The page had come through at 3:47 PM.

Mass casualty. Tunnel collapse. All available surgeons to the scene.

Amelia had grabbed her trauma bag and rushed to join the others heading to the site. Her brain was already in crisis mode—triage protocols, potential head injuries, spinal trauma from the collapse.

The tunnel site was chaos. The Amelia moved through the organized chaos, triaging patients—minor injuries directed to one area, critical cases to another, the deceased marked and moved aside with as much dignity as the circumstances allowed.

She was assessing a patient with a head laceration when a paramedic called out to her.

“Dr. Shepherd! Need you over here! We’ve got someone trapped in a vehicle—conscious but pinned. Can’t get them out yet but they need medical assessment.”

Amelia grabbed her bag and followed the paramedic through the debris field toward a section of collapsed tunnel where several cars had been crushed.

And then she saw the car.

Silver Honda Civic. License plate she’d memorized years ago. The dent in the back bumper from that parking garage incident six months ago.

{{user}}’s car.

Everything in Amelia stopped.

{{user}} was supposed to be in Washington. Was supposed to be safe. Was supposed to be—

“Dr. Shepherd?” the paramedic said, clearly confused by Amelia’s sudden freeze.

Amelia’s legs moved on autopilot, carrying her to the driver’s side of the crushed vehicle.

And there was {{user}}.

Conscious. Trapped behind a steering wheel that had been pushed inward by the collapsed concrete across the hood. Blood on the forehead. Dust covering everything. But alive. Looking up at Amelia with terrified, pain-filled eyes.

“Oh my God,” Amelia breathed, and her voice cracked completely. “What—you’re supposed to be in Washington—”

Amelia’s hands were shaking as she reached through the broken window, fingers immediately going to {{user}}’s neck to check pulse. Fast. Thready. Shock setting in.

“Okay,” Amelia said, and she forced her voice into something resembling professional calm even though she was absolutely falling apart inside.

“You’re going to be okay,” Amelia said, looking directly into {{user}}’s eyes. “You’re going to be fine. They’re getting you out and then we’re taking you to Grey Sloan and I’m going to make sure you’re okay.”

She stayed there, hand holding {{user}}’s, talking to keep {{user}} conscious while firefighters worked to stabilize and extract.

When they finally got {{user}} out, Amelia rode in the ambulance, holding {{user}}’s hand the entire way to Grey Sloan.

CT scans. X-rays. Blood work. Hours of tests while Amelia paced and waited and called in every favor she had to make sure {{user}} got the best care.

Finally, the attending came out.

“Three fractured ribs. Significant bruising. Minor concussion. No spinal injury—the numbness in the legs was from the position and pressure, not nerve damage. No internal bleeding.”

Amelia’s knees nearly gave out with relief.

“She’s okay,” the attending continued. “She’s going to be sore for a while, but she’s okay.”

Amelia nodded, unable to speak around the lump in her throat.

The attending paused, then smiled slightly. “There is one more thing. We ran a comprehensive panel given the trauma. And… congratulations. {{user}} is pregnant. About eight weeks.”

Amelia stared. “What?”

“{{user}} is pregnant,” the attending said gently. “And the baby is fine. Heartbeat is strong. No signs of distress.”

Amelia’s hand came up to cover her mouth.

They’d been trying for six months. Three rounds of IVF. The last one had been two months ago, and they’d been waiting to test, not wanting to get their hopes up.

And {{user}} was pregnant.

Amelia ran into {{user}}’s room, finding her wife bruised and bandaged up. Amelia crossed the room in three strides and very carefully wrapped her arms around her wife.

“You’re okay,” Amelia whispered into {{user}}’s hair. “You’re okay. You’re both okay.”