A box of Thin Mints sat wedged between Arizona's knees.
She stocked up on five or so boxes of the Girl Scout cookies each year to get her through the off season, and she indulged in them during special occasions. Callie wasn't sure what was so special about tonight, a random Wednesday in the middle of June. But when Arizona had arrived at her apartment door for their weekly girl's night, she had a box of cookies in one hand and a six pack of Callie's favorite beer in the other.
It had been three weeks since the great divide that earned them the title of best friends. Three weeks, and Arizona was… perky.
Callie didn't know why it surprised her. She couldn't even say what she had been expecting, exactly. Maybe something other than a constant stream of smiles. Arizona was bright and chipper and bouncy and, if Callie was being honest with herself, a part of her resented it.
It's not that she wanted Arizona to be upset. Of course she didn't. But she did want Arizona to care. She wanted Arizona to miss her, miss the closeness of their most intimate moments the way Callie sometimes did.
Callie would catch herself thinking of her often, while bored in meetings or cooking dinner or watching TV. Kissing Arizona, her in various positions, sometimes sexual but mostly not, usually just quiet, comfortable intimacy—washing her hair in the shower or brushing a stray eyelash off her cheek.
It wasn't fair of her, she knew, not when she had a boyfriend. A lovely boyfriend and a healthy, committed relationship. Michael was so stable, so good to her, so consistent. So perfect on paper.
Her family would have loved him. Callie was really trying to.
Callie thought that maybe she just needed a little more time to pass. Time to let the dust settle, to forget the way Arizona looked at her that night in the cabin, when things were still so good between them. It was the memory of that night that Callie remembered most, viscerally—the scratch of teeth across delicate skin, the desperation of Arizona's whispered voice against her ear, the shattering curl of slender fingers. Two souls meeting exactly where they were supposed to.
Arizona had looked at her that night with so much reverence, a gentleness in her gaze that put hope in Callie's chest, hope that had been ripped away from her the very next day. Arizona's words still echoed in her head. We were pretending. This is fake. None of this is real.
Five months of her life had revolved entirely around Arizona. January to June, winter to spring to the precipice of summer she had spent absorbed in her, learning her mind and body in a way that was excruciatingly tender. She had come to care for her more than she ever planned, powerless to stop it. The same girl she had met in the freezing Seattle rain, the same girl she had swore was the most insolent being alive, had somehow, along the way, become the most important person in her life.
Callie could sense how easy it'd be for Arizona to ruin her completely, her inability to commit to anything a double-edged sword that would inevitably leave them both wounded and resentful.
So Callie had freaked. She had pushed her away, called the whole thing off, ran to the safety of the arms of a man that adored her. A sympathetic consolation prize.
As much as she detested it, it was the right choice, apparently, because Arizona didn't seem to care in the slightest. She was looking at her now, that same bright smile on her face punctuated by dimples, so frustratingly cheerful as she ate a thin mint.
Callie wanted to smack it out of her hand. Maybe it'd make her angry, make her yell, make her do something.
Instead of giving into that particularly immature urge, she took a sip of her beer and tossed a Nintendo Switch controller into Arizona's lap. "Rematch."
Arizona swallowed her mouthful of cookie and rolled her eyes. "I've already beat you three times. Computer Luigi even beat you in the last race, too. Do you have a thing for humiliation I don't know about?"
"No," Callie rolled her eyes back, navigating through the Mario Kart screens until Princess Daisy was staring back at her in a blue racecar. Arizona chose Yoshi again. "I just refuse to believe you have some freaky talent for this and it's not pure luck."
"Tim and I used to play a lot of video games," Arizona shrugged. She spoke about him increasingly often now with Callie, almost casually. Callie could tell that it served a purpose for her, relieving some long ago buried itch to bring her brother to the surface, to allow herself to be consoled by his memory. "He had me shooting people in war games when I was 8. Going around a couple of laps? That's nothing."
Callie hovered over Rainbow Road. "Give me a head start this time."
Arizona scoffed. Her eyes narrowed competitively. "No way."
"Arizona," Callie whined.
"If you want to beat me, suck it up and get better."
"The whole 'pull yourself up by your bootstraps' thing is a lot less charming when it's directed at me."
"You'll thank me one day. When you don't suck."
Callie huffed and dropped her controller onto the couch, looking similar to an ill-behaved toddler. "You're so frustrating. I was the oldest, you know. I never had to actually try to beat Aria at stuff."
