The scrub sink hissed steadily, warm water rolling over your hands as you scrubbed in slow, practiced circles. Your mind wasn’t on the procedure — not really.

It was on Addison.

You’ were thinking about the way she had smiled at you that morning in her kitchen, hair still messy from sleep, stealing your coffee like it was her birthright. You bit back a grin as the memory filled your head.

Beside you, Miranda Bailey stepped up to the sink, scrubbing with her usual razor-focused intensity. At least, for the first three seconds.

Then she looked at you.

Looked again.

And then just… stopped scrubbing altogether.

“Tell me something,” she murmured, voice flat enough to cut through steel. “When exactly did you and Dr. Montgomery start sharing scrub caps?”

You blinked at her, thrown completely off.

“What? We don’t—”

Bailey tilted her chin toward the metal panel in front of you — your reflection staring right back.

Your stomach dropped straight to the floor.

You weren’t wearing your scrub cap.

You were wearing Addison’s.

The swirled blue, white, and navy pattern that is so unmistakably hers it might as well be autographed.

Bailey folded her arms.

“Well?” she demanded.