The music is loud, the bass thrumming through your body as you sway to the beat, a stranger’s hands firm on your waist. You don’t even know his name—don’t care to. It’s easier like this.

Across the bar, your friends are watching. They aren’t saying anything, but you can feel their eyes on you. Addison, especially. Her gaze is heavy, unblinking.

You’ve been off lately, and everyone knows it. Late to work, distracted in surgeries, missing charts and forgetting names—things you never used to do. They’ve noticed, but no one has confronted you. Maybe they’re waiting for you to come to them, or maybe they just don’t know what to say.

Still, they’re watching. Naomi, frowning into her wine glass. Sam, sighing every time you laugh a little too hard at something the guy whispers in your ear. Violet looks like she’s analyzing you, running through a dozen psychological theories in her head. Pete and Cooper exchange a glance, like they’re debating whether to intervene. Even Charlotte, who never meddles in things that aren’t her business, looks like she might actually care.

But Addison—she’s the worst of them all. She hasn’t touched her drink, hasn’t looked away once. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t come over, doesn’t pull you aside. She just watches, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes dark with something you can’t quite name.

You don’t give her the chance to say anything. When the guy leans in and murmurs, “Wanna get out of here?” you nod, ignoring the weight of Addison’s stare.

You don’t look back as you leave. But you know she’s still watching.