She was opening up about her own family increasingly often now, too, offering Arizona scraps of memories, just enough information that allowed her to piece together a vague understanding of her upbringing. "Whatever," Callie grumbled. "The chipmunks are thirsty."
Callie did this often: started a sentence mid-thought, her mind jumping six steps forward. It was as if the words in her head couldn't be contained any longer, like they needed to come soaring out of her pretty mouth right that minute or it would kill her. Arizona seemed to be the only person able to always follow her train of thought. She always, somehow, knew exactly what she meant.
Alvin, Simon, and Theodore were the three plants that Callie had kidnapped after finding them half-dead in Arizona's apartment. Arizona surrendered custody without much of a fight, with the only condition that she got to name them. They were displayed proudly in Callie's windowsill now, partially nursed back to health.
Arizona watched as Callie moved about her apartment, tending to the ivy like a doting mother. Her smile didn't fall until her back was to her.
It was killing Arizona. Killing her. They talked around it—him, Michael. It made her nauseous when she thought about it late at night, alone in her bed—Callie sharing private moments with someone else, Callie splayed out beneath him, moaning for him, Callie laughing at his jokes. Callie falling in love with him.
It made her fucking sick.
But it's what Callie wanted. It's what Callie asked of her, so Arizona would deliver. She knew on some level that it was her fault, that she deserved this sick purgatory—she'd been resistant and petulant and had kind of put Callie through hell. She deserved to sit in this for all the things she'd done and said. For the things she hadn't.
Mostly, she just wanted Callie to be happy. She protected the things she loved, and she loved Callie Torres, even if she'd been too stubborn to see it sooner. So she'd plaster on a stupid fake smile, and she'd act like she wasn't dying inside every time she was close to her. Arizona had always been good at that—hiding behind the glossiness of her natural disposition, the amiable mask that came with a cherubic face and dimples.
But God, she missed her. They didn't touch anymore. They kept a safe, respectful distance from one another. Arizona would catch the scent of her perfume in passing and think about it for the rest of the day.
She missed her the same way someone drowning remembers the air—desperately, regretfully, far too late.
"You're a killer," Callie teased, drawing Arizona out of her head. A laugh colored her voice as she finished up watering the last plant. "A cold-blooded killer. What did these poor plants do to you?"
"They're not dead, drama queen."
"They're pretty crispy."
"Maybe I like them like that."
"Right."
"Like I like my cookies. Thin and crispy," Arizona said, shoving her mouth full again.
Callie was suddenly next to her on the couch again. She reached for the box, prying it from Arizona's grasp. "I'm cutting you off. You're gonna make yourself sick."
Long, tan fingers brushed against Arizona's skin. They curled against the translucent underside of her wrist, and Arizona's heart leapt into the back of her throat, nearly strangling her. A shiver ran through her like a trickle of sunlight down her spine. The touch was barely there, featherlight. But Arizona felt it everywhere, like the echo of a song she hadn't heard in years. Her breath hitched, so softly, she prayed Callie didn't hear it.
"Whatever. Let's just play," she grumbled, withdrawing her hand as she turned her attention back to Mario Kart.
She counted to three before taking off this time. She let Callie come in first place.
Arizona loved the Fourth of July.
There was a certain sense of patriotism that had been drilled into her from a young age—coming from a long line of veterans will inevitably do that to a person. Her dad still proudly flew a flag out in the yard, its fabric faded from years of sun and wind. The sight of it always made something tighten in her chest, a mix of pride and an ache she never spoke about.
Colonel Daniel Robbins served in the United States Marine Corps for 31 years, with 10 years spent in special operations. He was highly honored and decorated, and an array of medals hung in a shadow box in the Robbins' living room for the entirety of Arizona's life.
Arizona remembered being a little girl, 4 or 5, and sitting on her dad's shoulders as he pointed to each one and explained its significance. Each one had a story, a memory, a moment in time her father had lived through but never quite left behind. She would listen intently, baby blues wide, as he recounted the most sensational stories to her and Tim, filled with danger and adventure. She and her brother would always reenact them later in the backyard, rolling around in mud with Nerf guns, toting around mosquito bites like badges of honor. Tim was always the fearless leader, charging ahead with reckless confidence. Arizona covered him from behind, quick and tactical, the way he told her real soldiers did it.
