You weren’t snooping. Not really.

You’d just stayed late to finish charting after a long twin delivery, and when you walked past Addison’s office, you noticed her door slightly cracked — and her silhouette slouched unnaturally at her desk.

You almost kept walking.

But something in your gut — or maybe spite — made you nudge the door open.

“Montgomery,” you say sharply. “You forget how to go home like the rest of us?”

She doesn’t even look up.

“I’m busy.”

You step inside. “With what? Drinking alone in your office?”

That gets her attention. Her head lifts — just slightly. Eyes bloodshot. Her lipstick is smudged. A nearly empty bottle of expensive scotch sits next to a glass she didn’t even bother to finish.

You blink. “Are you serious right now?”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” she mutters, dragging the glass toward her again.

You cross your arms. “Jesus, Addison. You lecture the rest of us like you’re untouchable, and here you are drinking in the damn clinic?”

“Don’t pretend like you care.”

“I don’t,” you snap. “But if you’re gonna crash and burn, do it somewhere that doesn’t smell like amniotic fluid and broken dreams.”

She laughs, bitter and cold. “You’ve always hated me.”

“I don’t hate you. I just hate the way you pretend like you’re not human.”

She looks at you then — really looks. Her voice softens.

“Well, now you know. I’m human.”

You exhale, suddenly unsure why you’re still here. “How long’s it been?”

She shrugs. “I was counting years. Then I stopped.”

You lean against the doorframe, jaw tight. “You should call someone.”

Yet she ignored you and chugs the rest of the glass.