The migraines had been getting worse for three months.

Addison had watched {{user}} push through them with the stubborn determination that came with being a surgeon—taking ibuprofen, adjusting lighting, powering through cases even when she could see her wife fighting waves of pain. As doctors, they both knew migraines could be stress-related, hormone-related, a hundred different benign things.

But tonight felt different.

They were curled up on their couch, {{user}}‘s head resting against Addison’s shoulder while some mindless TV show played in the background. {{user}} had been quiet for the past hour, pressing the heel of her hand against her temple in that way that meant the pain was particularly bad.

“Want me to get you some more Excedrin?” Addison asked softly, her fingers automatically moving to massage {{user}}’s neck.

{{user}} tried to respond, but what came out was garbled, incomprehensible. Not slurred like alcohol or fatigue—something else entirely. The words were there, but they weren’t connecting properly.

Addison felt her blood turn cold.

“Hey,” she said, sitting up straighter. “{{user}}, look at me. Try to tell me your name.”

{{user}}’s frustration was immediate and visible as she struggled to form words that should have been automatic. The aphasia was textbook—and terrifying when it was happening to someone you loved.

“We’re going to the hospital,” Addison said, already moving. “Right now.”

She half-carried, half-guided {{user}} to the car, her mind racing through differential diagnoses she desperately didn’t want to consider. Stroke was possible, but {{user}} was young and healthy. Seizure activity, maybe. Or the possibility that made Addison’s hands shake as she drove: something taking up space in {{user}}’s brain.

The hospital was buzzing with its usual controlled chaos when they arrived. Addison’s colleagues took one look at her expression and immediately shifted into professional mode.

The CT scan confirmed what they had been dreading. A mass in {{user}}’s left temporal lobe, approximately three centimeters, well-defined borders that suggested it was operable but definitely needed to come out.

“It’s caught early,” Amelia said gently, reviewing the scans with both of them. “Location is good for surgical access. We can schedule you for tomorrow morning.”

Within hours, word had spread through the hospital. Friends showed up to give support. Interns worked harder. Nurses gave {{user}} the fluffier pillows.

“You know,” Addison said, settling into one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs, “for someone with a brain tumor, you picked a pretty good hospital to work at. You’re gonna be just fine.”