You’re sitting at the front desk, elbow-deep in charts, hair tucked back as usual. A pencil sits between your teeth. Your tongue pokes at your lip piercing while your eyes scan a patient’s file. It’s quiet — just you and the shuffle of papers.

Until it isn’t.

Addison slams the nurses’ station clipboard down in front of you. You flinch slightly.

“What the hell is that?” she demands, pointing.

You blink. “What is what?”

She glares. “That.” She jabs toward your ear. “The tattoo.”

You touch it out of reflex, fingertips brushing the small firefly inked inside your lobe. “...It’s a firefly.”

Her laugh is sharp. Cold. “Yeah, no shit.”

You’re still confused. “Is it—against dress code to have one?”

“That’s not the point,” she snaps. “God, you think you’re so clever. You sit here with your piercings and your quiet little ink and your know-it-all attitude like you belong here—like you own this job. And that,” she says, pointing again at your ear, her voice cracking just slightly, “that’s not some edgy little design. That’s his.”

Your stomach twists. “Whose?”

“Dell’s,” she bites out. “He had a firefly. On his ribs. He said they reminded him of his kid. Of second chances. Of light even when everything felt dark.”

Your lips part, stunned. You had no idea.

Addison laughs again, bitter this time. “And now you sit here with it on your ear like it means something. Like you understand any of it.”