It started when she found you in tears, outside the hospital doors, clutching your coat roughly in one hand and holding a coffee cup, listed to the side, in the other. She hates weakness. You hate weakness, too, but you're a little better about showing it sometimes than she is. Maybe it's because you've learned the art of moderating your emotions. Maybe it's because she tends to explode instead of letting the tears come gradually.

She sat beside you on the dewy bench and sighed. "Montgomery. Stop that."

You'd barely looked up. "Fuck off, Charlotte King."

"Seriously. You know this stuff happens. You know hospitals are stressful places. Getting all weepy outside my hospital, A," she begins, "does nothing for morale. B, it's unlike you to show this sort of weakness. C, I hate it when people cry."

That one was new; the rest, you've heard before. "I repeat, fuck off, Charlotte."

Instead of leaving, she puts a small, cold hand on your arm. "I'm sorry."

There's so much in those words; it's not even the words themselves, which are a funereal cliché everywhere. No, it's the inflection. Charlotte's voice gets softer. Her accent is less nasal. In short, it's comforting. Without really knowing why, you turn into her and she unexpectedly puts her arms around you. "Tough days," her voice meanders above you, "really suck."

You detach yourself; stand. "I need to go home."

She stands with you and nods. "Okay." Then, she kisses you goodnight.

Her mouth joins yours in a fluid motion; she's got soft lips, which is surprising for one who's normally so tight-mouthed. Her mouth opens slightly and you respond by sneaking your tongue through; you touch hers and there's almost a spark. She responds by thrusting her tongue forward and your hands find her hair and suddenly, it's like time and space stop, there in the whipping cool wind with the roar of the palm trees overhead in your ears.

Your car is parked across the lot, so she leads you to hers, which is parked in the priority space next to the hospital doors. Sex in a car is another cliché; one you've avoided since tenth grade. Nevertheless, she fumbles the keys and the lock clicks open. You manage to strike your head slightly on the top of the car door opening, but immediately you fall into plush grey upholstery in a surprisingly-roomy backseat for a Mercedes coupe. She follows you in, her weight comfortable on your body.

And the dance begins.

Her legs tangle around your own as she starts kissing your shoulders, sucking gently at the soft skin over your clavicle. You're biting at her ear and she gasps suddenly as your tongue slides down the sensitive part of her neck. Thank God for button-down shirts; she is pushing at your bra straps to gain access to your nipples, which are hard under the satin and underwire. Her technique is exquisite; was she honestly raised in a conservative Southern state? She twirls her tongue around your sensitive areola and then in a delicate movement, she bites your nipple and you almost scream.

You're both soaking through your panties; luckily, you're wearing skirts. Yours is already hiked up, but she pulls it up even more, exposing your panties to the blank roof of the car's interior. Her hands, surgeon's sensitive hands, slide beneath the lace to tangle in your pubic hair and feather over your pelvic bone to the slick opening of your sex. In an almost agonizing movement, her finger slips over your clitoris and into you, curling up against the folds inside.

You try to splay your legs as widely as possible and nip at her neck as she fucks you slowly, then quickly, to the sound of your heartbeat, though you're sure she's not concentrating. It doesn't take long for you to come, although penetration isn't the best orgasm. Nevertheless, you feel the pop and release and you curl your head back against the seat, ignoring the bite of the seatbelt on your scalp.

Pulling her up so that she's face-to-face, you lock blue eyes with hers as you push her into the well between the seats so that you can be on top. Dexterously, she manages to flick the lever on one of the seats so that there's more room on the floor of the car. Positioning your head against her stomach and using your hands to push down her panties, you work your way down, tongue leaving a shining path down her soft, slightly astringent-tasting skin. Goosebumps rise on the edge of her ribs as you pass through her soft blonde hair and touch, just barely, your tongue to her clit. She shrieks as you lick fiercely at her, sucking her off in a way you didn't think you knew how to do. When she comes, her hips buck up and you feel her pelvis against your cheek.

Lying there, sticky, wet, sweating on the car floor, you thank whatever deity rules impromptu sex that midnight in a hospital parking lot means that the only beings watching you and Charlotte are the stars.

You part without another word, but as you drive home, panties twisted and skirt zipper on the wrong side, you're sure. It's not everything you need, but it's enough to go by.