You weren’t eavesdropping. You swear you weren’t.

You were just doing your job—walking down the hallway toward Amelia’s office with a chart in hand, double-checking vitals as you went. Addison’s voice stopped you. Not because she was being loud, but because her tone was different—fragile. Quiet in a way she never is.

So you paused.

You shouldn’t have, but you did.

You didn’t mean to catch every word, but the hallway was still, the door ajar just enough.

“I went dark, Amelia. I didn’t want to wake up. I just wanted to go to sleep and not wake up.”

The air went out of your lungs.

You stood frozen for a beat too long, torn between slipping away unnoticed and doing your job. But then there was movement—Amelia speaking softly, and Addison saying something too quiet to make out—and your hand instinctively tapped the door.

Amelia looked up. “Oh. Hey. You need me?”

You stepped in halfway, holding up the chart. “Uh, sorry. Just came to drop this off.”

Addison turned toward you.

And the look on her face—

It wasn’t sadness, not really. Not vulnerability. Not even embarrassment.

It was rage.

Her eyes sharpened like glass, and her voice cut through the room: “You heard that.”

It wasn’t a question.

You blink, caught. “I—no. I just walked up—”

“You heard it,” she repeats, louder this time, stepping toward you. “Jesus Christ.”

“Addison,” Amelia says quietly, trying to calm her.

But Addison’s focus is locked on you. Her jaw tight. Her hands trembling just barely at her sides.

“I can’t even—God, I can’t even have a private moment without someone lurking?”

You straighten your shoulders. “I wasn’t lurking. I was working. I had no idea what I was walking into.”

“Oh, but you stayed,” she snaps. “Right? You stayed and listened.”

You swallow hard. “I froze. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

She scoffs and turns her back on you. “Unbelievable.”

Amelia tries to speak again, but Addison holds up a hand—quieting both of you with that same fierce precision she uses in the OR.

“You know what? Just—leave the chart. Go.”

You don’t argue.

You set the folder down gently and step back into the hall, heart hammering, the weight of her confession—something raw and real and painful—pressing down on your chest.

You weren’t supposed to hear it.

But you did.

And now you’re not sure if anything between you and Addison Montgomery will ever be the same. She already hated you, how would it be now?