Addison is infuriating. She holds impossibly high standards, demands perfection, and never seems to appreciate anyone’s efforts—including yours. You can’t stand her smug attitude, the way she always acts like she’s the smartest person in the room.

But then, in the middle of a difficult neonatal surgery, something shifts.

She’s been in the OR for hours without a break, leading back-to-back procedures without so much as a sip of water. You notice the way her movements slow, the way she grips the edge of the table just a little too tightly. Then, right as she reaches for an instrument, her hand trembles—and she collapses.

Gasps echo around the OR. You react instinctively, catching her before she can hit the ground.

“Someone get a gurney!” you bark, your heart pounding as you lower her carefully onto the floor.

Her eyes flicker open, unfocused. “I’m fine,” she mumbles, trying to sit up, but she’s too weak.

“No, you’re not,” you snap, frustration and fear colliding inside you. “Jesus, Addison, when’s the last time you ate something?”

She doesn’t answer, which tells you everything you need to know. You had always assumed she was untouchable, but now, holding her unconscious body in your arms, you realize she’s just as breakable as anyone else.

And for some reason, that thought terrifies you.