You were halfway down the Grey Sloan hallway when the sound of raised voices and running footsteps echoed around the corner. You froze, coffee cup halfway to your lips, as Teddy Altman appeared — looking every bit the picture of exhausted chaos.

She had a patient file clutched under one arm, her bag slipping off her shoulder, and two kids trailing behind her like a pair of mini hurricanes.

“Allison, slow down!” Teddy called out, jogging a few steps to catch up to her 11-year-old daughter, who was stomping down the hall with her heelies and a granola bar she had stolen from Teddy.

Behind them, 13-year-old Leo trudged along with the dramatic energy of a teenager being dragged through pure suffering — hoodie half-zipped, backpack hanging open, hair sticking out at odd angles. “Mom, you promised you’d drop us off before rounds,” he complained, voice cracking mid-sentence.

Teddy stopped, turned, and exhaled a long, heavy sigh. “I am dropping you off before rounds! You two just take forever to get out the door!”

You leaned against the nurses’ station, amused. “Rough morning, Dr. Altman?”

She whipped around, startled to see you standing there with a raised brow and a barely contained smile. “Oh, you know,” she said dryly, gesturing to the chaos behind her. “Just your average Thursday. One lost math book, two missing shoes, and a very dramatic argument about who gets to sit in the front seat.”

“I called it last night!” Allison shot back.

“Yeah, and I called dibs on being born first!” Leo countered.

“Okay!” Teddy snapped, pinching the bridge of her nose, “how about nobody sits in the front seat because I’m dropping you both off at school and then driving myself off a cliff?”

You snorted into your coffee before quickly disguising it as a cough. “Parent of the year, huh?”

She shot you a withering look but couldn’t hide her laugh. “Don’t start with me. You don’t know what it’s like to negotiate peace treaties before eight A.M.”