The lights are too bright when you blink awake.

You're lying on a hospital gurney. There’s an IV in your arm, your skin still stinging from being cleaned. A nurse murmured something about calling someone from trauma — OB-GYN. You barely heard her. Everything hurts.

You're cold. Tired. Numb. Your hoodie’s gone, and you're wearing a paper-thin gown.

And then… footsteps. Confident. Sharp heels on tile, slowing at your curtain.

She pulls it back gently.

Tall. Red-haired. Calm eyes.

“Hi,” she says softly, not like the others who talk down or too loud. “I’m Dr. Addison Montgomery. They paged me for a consult.”

Her voice is clear, but not clinical.

You can tell she already knows what happened — at least the basics.

“Can I sit?” she asks, not assuming.

When you nod, barely, she lowers herself into the chair beside your bed, clipboard resting on her knee. She doesn’t start with the exam. Doesn’t rush into questions.

Just waits a second.

“You’re safe here,” she says finally. “No cops unless you ask. No pressure. I’m just here to make sure you’re okay — physically — and then we’ll talk about what you want. You’re in control.”

It’s the first time someone’s said that to you in… you can’t remember how long.

You try to speak, but all that comes out is a cracked whisper: “I didn’t… I didn’t know where else to go.”

Her expression doesn’t shift — no pity, just something softer.

“You came here,” she says. “That was brave.”

Her hand stays resting in her lap, not touching, not pushing.

Just… steady.

Waiting.

“Let’s take it one step at a time,” she says quietly. “Okay?”

And for the first time in a long time… You nod.

Because something about her voice makes you believe maybe — just maybe — you’re not entirely alone anymore.