𝐓𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 {𝐬𝐱𝐬}

chapter three

——

𐦟 OMNISCIENT 𐦟

           THE URGENT CARE LOBBY is quieter than usual, but Audrey still hears the soft beeping of a monitor from one of the nearby rooms, the rustle of scrubs, the low hum of conversation behind closed doors. It's been a long day, but she doesn't show it—her white coat is pristine, her locs pulled back neatly, and her expression remains the same calm mask she's worn since sunrise.

She checks the chart in her hand.
Patient: Biles, Santana.
Complaint: Hand laceration.
Cause: "Accident."

The air quotes might as well have been written in bold.

Audrey exhales through her nose and pushes the exam room door open.

Inside, Santana sits on the edge of the exam table, legs spread casually, one elbow resting on her thigh. She's tall, solid, commanding even when still. Her left hand is wrapped in a makeshift bandage—blood-stained gauze, messily taped. A faint bruise blooms along her jaw. She doesn't look up right away.

When she finally does, her eyes are unreadable and cold.

"You're not a doctor," she says flatly.

Audrey raises a brow. "No. I'm a Nurse Practitioner. Audrey Jackson." She closes the door behind her. "I'll be treating you today."

Santana gives a single, slow nod. Like she's accepting a deal she doesn't quite trust.

Audrey's used to it—especially with patients like this. She can still smell the fight clinging to Santana's skin. It's in the tension in her shoulders, the faint metallic tang of blood, the stiff way she holds herself like she's always ready to defend something.

"Let me take a look at your hand," Audrey says, rubbing in hand sanitizer and snapping on gloves.

She approaches carefully, gently cradling Santana's injured hand. The bandage is soaked through. Audrey peels it back with slow, deliberate fingers, revealing a long, shallow gash across the knuckles of Santana's right hand. It's clean, but deep—definitely looks like it came from someone's teeth or maybe a wall.

"How'd this happen?" Audrey asks, her voice neutral.

"Accident," Santana mutters.

"Right." Audrey doesn't push. "You'll need stitches. Four, maybe five. Not too deep, but it'll scar."

"Scars don't bother me," Santana says.

Audrey glances up briefly. "Didn't think they would."

She pulls out the suture tray and begins cleaning the wound with practiced movements. The antiseptic stings. Santana flinches once, the muscles in her jaw tightening, but says nothing.

When Audrey begins stitching, the pain is sharper—each push of the needle into skin drags a slight twitch from Santana's fingers. She doesn't make a sound, but her breathing changes, just barely. Audrey notices.

"You can squeeze the stress ball," Audrey says, nodding to the side.

"I'm good."

"You sure? Some folks try to act tough—end up sweating through their shirt."

Santana doesn't reply. But her shoulders square and her eyes stay locked on the ceiling.

The needle pierces again. This one hurts more—Audrey knows it. Santana's arm tenses, her hand involuntarily jerking just enough for Audrey to pause and press it down gently.

"You moved," Audrey murmurs.

"You stabbed me."

"That's kind of the point of stitches."

Audrey's tone stays even. Her hands remain steady, threading the suture with calm precision. She keeps her focus—not on Santana's sharp jawline or the sweat beginning to form at her temple—but on the job. Still, she feels the weight of Santana's gaze on her.

"You always this careful?" Santana asks, voice low.

"Only when I don't want someone passing out in my lap," Audrey says.

A pause stretches between them. Not charged. Just quiet.

"You're good at this," Santana says eventually.

"I'd hope so. Been doing it long enough."

The fifth stitch goes in. Santana exhales through her nose. Audrey catches the slight rise and fall of her chest, how tightly her muscles are pulled—like she's been holding her breath the whole time.

"What do you do?" Audrey asks.

Santana's lips press into a thin line. "Construction."

Audrey hums. "And you punch drywall often in construction?"

A flicker of something flashes behind Santana's eyes. The faintest twitch of her mouth—close to a smirk, but not quite. "Something like that."

Audrey finishes the last stitch, then steps back. "All done. I'll wrap it and give you some antibiotics. No heavy use for a few days. Try not to reopen it."

Santana flexes her fingers slowly, testing them. She doesn't wince this time. But Audrey notices the slight tremble near her thumb.

"I heal fast."

"I'll be the judge of that when you come back for a follow-up," Audrey says, tossing used gauze into the waste bin.

"I'm not coming back."

"Then don't reopen it."

Santana slides off the table and adjusts the waistband of her sweatpants, already heading for the door.

"You're not done," Audrey says calmly.

Santana stops, turning halfway with one brow raised. "Thought you said we were done."

"You still need your antibiotics. IV, not oral."

Santana's jaw tightens. She hates this part. Audrey sees it—the stillness, the subtle twitch in her fingers, like she wants to disappear.

Audrey walks to the cabinet and begins setting up the IV. "You can sit or stand, but you're not leaving until it's done."

There's a long pause. Then Santana sighs and returns to the table, sitting back down with a quiet thud. Her eyes drift toward the floor.

"I won't talk," Audrey says, tapping the needle against the vein. "You don't have to either."

Santana doesn't answer, and Audrey doesn't expect her to. She just does her job.

⸻

Later That Night

Audrey unlocks the door to her penthouse apartment, takes off her sneakers, and tosses her keys into the ceramic dish by the door. She shrugs off her coat and drapes it over the back of the couch, heading straight into the kitchen for a bottle of water. Half of it's gone in a few gulps.

The day was long. Her feet aching and the tight band of tension at the base of her skull refuses to loosen.

She walks into the bathroom and catches her reflection in the mirror. Her locs are still pulled back, a few strands curling near her temple. Her eyes look tired—not just from lack of sleep, but from everything. The pressure. The expectations. The pretending.

She exhales.

Her phone buzzes.

[Text from: Nicole]
Got a spot open for this Friday. Invite only. Real lowkey. You in?

Audrey wipes the back of her neck, frowning slightly.

What kind of spot?

Nicole:
You ask too many questions. Just come. You'll like it.

What's the dress code?

Nicole:
Nothing fancy. Real chill. Dress however you'd like.

Audrey squints at the screen. For something invite-only, it's unusually vague. No flyer. No location yet. No theme. Just a hint of secrecy and the promise of something "lowkey."

She thinks for a moment, thumb hovering over her screen. Her mind flickers briefly to the woman from earlier—Santana, with the busted hand and that clipped, quiet attitude. Cold as hell. Just another walk-in, really.

Still... there was something about today that felt off. The clinic's rhythm. Or maybe her own.

She stares at the phone.

I'll think about it.

Nicole:
Don't think too hard. Trust me.

Audrey tosses her phone onto the bed and heads for the shower. The steam is already fogging the mirror before she steps in.

She doesn't know where Nicole's taking her. Doesn't know what she's walking into. But for once, she's willing to find out.

———
ꨄ vote & comment ꨄ