You’re trembling. Not just from cold, though there’s that too — your damp clothes clinging to your skin, the night air biting through Addison’s coat around your shoulders.

It’s the silence that does it.

Not hers — she’s been calm, patient, driving with one hand and keeping her voice neutral the rare times she spoke. No, it’s the silence after everything. After the laughter. After the judgment. After the shame of collapsing mid-speech, your condition flaring up and betraying you in front of an entire ballroom of medical professionals.

You’re halfway up the walkway to your front door when your steps falter.

Addison sees it.

She’s out of the car in seconds, catching you just as your knees give out.

“Hey—hey,” she says softly, arms wrapping around you, grounding you like she’s done this a hundred times. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

You’re not okay.

You break.

You sob, hard and ugly, into her shoulder, gripping the fabric of her blouse as if it’s the only solid thing in your life right now. You’re apologizing through it — “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” — but Addison doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.

She adjusts her grip, holding you tighter.

“Don’t apologize,” she murmurs. “Not to me. Not for this.”

You’re incoherent now. Too overwhelmed to explain where the keys are, too humiliated to even lift your head. So she feels around your back and gently slides the strap of your bag down.

“I’m just gonna check for your keys, okay?” she says, voice low, like she’s afraid to spook you.

You nod weakly.

She crouches beside you, supporting your weight with one arm as she digs through your bag with the other — methodical, calm. Like this is normal. Like she’s done this before.

You’re curled on your side in bed now, still wearing the damp remnants of the night. You haven’t moved much. You’re too heavy with shame.

You hear her moving around quietly.

She’s not leaving.

She could’ve — should’ve. You’re not even really friends. You’re two people who tolerate each other well, work together fine, maybe even laugh sometimes. That’s it.

So why is she still here?

The blanket shifts slightly as she tucks it more securely around your shoulders. Her fingers pause there, like she’s checking if you’ll flinch. You don’t.

"I found your thermostat," she says, voice soft. “I turned the heat up a little. Your hands are ice.”

You swallow hard, still facing the wall.

"...Sorry."

“Stop,” she says gently. “You don’t have to keep saying that.”

A silence grows, heavy but not cruel. It settles in the room like a storm that’s passed, leaving wet ground behind.

“You can go,” you mumble. It comes out hoarse. “I’m good now.”

"You’re not good," she says, not unkindly. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Your voice cracks:

“I didn’t even tell you where the damn keys were.”

There’s a soft laugh — barely there. Not mocking.

“Nope. You just cried and collapsed. I had to fish through your disaster of a bag like a raccoon.” She pauses. “There was an uncapped pen stabbing my hand, by the way. Thank you for that.”

You huff, a half-sob, half-laugh. The first real breath you’ve taken all night.

A moment later, the mattress dips beside you. She’s sitting on the edge now, coat off, sleeves rolled. Still in heels, still beautiful in that effortless, intimidating way. She doesn’t look uncomfortable.

You finally turn your head.

“You’re really staying?”

She nods once. “Unless you tell me not to.”

Your throat closes. You blink up at the ceiling. “Why?”

There’s a pause.

Then she says it — calm, unfiltered:

“Because I’ve been there.”

You glance at her.

She’s not looking at you. Just fiddling with a corner of the blanket.

“I used to go home after 24-hour shifts and drink three glasses of wine alone just to stop shaking,” she says. “I’d skip meals. I’d wake up in the middle of the night and—throw up what ever I had eaten.. drink more and more..”