"And then what?"

"And then, nothing." Claire crunched her apple, mulling over the day's events. "I went back to my apartment, she went back to hers."

Tessa shook her head, brown curls bouncing. "Girl."

"What?" Claire asked defensively. "What was I supposed to do, jump on her? I barely know her. I don't even know if she's gay."

"Gay or not gay, you're supposed to get her in bed," Jake interjected, walking into the break room just in time to hear the last part of their conversation. He snatched a Boston Cream from the opened bakery box and took a hearty bite.

"You don't even know what we're talking about," Claire said, lobbing her apple core at the trash bin.

"Nice throw," Tessa said.

Jake gestured impatiently with the donut. "So fill me in."

"Claire has a hot new neighbor," Tessa told him.

Jake raised his eyebrows. "How new? How hot?"

"Insanely hot," Claire said in a lowered voice. There was no one but them in the break room, but she was paranoid of being overheard. "She just moved in a couple weeks ago."

"Okay, crazy hot neighbor," Jake said through a mouth full of donut. For someone who was one of the most respected cardiologists, in the top of his field, his professionalism was something he could turn on and off with a flip of a switch. "Then what?"

Claire shook her head. "I don't know. It's probably nothing. But remember that power outage a few nights ago? Anyway, we were in the elevator together, and it broke down. We were stuck in there for like, an hour. It was intense."

Jake whistled. "Elevator breaking down? I'd call that a sign from the universe."

Tessa rolled her eyes at him. "The universe? You're a doctor, Jake."

"So what? I can't believe in science and the universe? They're two interconnected things, Tess." Jake grabbed another Boston Cream, directing his question to Claire. "So, what did you two do in there?"

"Nothing. I was kind of panicking, and she calmed me down. Then we talked for a bit. And I fell asleep."

"She fell asleep," Tessa repeated to Jake as if he hadn't heard, her tone making it clear what she thought about that.

"I was tired!" Claire protested. "I pulled a long shift that night."

"Doesn't matter. You're not supposed to fall asleep when you're stuck in the elevator with a beautiful woman."

"And after that," Claire continued with a sigh, "I woke up and they got us out. She walked me to my room and I casually mentioned that I liked vaginas—"

Jake, who was taking a drag from his mug, nearly spat his coffee out. "You what?"

"—to which she said, 'I see.'"

"It doesn't sound good," Tessa said, as if Claire hadn't already known that.

"Well, it wasn't the bad kind of 'I see.' I don't know. I haven't seen her since," Claire finished. She worried her bottom lip under her teeth, studying both of their expressions. Tessa shook her head sympathetically. Jake was frowning, deep in thought. "You think I messed it up?"

"No, no. How long has it been?" Tessa asked.

"A couple days."

"Claire—"

"I know. I'm pathetic."

"Oh, honey, you're not pathetic. That's not what I was going to say. It's to be expected. You're a surgeon. You work odd hours just like the rest of us. Just because you haven't seen her doesn't mean she's avoiding you."

"Forget all that," Jake said. "Listen to your gaydar. Was there a vibe?"

"Like, a gay vibe?" Claire asked.

"What other vibe would I be referring to?"

She thought back to the way Natasha had watched her, how it had made her skin prickle. "Yeah. I don't know. Maybe." But maybe she looked at everyone that way. "Or— no. Definitely not."

Jake frowned. "On second thought, maybe we shouldn't focus so much on the gaydar."

An alarm on Tessa's phone went off. She glanced at it and got to her feet, pulling on her coat. "Got a consult. See y'all later," Tessa said, her Southern drawl coming through strong when she said the word y'all. She grabbed the donut out of Jake's hand and took a bite.

"What the hell, Ramirez!"

"Keep me posted, Claire," she called over her shoulder, donut in hand as she rushed out of the break room.

"She stole my donut," Jake muttered. "Can you believe it?"

Claire grabbed two more donuts from the box and offered one to him. "What do you think I should do?"

"About crazy hot neighbor?" He flashed a charming grin. "Not a clue. I'm terrible with women."

Claire rummaged through her drawers in a panic, pushing things aside and pulling things out. Random objects littered the floor: hair pins, mascara, a banana, various surgical tools, a Taylor Swift concert ticket she was sure she hadn't gone to. She'd made a mess, but she wasn't in the state to care.

"You have got to be kidding me."

She was a surgeon, for God's sake. She was organized, she was prepared, she was on top of her game. And she didn't have one goddamn tampon or pad in her whole apartment. Not. One. Single. Tampon.

