Because Santos defended you.
You.
The person she supposedly can’t stand.
And even as you stand there, feet glued to the ground, Santos doesn’t look at you. She keeps her eyes locked on the guy, staring him down until he finally sinks back into his seat. Only then does she turn on her heel and head back into the ED like nothing happened.
Like none of it meant anything at all.
Before you can even fully process what you’re doing, you’re already moving—feet carrying you in purposeful, almost frantic strides as you follow after her. You catch up easily, even though she’s walking faster than she usually does, like she’s trying to outrun the moment.
She doesn’t look back. Just tosses a curt, “Leave it,” over her shoulder, like she can feel you behind her.
“No,” you say, breathless but determined. “No, I’m not leaving it.”
Santos keeps going, weaving through the hall like you’re nothing more than an annoying shadow. You dodge a nurse, a stretcher, a crash cart—all while glued to her heels.
“You don’t need to say thank you,” she snaps without slowing down.
You blink, incredulous. “Do you—what—do you think I’m trying to thank you?”
“Good,” she mutters. “Because I don’t want—”
“Oh my god,” you bite out, speeding up until you’re practically at her shoulder, “I’m not thanking you.”
“Great. Then drop it.”
“No!”
You two keep bickering like that—sharp whispers, clipped retorts—while threading through the ED. Every time she veers left, you’re right there. Every time she tries to outpace you, you match her step for step.
She turns down a quieter hall, clearly trying to shake you off, but you’re done being avoidable. You catch up fully, frustration boiling over.
“Jesus, Santos—will you stop for one second and just—just fucking look at me!”
She halts.
It’s abrupt, like her body short-circuited at the command. Slowly—carefully—she turns around. Her eyes are wide, defensive, like she’s bracing for impact.
You swallow hard, the words rushing out before you can soften them.
“I just… I need to know why you hate me.”
Her brows furrow. Actually, her whole face seems to tense up for a moment. And because you’re standing right in front of her—chest heaving, desperation bleeding through every shaky breath—you catch every micro-shift in her expression.
You watch her go from confused… to irritated… to annoyed… and finally to just—defeated.
She lets out a long, weary sigh, dragging a hand down her face while you continue staring her down. If anyone walked into the hall right now, it would look like the two of you were staging a standoff. Bodies coiled tight, eyes locked—two cowboys waiting to see who’d reach for their gun first.
“I don’t hate you.”
The words are low. Barely audible.
You blink. Once. Twice.
Because that… that is not the answer you were prepared for.
“What?” you breathe.
Santos’ jaw flexes, like she already regrets saying anything at all. Her eyes flick away for half a second—anywhere but you—before snapping back like she can’t help herself.
“I said I don’t hate you,” she repeats, firmer this time. Still quiet. Still rough around the edges. “So stop asking.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” you fire back immediately, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “Because you act like you can’t stand me! You ignore me, you glare at me, you practically sprint in the opposite direction every time I walk into a room—”
“That’s not—” she starts, but you cut her off.
“And you sigh at me! A lot! I didn’t even know someone could sigh that aggressively.”
Santos presses her lips together in a thin, miserable line. You swear you see the faintest hint of pink touch her ears.
You throw your hands up. “So if you don’t hate me, then what the hell is all of that?”
A beat. Two.
Her shoulders lift with a shaky inhale, like she’s bracing for impact.
And then—
“It’s because I like you.”
Your brain short-circuits so hard you actually forget how to breathe.
“…What?” you whisper.
This is the first time she’s ever looked truly flustered. Her eyes dart to the wall, to the floor, to anywhere except your face.
“I like you,” she mutters, words tumbling out sharp and fast, like she’s ripping off a bandage. “Okay? I’ve liked you since day one. And I don’t—” She cuts herself off, frustrated. “I don’t do… that. Feelings. So I don’t know how to be around you without sounding like an idiot.”
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
“So yeah,” she finishes, tone flat, like she’s annoyed at herself. “That’s why.”
You just stare at her.
And Santos—Trinity Santos, who stares down furious patients and gory trauma without blinking—looks like she wants the floor to swallow her whole.
Your brain feels like someone just shook it in a snow globe. Thoughts float around in slow motion, glittery and unreal.
She likes you. She likes you. Santos. Trinity fucking Santos.
You briefly consider whether you’re having some sort of stress-induced hallucination. Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing you’ve experienced this week. Maybe you finally snapped. Maybe you fell asleep standing up and are currently living out the world’s wildest fever dream.
