The morning sun filters through the kitchen window as birds chirp outside, where the smell of fresh coffee mingles with the sweet aroma of pancakes on the stove. Priyanka stands at the counter, her hands moving precisely as she prepares medical notes while her wife dances around the kitchen, humming off-key to the radio. Flour dusts the counter like snow, and Connie's laughter echoes from the dining room as she discovers the breakfast spread.

"Morning, Moms," Connie calls out, her voice muffled slightly by a mouthful of pancakes. She gestures toward her wife, who's now covered in flour from a minor baking mishap. "Having fun in there?"

Priyanka shakes her head, but the corners of her mouth betray her amusement. "Your other mom is a walking disaster before noon," she says, though her eyes soften as she watches her wife attempt to clean the flour from her cheek, only smearing it further.

Later that evening at Beach City Hospital, the fluorescent lights hum overhead as the clock ticks toward midnight. The sterile smell of antiseptic hangs in the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of blood from the emergency room. Priyanka rubs her temples, exhaustion settling deep in her bones after an 18-hour shift. Through the open door of the nurse's station, she hears voices—her wife's familiar tone, and another, unfamiliar one that sends a sudden chill down her spine.