Claire had set several reminders for herself to swing by the store and grab a box earlier that week. She was sure she'd gone. Or… wait. That day her schedule had been packed with surgeries. She ended up working overtime and coming home late, simply falling asleep while her ramen heated up instead of going to the store like she'd promised.

Claire gave up on the futile hope of finding a tampon in one of her drawers. She threw her hands up and sank to the floor. "Damn it!"

It was too late to ask Tessa or one of her friends to drive over and bring her some tampons. And she didn't want to risk going to the store without a tampon or pad to soak up the bleeding. What could she do? After a minute of pondering, she arrived at an idea.

She did have a female neighbor. There was a high possibility that said female neighbor also suffered monthly menstrual cycles. An even higher possibility, then, that she had feminine hygiene products. The thought of knocking on apartment 9C made a thrill run through her.

Although, this wasn't the ideal situation Claire had imagined seeing Natasha again in. (Not that she'd imagined it.)

But what if Natasha wasn't home? Claire hadn't seen her for a couple days, after all. She could've gone on a trip or something. Worse— what if she didn't want to see her? Claire must've scared her away when she'd mentioned that she liked women. Was she avoiding her, just like Claire had suspected? If so, would Claire showing up at her door make her feel uncomfortable, even if it was for a justifiable reason?

Doubts flooded her thoughts, and Claire found herself considering if she should just stuff her underwear with toilet paper and try to make it through the night.

Okay, stop. Claire shook herself, feeling ridiculous. She had a perfectly acceptable excuse— erm, reason— to knock on Natasha's door. Even if she was avoiding her, Claire still needed a tampon, and her neighbor was her best option. There was no harm in knocking. If Natasha didn't answer, she'd leave. If she seemed uncomfortable, Claire would try to make the interaction as quick as possible.

Before she could stop herself, Claire left her apartment and crossed over to Natasha's, hesitating before knocking on the door.

Relax. You're a surgeon. You're not nervous.

She rapped three times on the door. She was reminded of the last time she'd found herself in this position, only wearing a top and underwear.

Natasha's words echoed in her head. At least you're wearing pants this time.

The door opened a small crack. A sliver of Natasha's face filled it. Claire could make out one familiar green eye, an eyebrow, and half a nose. She couldn't help but feel a little disappointed that she didn't get to see all of her.

"Hey," Natasha said. She sounded tired. Her voice was raspier than usual.

"I'm sorry— I know it's late," Claire said. "But do you happen to have a tampon? Or a pad, or anything? I just got my period, and I thought I went to buy some, but—"

"Wait here," Natasha interrupted, and closed the door.

Claire's shoulders sagged with relief. She heard Natasha's footsteps come back to the door. The door creaked as it was pushed open fully this time. Natasha reached out her hand to Claire, holding a few tampons.

"And don't think I didn't notice that you apologized again," she said. "That's gotta be something like the tenth time."

Claire barely took note of the words. Her eyes were fixed on Natasha's face— not only because she was so captivated by how beautiful she was (although that had a little to do with it) but because of all the blood.

When Claire had first met her, Natasha's face had been smooth and unblemished, like the face of statues carved in marble. Now, it was a mess. She had a black eye, puffy and swollen. There was dried blood on her hairline, likely from a cut. Her cheekbone sported a small bruise. She was bleeding from an open wound on her chin. She looked like she'd been caught in a bar fight, or worse.

Claire gasped. "Your face."

Natasha touched a hand to her face in surprise, like she'd forgotten about her wounds. "Oh. That's nothing."

"Doesn't look like nothing."

Claire's eyes did a once-over of her, similar to how she would examine a patient who was rushed into the emergency room. Natasha was wearing a black tank top, which did nothing to hide the cuts and bruises on her arms. Her leggings were ripped in places. She seemed to be favoring her left leg, and the labored way that she was breathing indicated that the movement hurt her. Claire guessed that her ribs had taken a beating.

"And you're obviously badly injured."

Natasha shrugged. "Just a little disagreement."

The dangerous way she said disagreement made Claire vow to never get on her bad side. "You and I have very different definitions of 'little.'"

"It looks worse than it feels."

"So what happened to you?" Claire shook her head after the words left her mouth. "No, you don't have to tell me. It's none of my business."

"It's not," Natasha agreed, not unkindly.

Claire wasn't sure what to say. She couldn't guess what Natasha was thinking. Did she want her to leave? Claire settled for: "I hope the other guy looks worse."

Natasha smirked. "Oh, much worse."

Claire hesitated before asking the next question, not sure if she'd be overstepping her boundaries. She was a doctor, not Natasha's doctor. "How are you feeling?"

