The room smells like antiseptic and burnt adrenaline.

You’re lying in the hospital bed, skin pale under the fluorescent lights, IV running into your arm, bruises blooming across your ribs. You’re alive—barely.

The door slams open.

It’s Addison.

Still in her scrubs, hair messy, face flushed. She’s livid.

“You absolute idiot,” she snaps, stalking across the room. “What the hell were you thinking?”

You blink at her, your head still foggy. “Good to see you too.”

“No. No jokes right now.” She stops at your bedside, arms crossed tightly over her chest like she’s holding herself together by force. “You ran into a collapsing building. Without backup. Without gear. For what?”

“There was a kid inside,” you murmur.

“I know there was a kid inside. And now there’s a detective in the hospital too.”

You glance away, jaw tightening. “The kid’s alive.”

Addison’s voice cracks. “And you nearly weren’t.”

Silence.

You watch her, stunned. You didn’t think she cared. You barely talk outside of work.

Her eyes are glassy now. Her voice lowers. “You don’t get to die like that, okay? You don’t get to throw yourself away.”

Your throat tightens. “I didn’t think you’d—”

“Well I do,” she cuts in. “I care. And I’m so goddamn tired of pretending I don’t.”

You stare at her.

She stares back.

Neither of you says anything for a moment.

Then she exhales shakily, drops into the chair beside your bed, and covers her face with her hands.

“You scared me,” she says quietly. “Don’t do that again.”