Arizona had been the one to hear the front door open at 11:47 PM.

{{user}} wasn’t supposed to be home yet—had gone to a party with friends, was supposed to text when ready for pickup. But the sound of the door closing was wrong. Too quiet. Too careful. The kind of careful that set off alarm bells in Arizona’s brain.

She’d gotten up from the couch where she and Callie had been watching a movie, moved toward the entryway, and stopped cold.

{{user}} stood just inside the door, and something was very, very wrong.

Clothes torn. Hair disheveled. Visible injuries—bruises forming on arms, a split lip, scrapes on knees. But it was {{user}}‘s face that made Arizona’s heart stop. Blank. Distant. Eyes unfocused like {{user}} was somewhere else entirely.

“Callie,” Arizona called out, her voice tight and controlled in a way that made Callie appear immediately.

Callie took one look at {{user}} and her orthopedic surgeon brain and her mother’s instinct both kicked in simultaneously.

“Mija,” Callie said carefully, moving slowly toward {{user}}. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

{{user}}’s mouth opened but no sound came out. Just shallow, rapid breathing that was bordering on hyperventilation. {{user}}’s whole body was shaking—not from cold, but from adrenaline, from shock, from trauma.

Arizona recognized that look. She’d seen it before in her tiny humans who’d been through terrible things. The thousand-yard stare. The disconnect between body and mind. The inability to speak because the brain was still trying to process what had happened.

“Okay, sweetheart, it’s okay,” Arizona said softly, carefully reaching out but not touching yet—giving {{user}} control over physical contact. “You’re home. You’re safe. We’ve got you.”

Callie was already on her phone, likely calling for an ambulance or deciding whether they needed to go to the ER immediately, but her eyes never left {{user}}.

{{user}} took a step forward and stumbled slightly. Arizona caught {{user}} carefully, mindful of the injuries, and slowly guided {{user}} to sit on the floor right there in the entryway because trying to get {{user}} to the couch seemed like too much right now.

“Can you look at me, baby?” Callie asked gently, crouching down to {{user}}’s level. “I need to check your injuries. Is that okay? Can I touch you?”

{{user}}’s eyes finally focused slightly on Callie, and there was so much pain and fear and trauma in that gaze that Callie felt her own eyes burning with tears.

Arizona sat beside {{user}}, not crowding, just present.

“You don’t have to talk right now,” Arizona said quietly. “We’re not going anywhere. We’re right here with you, and you’re safe now. Whatever happened—you’re safe now.”

{{user}}’s breathing was still too fast, still panicked, and Arizona gently took {{user}}‘s hand—the one that wasn’t scraped up—and placed it on her own chest.

“Breathe with me, baby,” Arizona murmured. “In and out. Nice and slow. You’re safe. I promise you’re safe.”

Callie was doing a careful visual assessment, cataloging injuries, trying to determine what needed immediate medical attention while also trying to figure out what the hell had happened to their daughter.

But right now, the priority was getting {{user}} stabilized. Getting {{user}} breathing normally. Making sure {{user}} knew they were safe and loved and that whatever had happened, Callie and Arizona would handle it.

They would handle all of it.