"I'll be fine."

That reminded Claire of her own words in the elevator, insisting that she was okay when she was on the verge of a panic attack. "That's not really an answer," she said, an edge to her voice.

Natasha lifted a challenging eyebrow. "Isn't it?"

Claire pointed at a long gash on her arm, her finger close enough to feel the heat coming from it. "That's going to get infected if you don't stitch it."

"So I'll get it stitched."

"Let me help you," Claire said, the words surprising herself. She wasn't able to stop the heat rising to her face— she never blushed this much before. What was wrong with her? "I'm a doctor. I have some supplies in my room that might help."

So much for making the interaction as quick as possible.

"That won't be necessary," Natasha said, with a finalty in her voice that ended all discussion. She offered Claire a smile, softening the words. "I'm perfectly capable of stitching up myself."

"Okay," Claire nodded, trying not to seem too let down by the fast and hard rejection.

"I do appreciate it, though," Natasha added, her words genuine. "Thank you, Claire."

Claire nodded again. "Well… have a nice night, then."

"You too."

Claire turned to go, but Natasha reached out and grabbed her hand. Her grip was gentle but firm, and it sent a jolt of electricity up Claire's arm. She nearly jumped.

"You forgot these," Natasha said, placing the tampons in her hand.

"Right." Claire smiled stupidly. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." Natasha shut the door.

Idiot, Claire mouthed at herself, once inside the safety of her own apartment. She took a deep breath and shook her head. She focused on cleaning herself up and using the tampon that Natasha had given her. With the crisis temporarily averted, she tried to fix the mess she'd made on the floor. Which was really just haphazardly tossing said mess from the floor to her drawers again.

While cleaning— if it could even be called that— she came upon an advanced first-aid kit that she kept beside her bed for emergencies. She froze, reminded of what Natasha had said about stitching herself up. Claire didn't know Natasha's skill level with a needle, but she'd seen newbie medical students attempt sutures, and the results weren't pretty. It took a lot of practice before she'd become skilled enough to attempt stitches on a person.

Claire warned herself not to do something stupid and impulsive again. Natasha had already refused her help gracefully. Chances were, she was fine and she didn't need helping. Claire should respect her wishes. She pushed the thought from her mind.

After five minutes, the first aid kit was still haunting her. She kept imagining Natasha in pain, trying to thread a needle through her cuts.

Claire found herself at Natasha's door for the second time that night. She hesitated before knocking. She shook her head. This was a stupid idea. She turned around and went back to her own apartment.

Another five minutes later.

Claire raised her fist to knock. She put it back down. She bit her lip and turned around again, but this time the door opened without her prompting, scaring Claire half to death. She stumbled back several steps and crashed into a fake plant.

Natasha stood in the doorway, looking slightly amused. "I heard your footsteps."

Claire was mortified enough to pray that she would melt into the fake plant and never be seen again. "I…"

Natasha's eyes landed on the first-aid kit, hanging from Claire's hand. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "I thought I told you I was—"

"Perfectly capable of stitching yourself up, I know," Claire said quickly. "But I was thinking that it would go much faster if there was another person to help you. And I am a trained professional, you know. I won't stab you with the needle."

"You're persistent."

"I guess so," Claire said unapologetically.

Natasha gave her a hard stare. Claire met her eyes calmly, trying to get distracted by how green they were. Something made them soften.

"Come in," she said. When Claire didn't move immediately, she added impatiently, "Quickly, before I change my mind."

Natasha's apartment was nearly spotless. Extremely clean and minimalistic. The walls didn't have a single stain, everything was neat and organized, and you could actually see the carpet(something that was quite rare at Claire's apartment). All the necessary furniture was there— chairs, table, sofa, coffee table. But there were no pictures, no aesthetic decorations, no homey touches.

A vast difference to Claire's, which was so cluttered and piled up with… stuff that it was hard to get from one room to another without tripping over at least five different things. She would have books stacked up in the middle of the floor

But the apartment had little hints of Natasha. A small Bonsai tree next to the dishes. A variety of coffee-stained mugs visible behind the glass shelves. A fancy espresso machine that sat on the center of the countertop. It even faintly smelled like Natasha. Claire had caught whiffs of her vanilla-scented perfume before(hey, not in a creepy way. They'd been trapped in an elevator for an hour).

Claire first washed her hands at the sink and prepared some towels, a bucket of warm water, and soap.

"Come here," Natasha said, heading towards the couch. There was an emergency kit much like Claire's lying open beside it. She pulled a rolling chair from a desk and set it close to the couch. "You can sit on this."

