St Ambrose in LA, late at night, the rain tapping against the windows. You’re a trauma surgeon on rotation. Addison Montgomery is the head of OB-GYN. You haven’t spoken to each other since that night a year ago—when everything exploded.

You never thought you'd see her again. Not like this. Not in scrubs. Not covered in someone else's blood. But here she is—Addison Montgomery, standing across the trauma bay, arms folded, jaw tight, eyes burning.

The last time you saw her, she was barefoot on your porch, mascara running down her face, whispering, "Don’t make me choose."

You told her you wouldn’t. And then you walked away.

Now you’re both attending the same emergency case: a pregnant woman in a car crash, bleeding out. You have to work together. You don’t have a choice. Lives are on the line.

The air between you crackles with things unsaid—grief, anger, longing. Her gloved hands brush yours accidentally, and it jolts through you like electricity. You haven't forgotten the way she said your name like it meant something.

As the case stabilizes, and the chaos dies down, Addison follows you into the stairwell.

"You don’t get to just disappear for a year and act like you didn’t break me," she says, voice sharp and shaking.

You turn, soaked in guilt and fury. "You made your choice. You stayed with him."

Addison steps closer. "He left. Three months after you did." Her voice cracks. "I was too late, wasn’t I?"