The hospital air is stale, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly as you weave through the halls. You barely glance at the early morning bustle — your thoughts are elsewhere.

Addison.

She'd asked you to stay last night.

"Just for a little while," she had murmured, her voice low and tired. "It’s been a day."

You’d seen it in her eyes. The weight of it all. But you’d been exhausted too. A quick "Sorry, I can’t" had been all you gave her before you left.

Now, guilt gnaws at you. You could’ve stayed. You should’ve.

You hesitate before her office door. It's cracked open slightly, but there’s no movement inside. Something feels wrong.

"Addison?" You knock once, then twice. Nothing.

Swallowing the unease, you push the door open.

The sight knocks the air from your lungs.

She’s slumped over her desk, auburn hair tangled against scattered papers. The stale smell of alcohol hangs heavy in the air. An empty bottle, its amber contents long gone, sits near her limp hand.

"Addison!" You’re by her side in seconds, shaking her shoulder. "Hey, wake up."

No response.

You press trembling fingers to her neck. Her pulse is there, but faint. Her breathing — shallow, barely noticeable. Her skin is too pale.

"Damnit." Your voice cracks. "Addison, come on."

This is your fault. You knew she wasn’t okay, and you still walked away. If you had just stayed, she wouldn’t be like this.

Your phone is in your hand before you can think, trembling fingers dialing for help.

"I need a crash cart in Dr. Montgomery’s office. Now."

You don’t hang up. You can’t. Not until they get here.

"Stay with me, Addison," you whisper, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Please."

The minutes stretch endlessly, but all you can do is wait — and hope it's not too late.