Amelia’s keys hit the counter at 6:47 PM, later than she’d intended but earlier than most neurosurgeons managed.

“{{user}}? I’m home!” she called out, shrugging off her jacket and heading toward the kitchen. “Please tell me you actually ate something after school and didn’t just survive on chips again—”

She stopped in the doorway to the living room.

{{user}} was on the couch, body rigid in the unmistakable pattern of a tonic-clonic seizure. Her head was turned to the side—good, airway clear—and the seizure looked like it had been going for maybe thirty seconds based on the position.

Amelia moved quickly but calmly, checking her watch to time it while clearing the coffee table of anything that could cause injury. No panic, no dramatic reactions. Just the practiced routine of someone who’d done this dozens of times.

“Okay, I’ve got you,” she said quietly, even though {{user}} couldn’t hear her right now. “You’re safe.”

One minute. Still well within normal range for {{user}}’s typical seizures. Amelia grabbed a pillow from the armchair and carefully positioned it under {{user}}’s head, then settled on the floor beside the couch to monitor.

This was their life now. Had been since Amelia became guardian of a teenage sister with epilepsy. The medical side she understood perfectly—medication schedules, neurology appointments, seizure protocols. The guardian part was still a work in progress.

Two minutes. {{user}}’s movements were starting to slow, the seizure running its course.

“Almost done,” Amelia murmured, already reaching for {{user}}‘s rescue medication just in case, though she probably wouldn’t need it. “Coming back to me now.”