You knew it was going to be a bad day the second you woke up.

Your knees cracked before your feet even touched the floor. Your hands trembled trying to zip your jacket. By the time you got home from the hospital, the cold had settled into your bones like cement.

You didn’t expect Addison to show up.

You’re curled under three blankets, heating pad long since gone cold, trying not to cry from how badly your hips hurt — when you hear the knock. A soft rap, but persistent.

“Go away,” you mutter, barely loud enough.

“Not a chance,” Addison calls from the hallway. “I know you’re in there, and if you don’t open up, I’ll pick the lock. You know I’ve done it before.”

You groan, crawl to the door, and crack it open.

She’s holding a grocery bag in one hand and a duffle bag in the other. Her eyes sweep over you — swollen fingers, sunken posture, the pale look you get when your body’s on strike.

“You’re flaring,” she says simply.

“I’m fine.”

She doesn’t even answer. Just nudges past you and heads straight for the kitchen. Within minutes, she’s got your heating pad warming, tea on the stove, and two pillows under your knees before you can protest.