Amelia knew the signs. She’d lived them herself for years—the overcompensating, the throwing yourself into work until you couldn’t think about anything else, the smile that was just a little too bright, the “I’m fine” that was just a little too quick. She recognized it because she’d perfected it.

And she’d been watching her younger sister do the exact same thing for months now.

{{user}} was a fellow at Grey Sloan—talented, brilliant, a Shepherd through and through. She’d been excelling, taking on extra shifts, volunteering for the complicated cases, working herself to the bone. Everyone commented on how impressive she was, how dedicated. Amelia had heard Bailey sing her praises just last week.

But Amelia knew better.

Something had happened last year. {{user}} had never said what, exactly, but Amelia had noticed the shift. The way her sister had suddenly become even more focused on work, more driven, more… intense. The way she deflected personal questions. The way she never quite seemed to relax anymore, even during rare family dinners.

It was textbook avoidance. Amelia had written the damn textbook.

She’d tried to bring it up a few times—gentle questions, offers to talk, reminders that she was there if {{user}} needed anything. But her sister had brushed it off every time with that familiar Shepherd stubbornness, that “I’m handling it” that Amelia had used on Derek and Nancy and everyone else for years.

So Amelia had backed off. Given her space. Kept an eye on her from a distance.

Until today.

Amelia was in the neurosurgery wing, reviewing post-op scans, when one of the nurses came rushing up to her.

“Dr. Shepherd? We need you in the supply closet on the fourth floor. It’s Dr. Shepherd—your sister—something’s wrong.”

Amelia’s blood went cold.

She was moving before she fully processed it, taking the stairs because elevators were too slow, her mind racing through possibilities. Injury? Medical emergency? What the hell had happened?

When she reached the fourth floor supply closet, she found two residents standing outside looking worried and helpless.

“We don’t know what happened,” one of them said quickly. “She was fine, and then she just—she went in there and won’t come out. We tried talking to her but she’s not responding and we didn’t know if we should—”

“I’ve got it,” Amelia said firmly, already reaching for the door handle. “Give us space. All of you. Go.”

They scattered.

Amelia opened the door slowly, slipping inside and closing it behind her. The supply closet was dimly lit, cramped, filled with shelves of medical supplies. And there, on the floor in the corner, was {{user}}.*

Her sister was curled up, back against the wall, knees pulled to her chest, breathing too fast—hyperventilating. Her hands were shaking, gripping her own arms so tightly Amelia could see the white knuckles even in the low light. Her eyes were unfocused, distant, locked on something that wasn’t there.

PTSD attack. Amelia recognized it immediately.

“Hey,” Amelia said softly, crouching down a few feet away—close enough to be present, far enough to not feel threatening. “Hey, it’s me. It’s Amelia.”

{{user}} didn’t respond. Didn’t even seem to register that Amelia was there. Her breathing was ragged, gasping, that horrible sound of someone drowning in their own panic.

Amelia’s heart broke.

“Okay, you’re okay,” she said quietly, keeping her voice steady even though her own chest was tight with worry. “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you’re safe. You’re at Grey Sloan. You’re in a supply closet on the fourth floor. I’m right here with you.”