She doesn't speak, doesn't look over, but she knows she's being watched.
Santana sits slouched in the passenger seat, bruised and bloody but calm. One arm across her stomach, the other cradling her injured hand. She breathes slow, quiet, chin tilted slightly in Audrey's direction, not enough to be obvious, but far from casual.
She watches her drive.
The calm in her expression. The way her hands move — firm, practiced. The shape of her lips pressed tight. Jaw clenched. Locs pulled back, edges fresh, skin smooth and warm brown under the dull light.
No scars, no bruises. Nothing about her looks like pain ever lived there. And that... that gets under Santana's skin more than she expects.
She wonders, for a second, how she'd look touched. Not by pain, by her. Bruised beautiful. Bent but still breathing. Maybe still pretending she's fine.
Her eyes drop to Audrey's throat, following the tattoo that wraps behind her neck, down to the collarbone hidden beneath that sweatshirt. Her mind dips somewhere it shouldn't. Somewhere soft and filthy.
She bites her lip, not hard, just enough.
Audrey doesn't look at her, but the smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth says she caught it.
"You wanna take a picture?" she asks, eyes still forward.
Santana smirks, turning to the window like she's not impressed. "Maybe."
The corners of Audrey's mouth twitch. She says nothing, just turns up the volume a notch. That slow, cocky bass curling tighter around them like smoke.
⸻
HOSPITAL – AUDREY'S OFFICE 
Audrey swipes her badge and pushes open the side door to the hospital. It's quiet, dim, the overnight shift running skeleton staff. No one questions them as they move through the hall — Audrey walking with sharp purpose, Santana trailing behind her like a silent shadow, hoodie pulled back on, dried blood crusting her knuckles.
She doesn't say much. Just pushes open the door to her office and nods for Santana to go inside. She then leads her to another door and opens it.
Santana steps in slow, eyes scanning the space. A small exam table. A stool. A counter with medical supplies. Dim light overhead. Quiet enough to hear the tick of the wall clock.
Audrey closes the door behind her, and the silence thickens.
"Sit," she says, motioning to the exam table.
Santana obeys, legs open just slightly, hand still cradled in her lap. Blood has dried at the knuckles, streaking across her wrist like a memory. Her jaw is set, unreadable.
Audrey quickly uses the small sink in the room to wash her hand before putting on gloves.
She doesn't look at her yet.
The sound of latex snapping tight echoes too loud in the small space.
Then she moves forward, stepping between Santana's legs not really paying attention to how close they are.
Santana notices and the air shifts.
Close now, close enough Santana can smell the subtle clean scent of her skin. She's taller than most people who stand in front of her like this. But not Audrey. Audrey stands level with her, looking down slightly, focused.
Unbothered, hands steady as she works. She grabs a bottle of antiseptic and gauze, starts cleaning the wound without warning.
Santana doesn't flinch, but her jaw tightens.
"You don't numb people first?" she asks, voice dry.
"You don't wait to heal before putting your hands to work?" Audrey fires back, voice calm, without looking up.
Santana huffs, a low sound in her throat. "Touché."
Audrey leans in, eyes narrowed, carefully examining her hand now. The way her fingers wrap around Santana's wrist is clinical, sure, but there's weight in the touch. Heat. Not from intent. Just from proximity.
Santana watches her. Watches the way her lashes lower, the slight furrow between her brows when she's focused. Watches how close her lips are.
"You're good at this," Santana says, almost absently.
Audrey's eyes flick up for a beat. "I'm always good at what I do."
The silence after that is thick.
Audrey wraps her hand with careful precision, standing close between her thighs. The space feels narrower than before. The air hums, but no one moves.
"You should stay for IV antibiotics," Audrey finally says, taping the last of the gauze.
"I'm good."
"That hand says otherwise."
"I said I'm good."
A knock silences them both as they look towards the door.
A nurse pokes her head in. "Dr. Jackson, sorry, I know you're not on tonight, but we need you. Three-car accident just came in. It's bad."
Audrey straightens. "Give me five. I'll be right out."
The nurse nods and disappears.
Audrey turns back to Santana. "I'll order you an Uber. You need to rest. At least a week. No training. No sparring. No bar fights." She says cleaning up the room, tossing the stuff in the garbage before pulling off her gloves tossing those as well.
Santana doesn't argue.
"Promise me."
Santana studies her for a long moment.
 "I promise and I'm fine, I can walk."
"You're not walking. You're in pain and probably concussed."  Audrey says walking back into her office.
Santana narrows her eyes following behind her. "I'm not helpless."
"I never said you were." Audrey taps on her phone. "But you are my patient. And I'm not letting you leave here alone."
Santana sighs. "Fine. I'll wait here. But only 'cause you asked nice."
Audrey smirks, tossing her keys on the desk. "I didn't ask."
She then walks over to her small storage cabinet and grabs her extra white coat, quickly throwing it on since her other was at home. 
Santana leans back on the desk, eyes low as she watches her. "You didn't have to."
Audrey starts toward the door, then pauses. "Wait for the car. I'll make sure it comes to the right entrance."
"Got it."
Audrey leaves. Santana watches the door shut behind her, then glances at her hand, now freshly wrapped, clean.
She flexes her fingers slowly, hissing at the stinging pain.. It still hurts like hell, should've took the medicine.
But the way Audrey touched her?
That felt like something else entirely.






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