She could still hear his voice in her head, yelling for her to move, to flank left, to take the shot. And she could still hear his laugh, too—bright, carefree, untouched by the weight of the future.
But summers faded, childhood games gave way to real battles, and Tim went off to serve just like their father. He never came back.
A less evolved version of herself might have hated the Fourth of July, the reminder of all she had lost. It was memory and longing, pride and loss, tangled so tightly Arizona couldn't tell where one feeling ended and the other began.
Still, she celebrated. Because he would have. Because he'd want her to.
So when Teddy asked her to help plan an 'MD-pendence Day' celebration for the hospital, she threw herself into it, equal parts grateful for the distraction and heartened to give life to a holiday she loved.
Teddy's backyard smelled of freshly cut grass and chlorine, coconut sunscreen and bug spray, charcoal smoke and grilled meat. It had been baptized in patriotism, red white and blue decorating the lawn, the fences, the trees. The late afternoon sun bathed it all in gold, casting long, lazy shadows over the lucky guests that weren't on call that night, sprawled across lawn chairs and picnic blankets.
Cheap coolers littered the yard, filled with American beers and Twisted Teas and seltzers. Nurses and doctors and staff Arizona barely recognized dipped their hands into the ice to fish them out, resurfacing cold and wet, a welcome reprieve from the warm, honeyed air.
Mark manned the grill with all the self-importance of a man who took his cookout duties far too seriously, rationing out hot dogs and burgers on paper plates. April stalked the guests with a trash bag, holding it out with a squirrelly smile the second they were finished eating. Arizona heard Alex make fun of her and pushed his head under the water, then told him he was on clean up duty after the party when she finally let him up for air.
The party was, by all measures, a resounding success. The air hummed with easy laughter, rising over the crackle of old Springsteen songs and the rhythmic slosh of pool water.
Arizona was halfway through a conversation with Teddy when she felt it.
That familiar, instinctive pull, the way her body seemed to recognize Callie before her mind had even caught up. It was a strange, acute awareness, like feeling the shift in the atmosphere before a storm.
She turned before she could stop herself.
And there she was.
Callie walked through the gate, and a breeze caught at her long, dark hair. She was golden, her tan skin warm beneath the string lights that Teddy had hung earlier, her laugh bright even from a distance. She wore denim shorts and a white tank top, simple and effortless, but Arizona could already feel the way her throat tightened, the way her body betrayed her despite all the careful walls she'd built.
Michael was next to her. Tall and handsome and painfully boring.
Arizona forced herself to register his presence, to take in the way he walked beside Callie—too close, too easy, too much like he belonged there. He had a casual hand at her lower back, guiding her toward the drink table with a familiarity Arizona hated.
A slow, dull thrum settled in Arizona's chest, something between irritation and nausea. She lifted her beer and took a steady sip. Teddy said something next to her, but she didn't catch it. She was too busy watching as Callie looked up at Michael and smiled—a small, effortless thing, one Arizona used to think belonged to her.
"For the love of God, Arizona," Teddy's voice cut through the haze, sharp with exasperation.
Arizona blinked, her focus snapping back into place.
Teddy knew. Of course she knew. Arizona had spilled everything to her one drunken night a month ago, slurring out the story of the mountains, of laughter tangled in sheets, of the way Callie had looked at her like she was something worth holding onto—until she wasn't. She'd cried, actually cried, and Teddy, in her usual way, had just poured them both another drink and listened.
Now, Teddy's expression shifted from mildly irritated to nauseatingly sympathetic. "Don't you think it's time to… I don't know. Try getting back out there?"
But Arizona just shook her head. "It's her or nothing."
"But—"
"I can wait."
"Arizona…"
"Teddy," she snapped softly, stubbornly. "I'm not looking for her in other people. I know I wouldn't find it."
She didn't want to stop and think about whether her determination bordered on delusion. So she slapped her palms flat against the concrete poolside and pushed herself up and out of the water, letting the red bikini and beer already in her system guide her forward.
Water dripped from her skin as she approached the happy couple. "Calliope! You made it," she enthused. Her voice took on that airy, higher pitched lilt that she seemed to only get around Callie. "And Matthew. Welcome."
"Michael," he corrected, his smile tight with forced politeness.
"Right, right. Michael. Sorry," Arizona shrugged. She reached for a cold beer before Michael could, popping the cap off to hand over to Callie with a grin. "Wanna play cornhole? I'd love an excuse to kick your ass at yet another thing."
