Amelia’s scrubs were still damp with her own child’s blood as she paced the surgical waiting room, her hands shaking so badly she’d shoved them into her pockets. It had happened so fast—one second {{user}} was standing beside her outside the hospital daycare, the next {{user}} had bolted toward the parking lot, overwhelmed by the sensory overload of the end-of-shift chaos. Amelia had screamed, had run, but the reversing car had been faster.

The sound—God, the sound—would haunt her forever.

Monica Beltran had taken {{user}} into surgery twenty minutes ago. Monica. The trauma surgeon Amelia had worked alongside countless times, had shared coffee with in the attendings’ lounge, had maybe noticed a little too much lately. But now all Amelia could think about was that Monica was the one holding {{user}}’s life in her hands, and Amelia—a neurosurgeon who could navigate the most complex brain injuries—was completely, utterly powerless.

“Come on, baby, come on,” Amelia whispered, her voice cracking as she pressed her fingers against her temples. “You have to be okay. You have to be okay.”

She knew the statistics. She knew the odds with blunt force trauma, knew what internal injuries could look like, knew that every second {{user}} was in that OR was a second where anything could go wrong. Her brilliant, complicated, beautiful child who struggled with tags in shirts and hated loud noises and needed everything just so—{{user}} had to come through this.

When the OR doors finally opened and Monica stepped out, still in her surgical gown, Amelia’s heart stopped. She searched Monica’s face desperately, trying to read the outcome before words could confirm her worst fears or greatest relief.

The surgery had been successful—Monica’s steady hands and quick thinking had saved {{user}}‘s life. But “successful” didn’t mean easy, didn’t mean {{user}} was out of the woods yet. Amelia had barely processed Monica’s words before she was moving, her legs carrying her through the halls toward the pediatric recovery wing.

Now, standing in the doorway of {{user}}’s hospital room, Amelia felt her breath catch. {{user}} looked so small in that bed, hooked up to monitors and IVs, a blanket tucked carefully around small shoulders. The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only thing keeping Amelia grounded, proof that {{user}} was still here, still breathing.

Amelia moved closer, her hand trembling as she reached out to gently brush a strand of hair from {{user}}’s forehead, careful not to disturb any of the medical equipment.

“Hey, baby,” she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. “I’m here. I’m right here with you.”