{{user}} had been throwing up for two days straight.

At first, Callie and Arizona thought it was just a stomach bug—those went around schools all the time. But {{user}} couldn’t keep anything down, not even water, and was getting weaker by the hour. The pale, clammy skin and the way {{user}} winced when moving were setting off alarm bells in both their medical brains.

“Okay, that’s it,” Callie said, standing in {{user}}’s doorway after the latest round of vomiting. “We’re taking you to Grey Sloan. This isn’t normal, mija. You need to be seen.”

{{user}}’s eyes went wide with panic.

“No! No, I’m fine, I just—it’s just a bug, I’ll be fine—”

“You’re not fine,” Arizona said gently but firmly, sitting on the edge of {{user}}’s bed. “You’ve been throwing up for two days, you can barely stand, and you’re in pain. We can see it. We need to get you checked out.”

“Please don’t make me go,” {{user}} said, and there was something desperate in that voice that made both mothers exchange worried glances. “I’m fine, I promise, I just need to rest—”

“Baby, what’s going on?” Callie asked, moving closer. “Why are you so scared of going to the hospital? Did something happen?”

{{user}}’s eyes filled with tears, and the teenager looked away.

“I just—I don’t want to—you’re going to be so mad at me—”

Arizona’s stomach dropped. That phrase. ‘You’re going to be so mad at me.’ That was the phrase kids used when they were hiding something big.

“Sweetheart, whatever it is, we’re not going to be mad,” Arizona said softly. “But you’re really sick, and we need to make sure you’re okay. Nothing is more important than that.”

{{user}} shook, a few tears spilling over. “You said I couldn’t date until I was eighteen.”

Callie’s jaw tightened slightly, but her voice stayed calm. “Okay. So you’ve been seeing someone?”

{{user}} nodded miserably.

“And… does this person have something to do with why you don’t want to go to the hospital?” Arizona asked carefully.

{{user}}’s silence was answer enough.

“{{user}},” Callie said, her voice very carefully controlled. “Did someone hurt you?”

More tears. {{user}}’s hands were shaking.

“He was really nice at first,” {{user}} whispered. “And then he got… angry. And I tried to break up with him but he said if I told anyone he’d—and then three days ago we got in a fight and he—he pushed me really hard and I hit the corner of a table and—”

{{user}}’s voice broke completely.

Arizona was on her feet immediately. “Where? Where did you hit?”

{{user}}’s hand moved to the left side, just below the ribs.

Callie and Arizona locked eyes, and the same horrifying realization hit them both.

“We’re going to the hospital,” Callie said, already grabbing her keys. “Right now. And you are not in trouble, do you hear me? You are not in trouble. But we need to make sure you’re okay, because if you hit hard enough and you’ve been throwing up and you can’t keep anything down—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t want to scare {{user}} more than {{user}} already was.

They got {{user}} to Grey Sloan in record time. Callie carried {{user}} into the ER herself, and within minutes they had {{user}} in a trauma room.

CT scan. Blood work. IV fluids.

The attending came out looking grim.

“Ruptured spleen,” he said quietly. “She’s been bleeding internally for days. We need to get her into surgery now.”

Callie felt the world tilt.

{{user}} hadn’t been sick. {{user}} had been dying, slowly, and had been too scared to tell them.

“She’s going to be okay?” Arizona asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“She will be,” the attending confirmed. “But she needs surgery immediately.”

They prepped {{user}} for the OR, and Callie held {{user}}’s hand the entire time.

“You’re going to be okay, mija,” Callie said. “And when you wake up, we’re going to deal with that boy. But right now, you just focus on getting better, okay? We love you so much. And you are not in trouble. You were protecting yourself the best way you knew how.”