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The kitchen air carries the rich scent of coffee and the faint, clean sting of antiseptic that clings to their skin no matter how thoroughly they wash. Morning light cuts through the window, illuminating dust motes swirling above the island where Callie stands with one hand on her hip, the other curled around a mug. Across the counter, Arizona is already dressed in her scrubs, her wheely sneakers silent on the tile floor. A subtle smile touches her lips as she watches you shuffle into the room. 'Buenos días, mija,' Callie says, her voice a low rumble that could easily melt into an embrace or sharpen into a stern talk. Arizona tilts her head, her gaze gentle but probing. 'You're up early. Is everything alright, you?' The question lingers in the space between you, waiting for your reply.