Chapter Text
Yolanda Garcia had been a werewolf her entire life, and a trauma surgery fellow for two years.
She lay in Trinity Santos's bed at three in the morning, watching Santos sleep, and thought about how badly she was about to fuck this up.
Santos was curled against her side, one hand splayed across Garcia's stomach, breathing slow and steady. They'd had sex twice tonight, and Santos had fallen asleep with her head on Garcia's shoulder, trusting and content.
Garcia should be content too. Should be basking in the post-sex glow, enjoying the warmth of another person, the novelty of not being alone.
Instead, she was staring at the ceiling, counting down the days until the full moon.
Eight days. She had eight days to come up with an excuse, a lie, a reason to disappear for thirty-six hours without Santos asking too many questions.
Three weeks. They'd been officially dating for three weeks, ever since that double date with Robby and Dennis. Three weeks of Santos in her space, Santos asking questions, Santos getting closer to the truth with every passing day.
Santos's hand moved on her stomach, fingers tracing lazy patterns. "You're thinking too loud," she mumbled, half-asleep. "I can hear it."
"Sorry," Garcia said. "Didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't. You just got all tense." Santos propped herself up on one elbow, squinting at Garcia in the dim light from the street. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong."
"Liar." Santos's fingers found the scar on Garcia's ribs, the long one that ran from her sternum to her hip. "You never did tell me about these."
Garcia's chest tightened. The scars. God, the scars.
"Rock climbing accident," she said, the lie smooth. "Years ago. Before med school."
Santos traced the scar, her touch gentle. "Must have been some fall."
"Yeah. It was bad."
"And these?" Santos's hand moved to Garcia's shoulder, where three parallel lines marked the skin. "These too?"
"Same accident. Caught on some equipment on the way down."
Santos was quiet for a moment, still tracing the scars. Garcia could feel her thinking, processing, not quite buying it.
"You know," Santos said finally, "you can tell me things. If something happened. If there's something you don't want to talk about."
"I know."
"Do you?" Santos looked at her, and even in the dark Garcia could see the concern in her eyes.
"Because sometimes it feels like you're holding back. Like there's this whole part of you I'm not allowed to see."
Garcia's stomach twisted. She wanted to tell her. God, she wanted to tell her everything. About the full
moons and the transformations and the decade of driving to Allegheny alone, chaining herself to a tree so she wouldn't hurt anyone.
But she couldn't. Because Santos was human, and humans didn't understand. Humans ran, or worse, they tried to fix things that couldn't be fixed.
"I'm not holding back," Garcia lied. "I'm just... I've always been private. It's not personal."
"Everything's personal when you're in a relationship," Santos said quietly.
"I know. I'm working on it."
Santos studied her for another moment, then sighed and settled back against Garcia's side. "Okay. But you know I'm not going anywhere, right? Whatever it is you're not telling me, I can handle it."
No, Garcia thought. You really can't.
But she didn't say that. She just kissed the top of Santos's head and murmured, "I know."
They lay there in silence, Santos drifting back to sleep while Garcia stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about how this was going to end.
Because it would end. It always did.
When Santos's breathing evened out, Garcia carefully extracted herself from the bed. She grabbed her clothes from the floor, dressed in the dark, and let herself out.
It was what she always did. Leave before morning, before Santos could ask her to stay, before she could get too comfortable with this domesticity that was never going to last.
Outside, the air was cold, that bone-deep Pennsylvania cold that Garcia didn't really feel anymore but remembered from childhood. She walked to her car, got in, and sat there for a moment, her hands on the wheel.
Eight days until the full moon.
Eight days to figure out how to lie to the woman she was falling in love with.
Garcia started the car and drove home.
---
The apartment she shared with... well, no one, actually. She'd had roommates before, other residents, but they always noticed things. The weird schedule, the disappearances, the fact that Garcia never got sick but always looked exhausted once a month.
It was easier to live alone.
She let herself in, dropped her keys on the counter, and went straight to the calendar on her fridge.
