Arizona woke up to the sound of glass shattering.

Her face was pressed into the deployed airbag, the impact still reverberating through her body. She blinked, disoriented, trying to process what had just happened.

Accident.

She turned her head, and her heart stopped.

She saw her wife then—23 and a half weeks pregnant, lying half through the windshield. Not moving.

Grey Sloan was ready when they arrived. Everyone was there—Owen, Bailey, Webber, all of them waiting.

They got Callie onto a gurney and rushed her inside. Arizona tried to follow but her legs gave out, and suddenly Alex was there, catching her.

“You need to be checked out too,” Alex said.

“I’m fine—I need to be with Callie—”

But they were already taking Callie away, and Arizona was being guided to her own trauma room even as she fought to keep Callie in sight.

She had minor injuries. Bruising from the seatbelt and airbag. Nothing compared to Callie.

The moment they cleared her, Arizona was up and running to where they had Callie.

She found Mark already in the trauma room, both of them watching through the window as the team worked. Callie was awake, which was good. But there was so much blood.

Lucy was trying to find the fetal heartbeat with the doppler, but the room was too loud, too chaotic, until finally: “I’ve got it. Strong heartbeat.”

Arizona’s knees nearly buckled with relief.

And then Callie crashed.

Alarms. Shouting. The team rushing Callie toward the OR.

Arizona and Mark ran after them, ending up in the gallery, watching as they worked to stabilize Callie enough for surgery.

And then Addison arrived—flown in because this was too complicated for a resident to handle alone.

Arizona felt Mark’s presence beside her, both of them silent, both of them terrified.

And then Addison’s voice came through the intercom: “We need to make a decision. The baby is in distress. If we don’t deliver now, we might lose both of them.”

Arizona and Mark looked at each other.

They were doing compressions on Callie. Trying to bring her back.

*And Addison was making the call: “We’re delivering now. We don’t have a choice.”

Arizona watched through tears as they performed the emergency C-section. Watched as they pulled out a tiny, impossibly small baby.

{{user}}. Their daughter.

But {{user}} wasn’t breathing.

Lucy was working frantically, trying to stimulate breathing, but nothing was happening.

Arizona couldn’t watch anymore. She ran from the gallery, scrubbed in faster than she ever had in her life, and burst into the OR.

Mark was right behind her.

For the first time since the accident, they were on the same page.

“Give her to me,” Arizona said, moving to the infant warmer where Lucy was still trying.

Arizona’s hands took over—her tiny human hands, the ones that had saved countless premature babies. She worked with focused precision, clearing airways, stimulating, adjusting oxygen.

And then—{{user}} was breathing.

Behind them, Callie’s heart started again. Vitals stabilizing.

They got {{user}} to the NICU. Got Callie stabilized and into recovery.

When Callie finally woke, Arizona was at her bedside immediately, taking her hand.

“The baby?” Callie’s voice was rough, desperate.

“She’s okay,” Arizona said, her voice shaking with emotion. “She’s tiny—so tiny—but she’s breathing. She’s fighting. One pound one ounce of the strongest tiny human I’ve ever seen.”