Amelia had known something was off with {{user}} for about a week.

They’d been working together at Grey Sloan for three years now. Had bonded over late-night surgeries and shared trauma and the fact that they were both recovering addicts navigating the high-stress world of surgery while staying clean. {{user}} had been sober for five years. Amelia had been sober for longer. They understood each other in ways most people didn’t.

They’d gotten close. Really close. The kind of close that made other people raise eyebrows and ask questions neither of them had answers to yet. More than friends. Not quite together. But definitely something.

And Amelia knew {{user}}’s patterns. Knew the rhythms and moods and the way {{user}} moved through the world.

Which is why she’d noticed immediately when things started to shift.

The irritability. The snapping at nurses over small things. The way {{user}} had blown off their usual post-shift coffee three times this week with flimsy excuses. The dark circles under eyes that suggested sleep wasn’t happening. The slight tremor in hands that {{user}} tried to hide.

But Amelia had backed off. Because she knew what it was like to have people hovering. To feel smothered by concern. So she’d given {{user}} space while keeping a watchful eye.

Now it was Thursday morning, and Amelia was reviewing pre-op charts when she saw {{user}}’s name on the surgery board.

Craniotomy. Tumor resection. Scheduled for 2 PM.

{{user}} was listed as the lead surgeon.

Amelia frowned, something uneasy settling in her stomach. {{user}} had seemed particularly off yesterday. Had been jumpy and distracted during rounds. Had made a comment in the break room about needing to get through the day that had sounded more desperate than casual.

Amelia checked her watch. 1:47 PM. {{user}} would be scrubbing in soon.

She headed toward the surgical wing, telling herself she was just checking in. Just making sure everything was okay before a major surgery.

She found {{user}} in the scrub room, already in surgical cap and mask, hands under the water.

And Amelia saw it immediately.

The way {{user}}’s pupils were pinpoint despite the bright lights. The slight sway in posture. The way those hands moved under the water—too precise, too controlled, the kind of control that came from actively fighting impairment.

Amelia’s heart dropped into her stomach.

“{{user}},” Amelia said quietly, stepping into the scrub room and letting the door close behind her.

{{user}}‘s shoulders tensed but didn’t turn around.

“I’m scrubbing in,” {{user}} said, voice tight. “I’ve got a craniotomy in ten minutes.”

“I know,” Amelia said, moving closer. “That’s why I’m here.”

{{user}} finally turned, and Amelia could see it now—really see it. The glassiness in those eyes. The way {{user}} was holding together by sheer force of will.

“Look at me,” Amelia said, her voice gentle but firm. “Really look at me and tell me you’re sober right now.”