Sparks In Scrubs | Arizona Robbins X Reader

A helping hand

**Y/N's Perspective**

I was sitting on the couch, watching Arizona move around the kitchen. She was trying her best, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she gripped the spatula a little too tightly as she poked at whatever was sizzling in the pan. The smell of something burning reached my nose, and I winced, not wanting to say anything that might make her feel worse.

Cooking had never been Arizona's thing. She was a surgeon, not a chef, and she only cooked when she absolutely had to. Normally, that wasn't a problem-because cooking had always been my job. I loved it. The chopping, the mixing, the satisfaction of creating something delicious from scratch. But ever since the accident, even holding a spatula was difficult for me. My left hand just wasn't cooperating, and it was frustrating beyond belief.

Arizona muttered something under her breath as she tried to salvage whatever she was making. I watched as she tossed in some spices, probably too much judging by the way she hesitated afterwards. She wasn't used to this, and I could tell she was struggling, not just with the cooking but with the fact that she had to do it at all. It made me feel useless, sitting here, unable to help.

When she finally plated the food, she brought it over to the table, trying to hide the frustration on her face. "Dinner's ready," she said, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

I pushed myself up from the couch, and my body was still stiff from PT earlier that day. "Thanks, Arizona," I said, hoping she didn't notice the guilt in my voice. I wished I could do more. I wished I could take this burden off her shoulders, but right now, I was stuck, and it sucked.

As we sat down to eat, I decided that tomorrow, I was going to cook dinner. I didn't care how long it took or how hard it was-I needed to do something to feel like myself again.

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The afternoon sun streamed through the apartment windows as I watched Arizona leave for work. The guilt had been gnawing at me for days, and each time, I saw her struggling in the kitchen, trying to make something edible out of her limited culinary skills. Arizona hated cooking, but she did it without complaint because she had to. And that thought-knowing how much she despised it-was what pushed me to make a decision.

I couldn't just sit here any longer, feeling useless. I needed to do something, even if it was small. So I grabbed my purse, slipped on my shoes, and headed out the door. Today, I was going to cook dinner.

As I walked to the store, I mentally planned the meal. Something simple, something I knew how to make even with my current limitations. I decided on lemon herb chicken with roasted vegetables and a side of garlic mashed potatoes-easy enough, but still impressive considering the circumstances.

The walk to the store was longer than I remembered, each step reminding me of how much weaker I'd become since the accident. My left arm hung at my side, almost like dead weight, while my right arm worked overtime to make up for its inadequacies. By the time I arrived, I was already winded, but determination kept me going.

Navigating the aisles was a challenge, especially when I had to reach for ingredients on higher shelves. My right arm did its best, stretching and straining while my left arm barely contributed. The struggle was frustrating, but each item I added to the cart felt like a small victory.

Once I had everything I needed, I headed to the checkout. I could feel a sense of accomplishment blooming inside me as I placed the items on the conveyor belt. The cashier scanned my items, and I paid, feeling proud of myself for making it this far.

But then, as the cashier handed me the two bags, reality hit me like a cold splash of water. Each bag was heavier than I expected, and as I tried to lift them, my arms trembled with the effort. My right arm managed, but just barely. My left arm? It was practically useless, barely able to grip the handle, let alone carry any weight.