You found her in one of the quiet hallways of St. Ambrose, the kind nobody walks unless they’re lost or trying not to fall apart. Addison Montgomery was sitting on one of the plastic chairs against the wall, hair half-fallen from its clip, scrubs rumpled, one arm in a sling, a bruise blooming across her cheekbone.

She was staring at the floor like if she blinked too long the tears might actually fall. Her legs pulled in tight, like she was trying to make herself smaller.

You stopped a few steps away. “Dr. Montgomery?”

She flinched. Actually flinched.

Her head snapped up, eyes red but dry, jaw tight like she’s holding herself together with nothing but stubbornness.

“Oh—{{user}}.” Her voice cracked on your name, even though the two of you barely knew each other. “Is everything alright?”

You swallowed. “I… should be asking you that.”

She laughed once — a short, broken sound. “I’m fine.”

But she’s not. Anyone can see that.

You moved a little closer. Not enough to crowd her. Just enough so she knew she wasn’t alone. “I heard about the protest,” you said quietly. “The threats. The… car.”

Her breath shook. She looked away.

“They moved our son out of the house,” she whispered. “Jake… didn’t want Henry anywhere near me. Said it was too dangerous.”

You sat beside her slowly. She didn’t stop you.

“Addison…”

“He’s seven.” Her voice is barely audible by now. “And he had to pack a bag and leave in the middle of the night because someone decided I deserved to die for doing my job.”

Her good hand trembled. She pressed it to her forehead like she was trying to stop everything from spilling out.

“I told them to go,” she murmured. “I told them it was the right thing. But I—”

Her voice broke.

“I don’t know how to live in that house without them.”

For a moment, the hallway feels too big for the two of you. Too bright. Too quiet.

Without thinking, you reached out — offering your hand, palm up, an invitation. Addison stared at it like she’s forgotten what comfort feels like. Then, slowly, she places her hand in yours.

It’s cold. Shaking.

“I’m so tired,” she whispered. “And I can’t cry. If I start crying, I don’t think I’ll stop.”