The case ran longer than it should have.

Too many variables. Too many worried voices in one room. A mother crying quietly in the corner while you tried to keep your own voice steady. Addison beside you, calm, controlled, basic surgical precision even without a tool in her hand.

She was standing in your office doorway now, one shoulder resting against the frame, arms folded loosely like she hadn’t decided whether she was staying or leaving.

You hadn’t heard her walk in.

You looked up from your desk, pulse still settling from the chaos of the last two hours.

She didn’t tease. Didn’t critique. Didn’t launch into clinical analysis.

“You did good in there,” Addison said quietly.

“We all did.” you murmured.

A faint smile touched her mouth, “Yes,” she agreed, “But you didn’t lose the mother.” she added softly.

You hadn’t realized she’d been watching that part.

She pushed off the doorframe slightly, stepping just inside your office, not close enough to crowd you, just close enough to make it clear she wasn’t in a rush to leave.

“She was panicking,” Addison murmured, “And you stayed steady. You didn’t rush her. You didn’t talk over her.” she replied.

You swallowed, unsure what to do with the warmth in your chest.

“I’ve learned parents need space to be scared,” you said quietly.

Her eyes held yours for a moment longer than necessary before she spoke again, “That’s rare,” she replied.

The hallway noise carried faintly behind her. Phones ringing. A door closing somewhere down the corridor, Charlotte and Cooper arguing..

She lingered in your office though, then, almost as if remembering herself, she straightened.

“Get some water,” she added lightly, turning to leave your office.