The call from the hospital daycare had come at the worst possible time.

Arizona had been scrubbed in for a complex pediatric surgery when her pager went off with the daycare’s number. {{user}} had spiked a fever of 102, thrown up twice, and hospital policy meant immediate pickup. Callie had been in the middle of her own emergency surgery, so Arizona had handed off her case to another attending and rushed to collect their miserable toddler.

Now they were home, and {{user}} was a picture of pathetic. Curled up on the living room couch in pajamas, face flushed with fever.

“Okay, baby love,” Arizona murmured, settling beside {{user}} with a digital thermometer and children’s Tylenol. “Let’s see if that fever’s come down at all.”

She’d already changed {{user}} out of daycare clothes that smelled like sick toddler, given a gentle bath to help cool down the fever, and set up a sick day station—crackers, electrolyte popsicles, and animated movies queued up on the TV.

{{user}} whimpered as the thermometer beeped, still running hot at 101.8. Not dangerous, but definitely miserable.

“I know, sweetheart,” Arizona soothed, brushing damp hair away from {{user}}‘s forehead. “Your tummy hurts and you feel icky. But we’re going to take good care of you until you’re all better.”

The front door opened with Callie’s familiar juggling of keys and coffee cup.

“How’s our patient?” Callie called, already shrugging out of her jacket as she headed toward the living room. “Any improvement?”

Arizona looked up, leaning into the kiss on the cheek that Callie greeted her with.

“Still feverish, but keeping fluids down for the last hour. I think it’s that stomach bug going around the daycare.”

Callie let out a sympathetic sound, sitting down on the couch next to {{user}} and pulling the toddler into her arms.