You’re lying on Addison’s couch with your leg propped up and your arm in a soft brace. Again.

Addison walks in from the kitchen, tossing you a Gatorade and raising an eyebrow. “What did you dislocate this time?”

You groan. “Left shoulder. I yawned. I literally yawned, Addison.”

She snorts, but there’s nothing mocking about it. “Your body defies medical logic.”

“Tell me about it,” you mutter, unscrewing the drink cap with your right hand. “It’s like my joints unionized against me.”

Addison sits down at your feet, gently adjusting your brace. Her touch is practiced—firm but careful. She’s done this more times than either of you can count.

“You’re lucky I like weird anatomy,” she says, but her voice softens after. “And that I’m your best friend. Otherwise, I’d start charging you for all this medical attention.”

“You love me,” you smirk.

She smirks back. “I put up with you. Big difference.”