This made Callie laugh, which made Arizona laugh. "Oh, shut up. You haven't beat me that much."
"I beg to differ. Mario Kart, pool, staring contests…" Arizona let the words hang between them, her smirk slow and deliberate before she took a sip of her own beer. The wink, though—quick, subtle, entirely undeniable—was what nearly made Callie blush. "C'mon," Arizona coaxed, jerking her head towards the cornhole setup in the far side of the grass. "Let's settle this."
A few minutes of charm later, Arizona spun the bean bag in her hand, rolling it between her fingers like a pitcher about to strike out a batter. The corners of her mouth curled as she surveyed her opponents, her eyes flicking from Callie to Michael, then back to Callie.
"You sure you're ready for this, Matthew?" she asked, voice syrupy sweet.
Michael exhaled through his nose, the kind of forced breath that masked irritation, then bent to grab a bean bag. "It's Michael."
Arizona's dimpled grin didn't falter. "Right. That's what I said."
Teddy snorted beside her. "Can we get on with this? Some of us actually came to drink, not watch your little psychological warfare in action."
Callie stepped up next to Michael, beer in one hand. Arizona could see the outline of her fingertips silhouetting the condensation on the bottle. It made her think of the hundreds of times those fingers had been on her body. "You're going down, Robbins," Callie teased.
Arizona scoffed brazenly, lining up her shot. "Baby, I've been three steps ahead of you since the day we met."
Callie's eyes narrowed, just slightly. Not in annoyance, but in that way she always did when Arizona pushed the line just enough to make her feel something. Michael cleared his throat beside her, shifting his weight, and Arizona had to bite back a smirk.
Arizona released the bag with precision, watching it land perfectly on the board with a satisfying thud.
She whirled around, her damp blonde hair fanning out in the wind, and flashed her teeth, proud and arrogant and beautiful. "Hah. That's how it's done."
Michael said nothing, but his jaw tensed ever so slightly as he lined up his own throw.
His bag landed with a weak bounce off the board, hitting the grass with an unceremonious flop. Callie winced. "Close one."
"Not really," Arizona murmured, taking a sip of her beer.
Michael, to his credit, only sighed and rolled his shoulders back like he wasn't bothered. Callie patted his arm. "It's fine! It's just the first round."
Arizona's face scrunched. "Yeah, don't worry. You've got plenty of time to redeem yourself. Well, not plenty. But some."
Callie shot Arizona a look, eyes flashing at her subtly, a silent warning to behave. But it just made Arizona grin lazily. "Don't mind her. She's like this with everyone. A competitive psycho."
"Psycho, huh? I'm hurt," Arizona smirked, chucking a bean bag at Callie. It landed square in her chest, catching her by surprise. "Psycho with perfect aim, at least."
Brown eyes narrowed and then, all at once, Callie was moving, her strong arm wielding back to launch her own bean bag towards her in retaliation. Arizona shrieked out a laugh and took off, the game forgotten, weaving through the crowded party to escape. She kept glancing back over her shoulder, eyes bright, grin wide, daring Callie to catch her.
Michael watched, silent, unamused. With a sigh, he tossed his bean bag carelessly to the ground. His jaw shifted as he forced out a breath, grip tightening on his drink. "Short game."
Teddy snorted, not bothering to cover her amusement. "You'll have to get used to that. With those two, the world always kinda shrinks until they're the only two left in it."
Callie caught Arizona around the waist, and the sound of their laughter cut through the dull roar of the party. They twisted and struggled, a tangle of limbs, until Callie teetered them both over the edge of the pool. For a fleeting moment, Arizona's world tilted, until the water swallowed them, a rush of cool shock as they sunk into the deep end.
The sun had set, and the air had chilled. The sudden icy weightlessness left her momentarily disoriented, water pressing in on all sides. When she surfaced she was shivering, gasping, and Callie was already laughing, wading a few feet away, her dark hair slicked back, her eyes delighted and reckless. Her white tank top was soaked, clinging to her curves. Arizona forced herself to avert her gaze.
"I hate you," Arizona sputtered, breathless as she directed an ineffective splash towards her.
"Oh yeah?" Callie challenged, face colored with mischief as she swam closer. "Then why are you still here, huh?"
