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Yolanda isn’t used to waking up alone, not when she wakes up in Trinity’s bed. She’s always the one to wake up first, to spend the next ten or fifteen or thirty minutes watching Trinity’s chest rise and fall, smiling at the way she scrunches her nose in her sleep.
Sometimes, Yolanda will get up and start making them (and Trinity’s farm boy, if he’s there) coffee and breakfast, but most of the time—if they have the time—she’ll lie there until Trinity stretches awake and starts to blink the sleep away so she can wish her a good morning against her lips.
But Yolanda worked a sixteen-hour shift yesterday, and Trinity didn’t, somehow managing to get two consecutive days off—and on a weekend in the summer—so Trinity woke up before her. She must’ve done so long ago, because the space beside Yolanda is cold. Empty.
Yolanda stifles a yawn, but just barely. She’s utterly wiped, still. She wishes Trinity were here so she could pull her close and curl back into her, catching just a few more minutes of sleep, but Trinity isn’t here, and the desire to be with Trinity far exceeds any for more shut-eye.
“Alright,” she mumbles to no one, forcing herself out of bed. It’s simultaneously a challenge because she’s exhausted and the easiest thing she has ever done because she’s being pulled toward Trinity. “Up and at ’em.”
Slowly, Yolanda makes her way out of the bedroom, heading for the kitchen, where she assumes she’ll find Trinity. She hears music. It plays faintly, clearly so as not to disturb an out-cold Yolanda, but it plays nonetheless, settling over the space nicely. The song sounds vaguely familiar, but Yolanda can’t place it right now. As she gets closer, it becomes clearer, but so does something else: a second voice.
Trinity’s voice.
Trinity singing.
Yolanda didn’t know that she could sing. That she liked to, in quiet morning moments like these.
They’ve shared countless of those quiet morning moments, but clearly not enough for Yolanda to unlock this side of Trinity. Yolanda would be offended, but it’s Trinity, and she knows how nervously—if not particularly efficiently—Trinity guards her heart.
Cautiously, Yolanda rounds the corner. She finds Trinity floating around the kitchen—not quite dancing but perhaps swaying, moving with such grace that she might as well be—as she puts away dishes, lost in her own world and completely unaware of Yolanda’s presence.
Singing.
Beautifully, Yolanda should add.
“I’ll be there someday, I can go the distance,” Trinity coos, an octave above what plays on her phone. It’s majestic—she’s majestic. That much isn’t surprising. “I will find my way, if I can be strong.”
Yolanda is frozen in place, just watching and listening with endless affection. There’s nothing else for her to do.
This isn’t something she dare risk interrupting.
“I know every mile would be worth my while,” Trinity continues, her voice soft and sweet in a way Yolanda has only heard when she works pediatric cases, or ever-so-occasionally when Trinity actually lets Yolanda take care of her. Her tone is controlled, the sound smoother than butter. Yolanda honestly didn’t know it was possible for an average person to sing this well, but Trinity does. She shouldn’t be surprised—Trinity has a tendency to go above and beyond. She isn’t an average person at all, really. “When I go the distance, I’ll be right where I-”
“Shit!” Trinity exclaims, nearly dropping a plate in the process. She has turned around and discovered Yolanda lurking, which apparently scared the shit! out of her.
“Good morning,” Yolanda says unhelpfully. Her brain short circuits; she can’t think of anything else.
Trinity blushes, like she’s embarrassed to have been caught. “Morning.”
“What are you doing?”
“Just…” Trinity pauses, then shrugs. “Doing dishes. Putting them away. Listening to Disney classics.” She points to her phone, where the song she was singing continues to play. Yolanda vaguely recognizes it as something from Hercules, she’s pretty sure. “Typical lazy Sunday morning.”
“Mmm,” Yolanda hums in response. She hasn’t taken her eyes off of Trinity, is too busy intently studying her, committing every bit of her on a typical lazy Sunday morning to memory. “I didn’t know you could sing.”
Trinity shrugs. “I guess.”
“What I heard was more than ‘I guess.’ You can sing.”
“Okay, sure, then. I can sing. What about it?”
“You sound… beautiful.”
“As beautiful as I look?” Trinity asks, her voice suddenly sultry, teasing. She’s trying to deflect, as she often does, and Yolanda knows that. Often, she gives in, for Trinity’s comfort, and so she doesn’t scare her away, but not now.
“Yes.” Yolanda is completely earnest; she doesn’t play Trinity’s game. She can tell Trinity isn’t expecting that because she blushes again.
“Shut up.”
“Mm, no.” Yolanda smiles fondly. “You should keep singing. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“’lan,” Trinity protests.
“Trin,” Yolanda fires back.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like… that.” Trinity gestures wildly at Yolanda, as if the motion offers any clarity at all. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to fall in love.”
Yolanda swears she feels her heart stop for a moment, but in a good way—even though “in a good way” should not be possible for such a life-threatening sensation.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
Trinity looks at her. Really looks at her. “I’m serious.”
Yolanda looks at her—really looks at her—back. “So am I. Go ahead.”
Trinity’s breath hitches, but then she smiles. “With the singing or the falling?”
“Both,” Yolanda answers.
Trinity’s smile grows into a grin. She steps closer.
“I will search the world, I will face its harms,” she sings as the song slowly reaches its end. Then, Trinity closes the distance between them, wrapping her arms around Yolanda’s neck. “’Til I find my hero’s welcome waiting in your arms.”
Yolanda thinks she has beat Trinity to the fall.