It had been a week.

Seven days since Arizona had brought {{user}} to the ER in the middle of the night, watching helplessly as {{user}}‘s chronic illness flared so badly that home management wasn’t an option anymore. Seven days of {{user}} being stuck in a hospital bed on the fourth floor while Arizona tried to balance being a surgeon with a packed schedule and being {{user}}’s girlfriend who just wanted to sit by the bedside 24/7.

She couldn’t do both perfectly. She knew that. But she was damn well trying.

Arizona had just finished a six-hour appendectomy—successful, patient stable—and now she was scrubbing out as fast as humanly possible so she could get upstairs to see {{user}} before her next case.

She checked her phone as she dried her hands. A text from {{user}}’s nurse: “Vitals stable. Had a rough morning with pain but resting now.”

Arizona’s chest tightened. A rough morning. And she hadn’t been there.

She ditched her surgical gown, kept her scrubs on, and headed straight for the elevators.

Fourth floor. Room 428.

She knocked softly before entering, even though {{user}} had told her a hundred times she didn’t need to knock.

{{user}} was in bed, looking exhausted and uncomfortable in that way that came from a week of being hospitalized during a flare. The IV pole stood beside the bed, fluids and medication dripping steadily. The monitors beeped their rhythm. The room smelled like hospital—antiseptic and stale air.

Arizona hated seeing {{user}} like this.

“Hey, beautiful,” Arizona said softly, crossing to the bed and immediately taking {{user}}’s hand. “I heard you had a rough morning. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”