But then your gaze drifts back to her.
Santos is standing a couple feet away, shoulders tense, eyes flicking anywhere but yours, like she’s ready to bolt. Her posture is stiff, guarded, like she’s waiting for you to laugh at her, or yell at her, or both.
Your heart kicks hard against your ribs.
Something in you shifts.
You take one step toward her.
Her eyes snap to you immediately.
You take another.
She straightens, brows pinching together in that signature Santos way — part concern, part alarm, part why are you walking at me like that?
“Hey,” she starts, voice low, uncertain. “Look, you don’t—”
But she doesn’t get to finish.
Because you reach out, fingers brushing hers first before you grab her hand fully and tug her along. You pull open the nearest door — a supply closet, dim and tiny and absolutely perfect — and tug her inside with you. The door shuts behind you with a soft click.
Santos looks like she’s about to short-circuit. “What are you—”
You kiss her.
Not gently. Not softly. Not cautiously.
You kiss her like every bit of confusion, frustration, adrenaline, and want that’s been simmering in you finally snaps and pours out all at once.
Her breath catches against your mouth. For half a second she’s stiff, startled. And then she melts, hand flying up to your waist, the other curling into your hair as she kisses you back just as desperately, just as fiercely, like she’s been holding this in even longer than you have.
Because it turns out she has.
Her mouth is warm against yours, urgent in a way that sends sparks racing up your spine. You’re not sure who moves first, who deepens the kiss, who lets out that quiet, shaky sound — maybe it’s you, maybe it’s her — but suddenly you’re pressed together in the tiny supply closet like gravity dragged you into each other.
Her hand finds your jaw. Yours fists in the fabric of her scrub top. It’s heat and relief and days of unresolved tension snapping all at once.
You don’t know how long you stay like that — seconds, minutes, something in between — but eventually you have to break for air, foreheads brushing as you both pull in quick, uneven breaths.
Santos opens her eyes first. She looks wrecked. And stunned. And stupidly, stupidly soft.
You meet her gaze and something in your chest goes liquid.
Neither of you speaks. You just… look at each other. Breathing the same air. Matching each other’s shaky smiles.
Then — because you’re still full of adrenaline and disbelief and the lingering urge to throttle her half the time — you lift a hand…and punch her in the arm. Not hard, but definitely not gentle.
“Ow— what the hell?” she hisses, jerking back a little, rubbing the spot with wide, betrayed eyes.
“That,” you say, breathless, still dizzy from kissing her, “is for being an asshole.”
You take in her shocked expression before leaning in to press another kiss to her lips. You feel her smile against your mouth, her nose bumping yours as she tries to deepen the kiss again.
But your hand slides up to her chest, pressing lightly as you pull back.
She gives you a questioning look, brows knitting.
“Was that too much? Did I—?”
“No,” you interrupt quickly. “No, nothing like that.”
You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face.
“We should just probably get back before someone notices we’re missing.”
Santos nods softly, her hand coming up to cradle your cheek. Her eyes roam your face like she can’t quite believe you’re real — that this is real. She bites her lip, voice soft and steady as she asks:
“One more for the road?”
And who are you to deny her?
You give her one more kiss — slower this time, lingering — before you both finally pull apart. You straighten yourselves out, smoothing scrubs, fixing hair, trying to erase the fact that you just made out in a supply closet.
Santos goes first, cracking the door open and poking her head out like she’s on some kind of stealth mission. When she sees no one in the hall, she glances back at you and gestures for you to follow.
You both head off in opposite directions, doing your absolute best to look normal. Casual. Professional. Totally-not-two-people-who-just-made-out-in-a-closet.
You think you’re nailing it.
Santos seems to think she is, too.
Right up until Whitaker drifts up beside her while she’s admiring you from afar.
He doesn’t say anything at first — just watches with her, eyes tracking the way your face lights up when you glance her way. That soft smile that appears the second your eyes meet. The little wave you give her before heading off to your next patient.
Yeah. He sees all of it.
Santos doesn’t even get the chance to pretend before he lets out a low whistle.
“Finally told her, huh?”
She doesn’t look at him. Not even a flicker. She just turns on her heel, already walking away.
“Shut it, Huckleberry.”
But even as she says it, she can’t help the smile tugging at her lips — fingers drifting up to trace her mouth, like she can still feel the ghost of your kiss lingering there.
