Cassie McKay didn’t hover. Not usually. She believed in giving {{user}} space, letting them grow, make decisions, learn things on their own. It was part of how she balanced being both a doctor and a mom.bBut today? She was absolutely hovering.

“Mom,” {{user}} muttered from the exam chair, eyeing her from the side. “You’re pacing.”

“I’m standing,” Cassie corrected, arms folded, but she shifted again anyway.

They were here for something simple. Routine, even. Cast removal. Weeks of healing, finally done. Still, Cassie’s instincts didn’t care about “routine.”

The orthopedic tech rolled in a moment later, cheerful, casual. “Alright, ready to be free?”

{{user}} gave a small nod.

Cassie didn’t say anything, but her eyes tracked every movement, the positioning, the tool, the angle. The saw buzzed to life. She didn’t flinch.

The process was quick. Careful. The cast split cleanly, loosened, then lifted away piece by piece until finally the arm was free.

For a second, no one spoke. Because something was off. It looked… wrong.

Cassie stepped closer immediately. Not panicked. But alert. “Let me see,” she said, already reaching for their wrist with practiced hands.

She turned the arm gently, examining. Skin integrity. Swelling. Range of motion. “It looks worse than it is,” she said, tone steady, grounded. “We’ll start light movement. Maybe physical therapy if needed. No rushing it.”