Claire thanked her, mentally taking note that she was still limping. She noticed that Natasha had changed out of her leggings, replacing them with shorts that revealed the wounds on her leg. The blood on her face had been wiped up, leaving it relatively clean with a couple of cuts.

"I've already disinfected the cuts with soap and water," Natasha told her.

Claire nodded. "Okay, that's really helpful. Tell me about your wounds so I know where to start."

"I have a couple of cuts on my face, as you may have noticed. There's a scrape on my arm here." Natasha showed her the cut that Claire had pointed out earlier. "And one down here. And one here. And my thigh has a pretty bad gash. I think my ribs are bruised, but no internal injuries as far as I can tell."

"And these cuts were made by a knife?"

Natasha nodded.

Claire examined all of the wounds that she'd pointed out. "The cuts on your face aren't too deep. I have a butterfly bandage you can use for that one. That one needs a few stitches, though. Anything else?"

Natasha began to shake her head, then stopped. "Oh. I also dislocated my shoulder—"

Claire frowned at her shoulder, which still seemed to be in its socket.

"—but I popped it back in."

Claire blinked. "You… what? You really shouldn't do that without a medical professional."

"I've done it before. I'll rest it and ice it." Natasha gestured to the cuts on her arms and legs. "What I really need is help stitching these up."

Claire hesitated. She'd taken note of all the wounds, and there were many. As the list mounted, her disbelief had grown with it. Natasha must've been in an incredible amount of pain, and she didn't have strong painkillers on hand, or anything to numb the pain. "You should really see a doctor for this."

"I am seeing a doctor." Natasha gave her a pointed stare. "You."

"I meant at an actual hospital," Claire corrected herself. "The risk of infection is lower, and their equipment is far more advanced than my first aid kit. I can take you to New York Presbytarian..."

Before she finished the sentence, she knew she'd already lost. Natasha's jaw was set and she didn't seem like she could be convinced of something she didn't want to do.

"No hospitals," she said, so firmly that it could've been a command. "It's either you, or you can leave and I'll do it myself."

Claire agreed, albeit reluctantly. "And she says I'm stubborn," she muttered under her breath.

Natasha pretended not to hear.

As she prepared her supplies for the stitches, she asked Natasha a standard series of questions to make sure that there were really no internal injuries or other problems. She didn't know Natasha's level of expertise in the medical field, but all of Natasha's answers seemed to correspond with what she'd told her.

Claire started on the thigh because it looked the worst. There was some gauze wrapped around her leg, covering what seemed to be a cut that had already soaked through the bandage.

"And on a scale of one to ten, how's the pain?" Claire asked as she started unwrapping the gauze.

"Three."

Claire glanced up at her disbelievingly.

"I have a high pain tolerance."

She shook her head. "Natasha, you are one badass bitch."

That earned her a smile.

Claire took out the tools she needed from her first aid kit. Before she grabbed the sterilized needle, she warned Natasha, "I don't have anything to numb the pain. It's not too late to change your mind about going to the hospital."

Natasha gave her a look.

"Got it. No hospital." Claire sighed. "Okay, I'm going to start. Let me know if the pain gets to be too much, and I'll stop."

Claire worked in silence for a few minutes. She expertly threaded the needle through the delicate skin and tied the sutures with one hand quickly, like she would on the operating table. She didn't want to put Natasha in any more pain than was necessary. Natasha didn't flinch or show any sign of pain as Claire sutured the cut, just watched with interest.

"It's faster when you do it," Natasha commented.

"Relative to who?"

"My friend… and other people who've stitched me up." She seemed to hesitate before adding, "One of them, his name's Clint. You're ten times much better at this than him."

Claire shrugged off the compliment. "I'm a surgeon. I've had lots of practice." She finished tying the last suture and cut the excess thread. "Have you tied your own sutures before?"

"Sometimes. But you usually need someone else to hold the wound closed while you do it."

Claire didn't ask how she was so well-versed in suturing procedure, but she guessed that Natasha was no stranger to these kinds of injuries. Instead of answering, she moved up to the cut on her arm. It was more shallow than the one on Natasha's thigh.

"So where've you been the past few days?" Claire asked conversationally as she worked. "I haven't seen you around."

"I was staying in a hotel across town for an errand. I just got back a couple hours ago," Natasha explained. "You came at the perfect time, actually."

"Oh, good. I thought you might be avoiding me," Claire said in a surprising burst of honesty. She wasn't usually this upfront with people. She coughed, a little embarrassed now that the words had left her mouth.

Natasha still looked confused, so she elaborated. "You know, because of the gay thing. I thought I scared you off."

