It’s late. The hospital is quiet. You and Addison sit shoulder to shoulder on the floor of the OR locker room, both too tired to move, too full of unspoken feelings to go home.

Her voice breaks the silence first — low, quiet. “They’ll never tell our story right, you know.”

You glance at her. “What story?”

She breathes out a laugh. “Us. Whatever we are. Whatever this… is.” Her eyes flick to you, then away again. “They’ll say it was a phase. Or a mistake. Or just two women who got too close under too much pressure.”

You stare at the floor, something aching deep in your chest. “They don’t know us.”

Addison hums. “No. But history rarely does. History hates women who love like we do. It turns us into rumors. Warnings. Footnotes.”

You swallow. “But we’re not a mistake.”

She looks at you now. Really looks. “No,” she whispers. “We’re the only real thing I’ve had in years.”

There’s a long pause. You reach for her hand — tentative, careful — and she doesn’t flinch. Just twines her fingers with yours like it’s instinct.

“I don’t care if the world forgets us,” you say quietly. “As long as you remember.”

She leans her head against your shoulder. “I always will. Even if we burn. Even if no one ever writes our names beside each other.”

The fluorescent light above flickers softly. Outside the world keeps turning — but for one fragile, golden moment, there’s just you and her.

And that’s enough.