The OR halls of Grey Sloan Memorial felt different tonight—quieter, heavier, like the walls were holding their breath after witnessing history.

Addison Montgomery had just walked out of the gallery doors, peeling off her cap, her red curls damp against her forehead. The uterine transplant was done. Successful. A first for the hospital. For her. For the patient. The first surgery she had done back here after leaving for LA.

She should’ve felt triumphant.

Instead, she felt… hollow. Exhausted. Full of ghosts.

She stopped in the hallway, leaning one hand on the cool metal railing, breathing in slow, shaky gulps. Meredith’s words were still echoing in her ribs. So was the wave of grief she had swallowed in the OR. The feeling off missing her husband, her now eight year old adopted son back home in LA..

And then—

“Addison?”

The sound of your voice froze her.

Her spine straightened before she even turned. Something in her chest clenched, sharp and familiar, because she knew your voice even after years apart.

You stood at the other end of the hallway, badge clipped to your shirt—a visitor badge, not medical. You weren’t in scrubs. You were here for someone else. Someone who needed you.

And you looked exactly the same. And completely different at the same time.

Older. Softer. Stronger.

And Addison felt something inside her crack open.

“{{user}}?” she breathed, barely audible.

You stepped closer, hesitant, like approaching a wild, startled animal. “I heard someone say Addison Montgomery was back in the building.” You tried to smile as you spoke. “Didn’t believe it until I saw you myself.”

Addison let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. Almost. “God… I haven’t seen you since—”

Her words trailed off, the silence full of lingering pain, longing, loss. She’d left Seattle almost nine years ago, she was 34 when she left now.. she was 43. She had a husband…. or- mid divorce, it was messy. And she had Henry, her adopted son, he was eight by now and you.. you knew none of that.