Full moon circled in red. Eight days away.
She'd been doing this for over a decade. Every month, like clockwork. Drive an hour and a half to Allegheny National Forest, hike to her clearing, chain herself to her tree, and wait for the transformation.
Alone.
Always alone.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Santos: You left
Garcia stared at the message, then typed back: Early shift. Didn't want to wake you.
Santos: You could have stayed
Garcia: I know. Next time.
She wouldn't, but Santos didn't need to know that yet.
Her phone rang. Her sister, Isabela, calling from New Mexico.
"It's three in the morning here," Garcia answered. "This better be good."
"It's five in the morning here and I haven't slept yet, so we're even," Isabela said cheerfully. "How's the girlfriend?"
Garcia closed her eyes. "How did you—"
"Mom saw your Instagram. You posted a picture."
Shit. The picture. Santos had insisted on taking it at that coffee shop last week, both of them laughing, Santos's arm around Garcia's shoulders.
"It's new," Garcia said.
"How new?"
"Three weeks."
"And you haven't told her yet."
"Told her what?"
"Lola." Isabela's voice was gentle. "You know what."
Garcia leaned against the counter, suddenly exhausted. "No. I haven't told her."
"Are you planning to?"
"I don't know."
"You can't keep lying to her forever."
"I'm not lying. I'm just... omitting."
"That's the same thing and you know it." Isabela paused. "What happened to the last one? The one you were seeing before?"
"It didn't work out."
"Because you didn't tell her."
"Because I told her and she freaked out."
That wasn't entirely true. The last woman Garcia had dated—a med student named Jennifer—had listened to Garcia's confession about being a werewolf, nodded slowly, and then said, very calmly, that she thought Garcia needed to see a therapist.
When Garcia had shown her the transformation—just the beginning, just enough to prove it was real—Jennifer had screamed and run.
Garcia hadn't seen her again.
"This one's different," Isabela said. "I can tell."
"How can you tell? You've never met her."
"Because you're calling me at three in the morning after sneaking out of her bed. You never did that with Jennifer."
Garcia didn't have an answer for that.
"Just think about it," Isabela said. "You deserve to be happy, Lola. You deserve to have someone who knows all of you."
"I'll think about it."
"Good. Now go to sleep. You sound like death."
"I am death," Garcia said dryly.
"You're a werewolf, not a zombie. There's a difference."
They said their goodbyes and Garcia hung up, staring at the calendar again.
Eight days.
She should tell Santos. Should sit her down and explain everything before the full moon, before Santos noticed the pattern, before it all fell apart.
But the thought of Santos looking at her the way Jennifer had—with fear, with revulsion, with that dawning realization that Garcia was something other—made her chest tight.
Better to wait. Better to see if this relationship even lasted past the first month before she dropped the werewolf bomb.
Garcia went to her bedroom, lay down fully clothed, and stared at the ceiling until her alarm went off two hours later.
---
The Pitt was chaos, as always.
Garcia loved it, the controlled madness of trauma surgery, the constant influx of broken bodies that needed fixing. It was the one place where being a werewolf was actually an advantage. Steady hands, quick reflexes, the ability to work thirty-hour shifts without collapsing.
She was in the middle of a bowel resection when Santos appeared in the OR, gowned and gloved.
"Dr. Garcia," Santos said formally. They were always formal at work. "Dr. King sent me to assist."
"Good. I need someone to retract while I resect this section. Langdon's got the coordination of a drunk toddler."
"I heard that," Langdon said from across the OR.
"You were supposed to," Garcia said.
Santos took her position, and they worked in smooth synchronicity. Santos had good hands, steady and sure, and she didn't flinch at the mess of a perforated bowel.
"So," Santos said quietly, just loud enough for Garcia to hear over the monitors. "About this morning."
"Not the time, Santos."
"When is the time? Because you left at three AM without saying goodbye."
"I texted you."
"That's not the same and you know it."
