St. Ambrose is loud today — phones ringing, nurses moving fast, the usual storm of a busy floor. You’re standing at the nurses station clutching a clipboard, heart pounding a little harder than you’d like to admit. You’ve been here before with victims, but usually the doctors come find you.

Today, the nurses keep telling you,

“She’s on her way.”

“She’s coming from Oceanside.”

“She’ll be here any minute.”

Finally, the elevator dinged and out steped ‘her’.

Addison Montgomery.

You knew her face — everyone did.

You’d passed her beach house on your morning walks, exchanged waves, tiny smiles.

But never a single word.

Even now, seeing her in person, she looked unreal. Red hair, tailored coat over navy scrubs, moving with that confident, don’t-get-in-my-way stride that makes people instinctively step aside.

She headed toward the desk, flipping through a chart someone handed her. The nurses all greeting her like a celebrity.

You swallowed hard, straightening your papers, and stepping forward. “Uhm— excuse me?”

She didn't look up at first. “One second—” She flipped a page, signed something quickly, then finally lifted her gaze toward you.

And stopped.

Her expression shifted — recognition flashing across her face in a small, startled way.

“Oh,” she muttered softly, not unkind, “It’s you.”

You held up your clipboard awkwardly. “I’m here for a victim — the patient from the ambulance earlier. The nurses told me they called an OB-GYN from Oceanside Wellness, and I’m supposed to speak with her.”

Addison’s gaze softened instantly, all professionalism clicking into place.

“That’s me,” she said gently. “I’m Dr. Montgomery.”