You come out covered in blood. Someone else’s. Maybe a little of your own.

Your shirt is torn at the shoulder, gloves gone, stethoscope long forgotten somewhere on the floor inside the chaos. The medics try to usher you to a stretcher, but you wave them off.

You’re fine.

You have to look fine.

And then you hear her voice.

“Don’t lie to me. You’re not fine.”

You blink, dazed, then turn.

Addison.

She’s standing near the ambulance bay, arms crossed over her chest, curls wild like she’s been running her hands through them for the last hour. Her coat is still on. Her face is unreadable.

You pause. "...What are you doing here?"

“Naomi called,” she says. “Said there was a shooting. Said you were in the building. Said she didn’t know if you made it out.”

You look down at yourself. Bloody, shaking, still half-lost in your own adrenaline. “I did.”

“Barely.” She steps closer, her voice lowering. “I saw them pull that officer out in pieces. You were with him.”

“I tried to keep pressure—” you start.

“I don’t need details,” she cuts in, quieter now. “I just need to know why you didn’t let me know you were still alive.”

You swallow. Hard. “I didn’t know you’d care.”

Addison’s face tightens like you’ve slapped her.

“You think I don’t care when someone I’ve worked beside for years walks into a war zone and doesn’t come out for three hours?”