Garcia didn't respond, focusing on the resection. Clean cuts, careful sutures, making sure the margins were good.
"You always do this," Santos continued. "We have a good night, and then you disappear. Like you're scared of... I don't know. Me? Us?"
"I'm not scared of anything."
"Then why do you keep running?"
Garcia's hands stilled for just a second. "I'm not running. I'm giving you space."
"I don't want space. I want—" Santos stopped herself, glancing at the other people in the OR.
"Nevermind. We'll talk later."
"Fine."
They finished the surgery in tense silence. When they closed, Garcia stripped off her gloves and gown and headed for the locker room without looking back.
She was being a coward and she knew it. But it was easier than the alternative.
Langdon caught her in the hallway. "Hey, YoYo." Garcia stopped. Langdon had given her that nickname her first week at the Pitt. She'd hated it at first, but it had stuck.
"What, Langdon."
"You okay? You seem tense."
"I'm fine."
"You've been saying that a lot lately." He crossed his arms. "Santos mentioned you've been... distant."
"Santos needs to mind her business."
"Santos is your girlfriend. That makes it her business."
Garcia turned to face him fully. "Since when do you care about my relationship?"
"Since Santos cornered me in the break room and asked if I thought you were seeing someone else."
Garcia's stomach dropped. "What?"
"She thinks you're cheating on her. Because you disappear at weird times and won't explain where you're going."
"I'm not cheating on her."
"I know that. You know that. But Santos doesn't know that, because you won't tell her anything." Langdon softened. "Look, I'm not trying to get in your business. But Santos is my friend, and she's hurting. If you can't give her what she needs, maybe it's better to end it now before someone really gets hurt."
He walked away, leaving Garcia standing in the hallway.
Seven days until the full moon. Seven days to figure out how to save this relationship or watch it fall apart.
Garcia went to the locker room, changed into her street clothes, and drove home.
That night, Santos showed up at her door.
"We need to talk," Santos said.
Garcia let her in.
They sat on the couch, a careful distance between them. Santos looked tired, dark circles under her eyes, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.
"I can't keep doing this," Santos said quietly. "The not knowing. The feeling like I'm chasing you and you're always just out of reach."
"I'm not trying to make you chase me."
"Then what are you trying to do? Because from where I'm sitting, it feels like you're looking for an exit."
"I'm not."
"Then talk to me. Tell me what's going on. Why do you always leave in the middle of the night? Why do you disappear every month? Why won't you—" Santos's voice broke. "Why won't you let me in?"
Garcia looked at her, at the hurt and frustration and desperate hope in her eyes, and almost broke.
Almost told her everything.
But the image of Jennifer's face—the fear, the revulsion—stopped her.
"I'm not good at this," Garcia said instead. "The relationship thing. I've always been... solitary. It's not personal."
"It feels personal."
"It's not. I just... I need space sometimes. I need to be alone."
"Why?"
"Because I do. Can't that be enough?"
Santos was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "No. It can't."
She stood up. Garcia stood too.
"Santos—"
"I love you," Santos said, and Garcia's heart stopped. "I'm in love with you. And I think you're in love with me too, but you're too scared to admit it. And I can't keep waiting for you to let me in when you're so determined to keep me out."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are. And until you figure out what you actually want, I think we should take a break."
"A break?"
"Yeah. A break. From this. From us." Santos grabbed her bag. "I'm not breaking up with you. But I can't keep feeling like I'm not enough, like there's some part of you I'll never get to see. So figure it out, Yolanda. Figure out if you actually want this. And when you do, call me."
She left.
Garcia stood in her empty apartment, staring at the closed door, and felt the full weight of what she'd just lost.
Seven days until the full moon. Seven days to figure out how to fix this without revealing the truth.
But as she sank onto the couch, her head in hands, Garcia wasn't sure either option was possible anymore.
Her phone buzzed. A text from her sister: Tell her.
Garcia stared at the message for a long time.
Then she deleted it and turned off her phone.