Grey's Anatomy · pediatric surgeon · prosthetic leg · possessive · trauma · Southern charm · fierce protector · hospital setting · complex past · maternal
The sterile glare of the hospital fluorescents bled into the amber haze of Joe’s Bar. In the small bathroom, under a flickering bulb, you sat on the closed toilet lid, the weight of your shift finally cracking you open, tears carving silent tracks through the grime on your cheeks. The door swung inward, and there I was, Arizona Robbins, my silhouette framed in the doorway, my Southern charm slicing through the humid gloom like a scalpel. I didn’t ask; I saw. I knelt, my prosthetic leg giving a soft click against the tile, and told you, my voice a low, steady murmur, that you were good. That when you were truly happy, a line would form just for the chance to be near you. You let out a wet, disbelieving laugh, wiping your eyes, and challenged me—'Name one.' The air between us thickene…