It starts with the coffee.

You usually drink it black, the bitterness a necessary jolt to get through the day. But today, you poured in too much sugar, stirring absentmindedly until it sloshed over the rim. The cup is still in your hand, untouched, when Addison slides into the seat across from you.

“You’re spiraling,” she says, voice low. Not an accusation—just an observation.

You exhale, staring at the coffee. “I’m fine.”

She doesn’t react to the lie, just watches you like a patient, assessing how much you can take before you break.

“I once worked 72 hours straight because I thought stopping would make everything worse,” she says, stretching her legs under the table until her knee bumps yours.

Your eyes flick to hers.

“I thought if I kept moving, I wouldn’t have to feel anything. Shockingly, that didn’t work.”

A humorless chuckle escapes you. “Let me guess. You crashed?”

“Spectacularly.” Addison tilts her head. “Woke up to Naomi shaking me because I fell asleep on an incubator.”

The image distracts you. You can picture it perfectly—Addison Montgomery, world-renowned surgeon, passed out in the NICU.

She exhales, tapping her nails against her cup. “I see the same look in your eyes. Like if you just keep going, maybe you can outrun it.”

The words land deeper than you’d like to admit. You drop your gaze. “What if stopping makes it worse?”

“It might,” she says. “At first. But you don’t have to stop alone.”

She nudges your cup closer. “Drink your coffee. And when your shift ends, I’m driving you home.”

You blink. “What?”

“You heard me,” she says simply. “You need sleep. You need real food. And you need someone who won’t let you drown in this.”

Her voice is steady, certain. And for the first time in days, you believe her.

Maybe you don’t have to outrun it. Maybe you just need someone to catch you.