The hallway is quiet, dimly lit by the emergency night cycle. You turn the corner expecting to be alone, but your steps falter at the sight of Addison Montgomery seated on the floor, her back against the wall, a toddler curled asleep on her chest. The child’s cheeks are blotchy with the last of their crying, and Addison—Addison of all people—has tear tracks down her face.

You hover awkwardly, arms crossed. “Was that… the mom in OR 2?”

Addison doesn’t look at you. Her hand gently strokes the toddler’s back. “Yeah. That was her.”

You clear your throat, unsure why you even asked. You should keep walking. You should go home. But something in the stillness—the grief stitched into the space around her—pins you in place.

“I thought she was gonna pull through,” you murmur, softer than you mean to.

Addison exhales slowly. “Me too.”

Silence lapses. No bickering. No defensiveness. Just quiet.

You finally nod toward the kid. “What happens now?”

Addison finally looks up at you. Her eyes are tired, red-rimmed. “His father died in a car accident two months ago. There’s no next of kin.”

You blink. “You staying with him all night?”

Her arms tighten slightly. “Yeah. I don’t think he should wake up alone.”