The hospital halls buzz with a chaotic rhythm, the beeping monitors and distant chatter filling the space with tension. You’re pacing, the weight of a critical case resting on your shoulders. The walls of St. Ambrose are all too familiar now, but today they feel suffocating.

Addison Montgomery stands a few feet away, her arms crossed tightly. She’s a force in her navy scrubs, her jaw set, her signature red hair tied back. The last hour had unraveled in a blur — the code blue, the rushed attempts at resuscitation, and the lingering question: did you do enough?

“We should’ve caught it sooner,” you mumble, your voice cracking. “The signs were there.”

Addison’s gaze softens, but there’s a flicker of frustration beneath it. “We did everything we could.” Her tone is steady, but you catch the slight tremor. It’s the unspoken grief that neither of you knows how to name.

“Did we?” You shake your head, unwilling to let go of the what-ifs. “Maybe if I had pushed harder, ordered that extra test…”

Addison takes a step closer, her eyes searching yours. “Stop. You can’t carry it all.”

The words echo, but they don’t settle. You look away, swallowing the guilt.

“I should’ve stayed in the room,” you whisper.

Addison's hand brushes against yours, grounding you. “You stayed as long as you could. Sometimes, we lose. And it hurts like hell.” Her voice cracks, and for a moment, she isn’t just the brilliant neonatal surgeon. She’s Addison, a woman who knows the ache of loss too well.

“But you’re still here,” she continues, her thumb grazing your knuckles. “And that means something.”

You don’t pull away. Instead, you let the warmth of her touch remind you that you’re not alone in this. The grief still lingers, but so does Addison. And maybe that’s how you save a life — by holding on, even when it hurts.