"It's my party. I should throw you out," Arizona laughed. The water rippled around her as she closed the distance, her hands resting on Callie's shoulders instinctively. Their bodies pressed together under the water, warming each other.
Fireworks popped in the distance, crackling like static, sizzling toward their inevitable end. Beneath it all was the constant hum of anticipation; the quick inhale before the explosion, the lingering fizz of embers dissolving into the dark. The air trembled with each detonation, a symphony of fleeting brilliance, loud enough to drown out everything else
Arizona let herself believe that, maybe, this could be enough. Existing in Callie's orbit could be enough. These fleeting moments—these blooming, aching bursts that stretched time—were worth whatever fated, beautiful end awaited.
Arizona slipped away from the party a little after midnight. Half of the guests had already gone home, and the other half were teetering on belligerent, scream-singing along to American Pie outside.
She had a towel wrapped around her, patterned with sand dollars and Venus combs and conch shells. She moved through Teddy's kitchen on autopilot, returning the leftover food to the fridge, stacking containers, shuffling things around. Packing, unpacking. Organizing, reorganizing. A quiet, mindless game of Tetris. Something to keep her hands busy, something to focus on other than the way her chest still felt tight.
"I see the way you look at her," a voice behind her said. She startled, nearly dropping the vegetable platter in her hands.
She looked over her shoulder at Michael and smiled. One of those instinctive smiles she often got that helped her convince the world she was a shiny, happy thing. "What?"
"You know what," he said. Not cruel, but alarmingly matter-of-fact. Her smile faltered. "I'm letting you know that I see it. And I get it, I do. Callie's incredible. But it's time for you to back off now."
Arizona rolled her shoulders back and turned to face him fully, letting the fridge close. She ignored the tightening behind her sternum. "I don't know what you're—"
"Just cut the act, alright?"
Arizona was quiet for a long stretch, the tension between them building uncomfortably. "She's my best friend."
"You're in love with her."
There was no malice there, just a stark, blunt truth that felt like strangulation to Arizona. She remained quiet.
"Listen," he said, stepping a fraction closer, his tone unnervingly measured. "I know you've got some weird history together. You seem pretty hell-bent on never letting go of that. But there's things that I can give her that you never could. She wants kids one day, you know that, right?"
Arizona barked out a laugh, dry and stripped of any humor. "You think that's enough? That a white picket fence and kids can just… erase me?"
"Maybe not. But I bet her family could. She can introduce me to her parents, repair what's been broken—"
"That's fucked," Arizona interrupted, eyes flashing briefly. "That will always be a part of who she is. With or without me."
"But that won't matter to her parents, will it? If she ends up with someone like me."
A man, Arizona realized, and her throat tightened. Because as much as she wanted to argue, she knew he was right. She knew Callie's most raw, open wound was that her parents had disowned her.
"You're selfish," Michael continued, and somehow, he still didn't sound hateful. He said it like he was reporting the weather or identifying a species of bird, like it was a fact that couldn't be disputed. "Don't you want her to be happy, Arizona? I can give her that. Happiness, stability—"
A bitter knot coiled in her chest. "Give her as much stability as you want. She'll still always, always, crave me."
Michael's lips curled into a pitying smile. Arizona wanted to claw it off his face. "I'm sure she will. But it's not about craving—it's about choosing," he said, pausing to study Arizona closely, observing her like a caged animal. "And she's chosen me. You need to accept that."
He plucked a carrot from the vegetable tray on the kitchen counter and turned to head back outside, to the party, to Callie. Arizona could hear her drunken laugh as the glass door slid open.
That carefree sound cut to the bone, to the very marrow in them, carving it out, leaving her hollow and floaty. She stood with her hands braced against the counter, solemn and still.
She was suddenly very tired, and she was very homesick.
As a child, home, to Arizona, had been something impermanent. Home was a new house every 18 months. Home was unpacked boxes and strange neighbors and walls without picture frames. It had been something unsentimental and wholly pragmatic—four walls and a place to sleep.
She'd envy the temporary friends she would make at her temporary schools, the ones who had been born and raised in the same house for their entire lives, who had their growth spurts etched into a door frame, who had taken both baby and prom portraits on the same carpet.
She realized, then, that Callie felt more like home to her than any house ever did.
And now that she knew what home felt like, she sure as hell wasn't letting it go that easily.
A/N: hi friends! I'm sorry it's been so long. Please let me know if there's still any interest in this story!