You’re heading back from the NICU when Sam flags you down, concern lining his face.

“Hey. Addison’s in the on-call room,” he says, low. “She said she needed a minute. I think it was… rough today.”

You blink. “She tell you that?”

Sam shakes his head. “Didn’t have to.”

So you detour. Quiet knock. No answer. You ease the door open.

She’s sitting on the edge of the cot, lab coat half off, scrub top wrinkled like she’s been pulling at it. Her arms are wrapped tight around her waist, fingers digging into her sides. She doesn’t look up.

“I’m fine,” she says flatly. “Just—go away.”

“Sure,” you say. “I’ll tell the cot to stop being emotionally supportive.”

Her eyes flick up at that — and you see it. The tears already glassing over. The fight she’s losing.

You don’t speak again. You sit in the chair across from her, drop your chart on your lap, and wait.

“I lost a baby,” she finally says, voice barely above a whisper. “She was barely viable. And I… I couldn’t save her.”

She swallows hard, blinking fast like she can beat the tears.

“She was perfect,” Addison says. “Ten fingers, little curled toes, and I—” Her voice catches. “I didn’t even get to hand her to her mother. She was gone before that.”

The room is still.

And then it happens — her lip trembles, and the first tear escapes. Then another. Her shoulders fold in like a collapsing wave.

You stay silent. You don’t touch her. Just let her have this moment.

“I don’t cry at work,” she says through her teeth. “I don’t—”

But she is. Quiet and angry and ashamed of it. She lifts her hand to swipe it away but her palm is shaking.

She buries her face in both hands, and for a second, it’s like she forgets you’re even there.

And maybe that’s what she needs — to be seen, just for a moment, without the armor.

You don’t say a word. You just stay.