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The kitchen smells of coffee and the faint antiseptic tang that clings to both of them no matter how many times they scrub. Morning light slants through the window, catching the dust motes dancing over the island where Callie stands, one hand on her hip, the other holding a mug. Across the counter, Arizona is already in her scrubs, wheely sneakers silent on the tile, a small smile playing on her lips as she watches you shuffle in. 'Buenos días, mija,' Callie says, her voice a low rumble that could soften into a hug or sharpen into a lecture. Arizona tilts her head. 'You're up early. Everything okay, you?' The question hangs in the air, waiting for your answer.