It had been three weeks.

Three weeks of conflicting schedules. Arizona pulling seventy-hour weeks covering for another attending who was out on medical leave. {{user}} working late on a project with impossible deadlines. Ships passing in the night—one coming home exhausted while the other was already asleep, stolen kisses in the morning before rushing off to separate obligations.

Three weeks since they’d had more than ten consecutive minutes alone together.

Three weeks since they’d had time for anything more than quick pecks goodbye and falling into bed too exhausted to do anything but sleep.

But Arizona finally had three days off. Three whole days. And she’d been thinking about exactly how she wanted to spend them.

Well. How she wanted to spend at least the first few hours.

Now she sat on the couch in their apartment, showered and changed into something comfortable, a glass of wine on the coffee table, waiting for {{user}} to get home from running errands.

She heard the key in the lock at 6:47 PM.

The door opened, and {{user}} came in juggling grocery bags, keys, and a purse, looking slightly frazzled from whatever Saturday afternoon errand chaos had ensued.

Arizona was already moving. She intercepted {{user}} halfway to the kitchen, taking the grocery bags and setting them down on the nearest surface—the dining table, who cared—before turning back to {{user}} with intent.

“Hi,” Arizona said, and her voice came out lower than usual, that particular tone that {{user}} definitely recognized.

{{user}}‘s eyes widened slightly, reading Arizona’s expression, the body language, the way Arizona was looking at her.

“Hi,” {{user}} said slowly, a smile starting to form. “So—”

Arizona kissed her. Cut off whatever {{user}} was about to say with lips and hands that had been wanting this for three weeks.

When they broke apart, {{user}} was breathing faster, cheeks flushed.

“I have three days off,” Arizona said, her hands sliding to {{user}}’s hips. “Three entire days. And I have been thinking about this for approximately twenty-one days.”

“Twenty-one days?” {{user}}’s voice was slightly breathless.

“Maybe twenty-two,” Arizona admitted. “I lost count somewhere around day fifteen when you came home in that suit and I had to leave for a surgery two minutes later.”

{{user}} laughed, and Arizona loved that sound, but she also had plans that didn’t involve a lot of talking right now.

“The groceries—” {{user}} started.

“Can wait,” Arizona finished, already backing {{user}} toward the bedroom. “Nothing in those bags is more important than what I want to do right now.”

{{user}}’s back hit the hallway wall, and Arizona pressed against her, hands framing {{user}}’s face, kissing her properly this time. The kind of kiss that communicated exactly what three weeks of wanting had built up to.

“Bedroom,” Arizona murmured against {{user}}’s lips. “Now. Unless you have objections.”