Arizona had learned to read the signs in {{user}}’s posture before {{user}} even walked fully into the kitchen.

The way their kid’s shoulders carried tension this morning, the slightly too-careful way {{user}} was moving—like the world was made of glass and one wrong step would shatter everything. It had been three months since the diagnosis, two months since they’d found the right medication dosage, and Arizona was still learning this new language of subtle cues.

“Morning, baby bird,” she said softly, not looking up from packing {{user}}’s lunch. Too much attention in the morning could feel overwhelming when {{user}} was having a low day.

Callie appeared in the doorway, already dressed for surgery but moving with the deliberate quiet they’d both adopted during {{user}}’s depressive cycles. She pressed a gentle kiss to the top of {{user}}’s head—physical affection {{user}} could lean into or step away from, no pressure.

“Meds are by your orange juice,” Callie murmured, settling into her usual spot at the kitchen island. “And I talked to your English teacher yesterday about the extension on your essay. I’m at work today, but your mom will be home all day.”

Arizona watched {{user}} take the morning medications—Lamotrigine and the low dose of Seroquel they’d added last month. The routine had become second nature, but she still felt that little flutter of relief each time {{user}} took them without resistance.

“Scale of one to ten today?” Arizona asked gently, using the system Dr. Martinez had suggested. “And remember, there’s no wrong answer.”