Natasha looked astonished. "What?"

"I mean, yeah."

Natasha shook her head, and for the first time since Claire had met her, she looked lost. Like she almost didn't know how to respond. "I'm not homophobic."

"Oh. Cool."

Claire realized how stupid that sounded. "Sorry, no— I don't mean cool, like—" She imitated a California surfer bro— "Cool, man! I meant like, good. Nice. Because homophobia… is so uncool."

Natasha laughed. It wasn't a pretty sound, exactly— more of a low, throaty noise coming from deep within. But Claire would be lying if she said she didn't find it sexy as hell. "You said 'sorry' again, by the way."

Claire realized that she had. "Being around you is making me realize how much I apologize."

"You should get a swear jar. Except instead of a swear jar, it's a sorry jar. And instead of putting money in it, you have to buy me a Coke."

Claire laughed as well. She had to pull away from the arm sutures so that she didn't accidentally rip one out. "A Coke?"

"Or a Sprite." Natasha shrugged. "I'm not choosy."

Claire moved back in position to tie the last suture on Natasha's arm. "Hang on. Why do I have to give you a Coke at all? Why can't I just put a dollar in the jar?"

"Because, motivation. Think about it. If you put a dollar in the jar, where does it go? Towards yourself. There aren't any consequences because you're not giving the money to anyone. Therefore, there's a lack of motivation to actually stop saying 'sorry.'" Natasha switched gears. "Now, if you buy me a Coke, it's going towards me. This gives you more motivation to stop because you're losing money every time you apologize. And this way, I can keep you accountable."

Claire was reluctantly impressed by this. "That… was quite the speech."

"Thanks. I try."

Claire finished the arm sutures and moved onto the cuts that needed stitching on Natasha's face. "You'll need to hold still so that I don't accidentally hurt you. Let me think about this Sorry Jar of yours while I do the sutures."

Natasha watched her do them. Her eyes were so green and unblinking, Claire found them an incredible distraction. She had to regularly remind herself to focus on the needle in her hand rather than the woman staring at her from three inches away. Their faces were so close, Claire could feel every soft exhale brush her face. Her breath smelled like watermelon. Claire prayed that her own wasn't too bad. It probably stank of coffee, from the rate she was chugging them down that day.

When Claire finally leaned back, finished with the sutures, Natasha tilted her head at her. "Well?"

It took a moment for Claire to realize that she was still talking about the Sorry Jar. "Hmm, I don't know. Sounds like this is some big ploy to get me to buy you sodas."

"How so?"

"Well, I see how this would benefit you, but what would I get out of it?"

"You'd learn to stop apologizing for every little thing, even when it's not your fault," Natasha answered easily. "It's reflexive to you, and there's something a little fucked up with that. It'd be worth buying me fifty sodas to fix that, wouldn't it?"

Claire frowned at her, a little insulted. "First of all, it wouldn't take me fifty sodas to fix it. And second, who says it's something that needs to be fixed? Sometimes saying sorry is necessary, especially when you don't want to come off as an ass."

"First of all," Natasha mimicked her, "there are other ways of avoiding being an ass. Such as, don't be an ass in the first place to warrant an apology. Second, I'm not talking about necessary apologies. I'm talking about the stupid unecessary ones which you seem to like so much. And third—" Natasha held up three fingers— "fifty was completely arbitrary." She smirked. "That being said, I think it would take you much longer to drop that habit."

Claire's eyes narrowed. "Oh, yeah? Well, I disagree."

"It's on, then." Natasha reached out a hand for her to shake. "Every time you say 'sorry' in a way that isn't strictly necessary—"

"Hold up." Claire held up a hand. "'Strictly necessary' is so subjective. Who gets to decide what's a necessary apology and what isn't?"

"Me."

"That's not even remotely fair."

"Hey, I make the rules. I guess you'll just have to trust my judgement. Now, shake on it." Natasha's hand still floated in the air.

Claire hesitated. "Fine." She shook on it.

"Good," Natasha looked satisfied. "By the way, you already owe me one for all the apologies you've given me since we've met."

"But—"

Natasha silenced her by pressing with a finger to Claire's lips. She froze instantly at the contact. Natasha smiled at the reaction she got.

"I make the rules, remember?"

Please consider reviewing :) I love reading feedback and feel free to give me inspiration on what I should write next!

FP Barbieri: thanks for the reviews! They were so sweet!

Guest: YESS! I love those kinds of stories too. I didn't want to do full on enemies to lovers because I kinda take the enemy thing too far. Nat is for sure on top. Thanks for reviewing!