Nicole shouts behind her, "Where you going?!"
"I'll explain later," Audrey calls over her shoulder. "Don't wait for me."
She pushes past the crowd, weaving through bodies until she reaches the back hallway. Dim. Narrow. Her sneakers echo softly on the concrete.
At the end of the hall, she sees her. Now with a hoodie on, pants and a book bag.
Santana.
Now with a hoodie on, pants and a book bag over her shoulder. The blood-streaked wrap on her hand dangling as she finally pulls it off, fingers trembling and blood dripping. Her back is to Audrey.
Something tightens in her chest, some mix of frustration, awe, and something she doesn't want to name yet.
She steps forward.
"Santana."
Santana turns, eyes still wild from the fight. Her chest rises and falls slow, like she's trying to tame the storm still rolling in her veins. Sweat glistens at her forehead, dripping down the side of her face. Her hand, the same one Audrey treated, is a mess of blood and pulsing pain.
The hallway feels too small for the way Santana stares at her. Audrey steps out first, the thick sound of bass from inside still thudding through the floors. The cool night air hits, sharp and calming, but not enough to douse the heat between them.
"You shouldn't be fighting with your hand like that," Audrey says flatly, turning toward Santana once they're clear of the building. Her tone isn't sweet, it's sharp, clipped. A nurse. A woman pissed off.
Santana laughs, low and cold. "You follow all your patients, or just the ones that patch up pretty?"
Audrey's brow lifts slightly. "I follow the ones reckless enough to risk permanent damage the same damn week I treat them."
Santana steps closer, face unreadable. Her locs are damp with sweat, lips split in a smirk that never quite reaches her eyes. "You act like you know me."
"I don't," Audrey says, steady. "But I know what a fractured metacarpal looks like under pressure. And I know your stitches weren't ready to take hits like that."
"I won though," Santana says, leaning in just enough to blur the space between tension and threat. "Wasn't that what you were watching for?"
Audrey folds her arms across her chest. "What I was watching for was a woman too stubborn to know when to sit her ass down and heal."
Santana studies her for a long moment. Then nods once, slow and cool. "You done?"
"No. You need to come with me."
"To where?"
"Hospital. You need that hand looked at. Again."
"I ain't got no money for that."
Audrey's jaw tightens. "Then you're lucky I'm off the clock tonight."
Santana eyes her, unmoving.
"You gonna drag me?"
"If I have to. And trust me, you don't want me to do that."
For a beat, they just stare, unspoken dare hanging between them. Then Santana shrugs. "Fine. But I ain't staying long."
Audrey walks toward the lot, unlocking her suv with a click. Santana trails behind.
⸻
The ride is quiet. Almost.
"Talk 2 U" by Brent Faiyaz plays low through the Durango's speakers, humming in the silence like a secret.
Audrey keeps her eyes on the road, jaw tight. Her fingers tap lightly against the steering wheel, the veins in her hands faintly visible under the dashboard lights. Her black Gallery Dept sweatshirt hugs her frame, sleeves pushed up to reveal ink curling up her arms. Her Black Cat 4s rest firm on the pedals, matching the low bass that vibrates through the floor. A subtle diamond chain at her neck catches flashes of passing headlights, glinting like it's watching, too.