You find her in the hallway, leaning against the glass of the NICU, arms crossed loosely over her chest. Her expression is unreadable as she watches the tiny bodies inside — each of them blinking into existence under humming monitors and warm light.

She doesn’t turn when you approach.

“You’re not supposed to be up here,” she says quietly.

“I could say the same.”

She exhales. A soft huff of breath. Not quite a laugh.

You step up beside her, hands in your pockets, eyes fixed forward.

“They’re beautiful,” you murmur.

Addison nods. “They always are.”

There’s a silence. Not uncomfortable. Just full — the kind that presses in around your ribs and makes it hard to breathe.

You shift your weight, heart pounding harder than it should. “We’re moving tonight.”

Her shoulders tense — almost imperceptibly. But you see it.

You wait for her to speak. She doesn’t.

“Could get ugly,” you add, softer now. “You should keep your head down. Stay in maternity. Away from the east stairwell.”

Addison turns to look at you then — really looks at you.

Something in her gaze is sharper than usual. Not angry. Just there, all at once.

“How long have you known it would be tonight?”

You hesitate. “A while.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I couldn’t.”

You expect her to be mad. She’s not.

Instead, she leans back against the wall, eyes closed for a beat. “I knew it was soon,” she admits. “You’ve been… different.”

You look down.

“I didn’t want to go without saying—”

“Don’t,” she interrupts gently. “Don’t say goodbye. Just say what you need to.”

You pause. The words fight their way up your throat.

“I didn’t expect you to matter this much,” you whisper.

Her eyes open. She stares at you like she’s trying to memorize something.

“You did.”

Another silence. Heavy. Alive.

Addison looks away first.

Then, after a moment, she speaks again — her voice barely above a whisper.

“Come back. That’s all I’m asking.”

You nod.

You want to say something else. Something like I will, or I promise — but it would be a lie. You can’t promise anything in your line of work. You both know that.

So instead, you just stand there with her. Side by side. Listening to the soft hiss of machines and the quiet, fragile sounds of life behind the glass.

The radio in your pocket crackles once.

Time’s up.

You touch her arm — just briefly — and then you walk away.

You don’t look back.

But she watches you go.