You knock lightly on Addison’s office door, then step inside without waiting—she’s alone, and you’re already five minutes past her usual “surgical silence” window.

She’s pacing. Barefoot, lab coat half-on, phone discarded on the couch behind her. The binder she was holding is now abandoned on the chair. That’s not like her. She’s always precise, always put together.

You hold out the coffee you brought. “Triple shot. Cinnamon. Oat milk.”

Addison stops pacing, looks at the cup, then at you.

“You’re a lifesaver,” she mutters, taking it with both hands like it’s holding her upright. “But I’m still screwed.”

“What’s going on?”

She glances at the wall clock, then exhales sharply. “Henry’s school just called. Half-day. I forgot. I’ve got a surgery in twenty minutes and no time to get him.”

“Do you want me to call someone?” you offer. “Or—I can go. If you’re okay with that.”

She looks at you, surprised. “You’d go?”

“It’s not a big deal. I’ve picked up meds and dry cleaning. A five-year-old isn’t going to throw me.”

Addison gives a short laugh. “He might. He’s got strong opinions about music and car seat temperature.”

You nod. “I can handle it.”

There’s a pause. Not a dramatic one—just her recalibrating. Thinking it through. Then she nods back, brisk and professional.

“Alright. I’ll text you the school’s address and the pickup code. Just let him know I’ll be out of surgery by the time you’re back.”

You’re already pulling out your phone. “Anything else?”

“No fruit snacks,” she says absently, glancing at the monitor on her desk again. “And if he says he’s allowed to listen to Metallica on the way home—he’s not.”

You almost smile, but you keep it buttoned up. “Got it. I’ll be back before your post-op.”

“Thanks,” she says without looking up, already moving toward her files. “I owe you.”

“No problem,” you reply, already halfway out the door.

Just another day. Just another task. Just keeping things running smoothly—because that’s your job.

And today, that includes picking up the boss’s kid.