The steady tick of the wall clock echoed in your ears, syncing up with the dull throb in your bandaged leg. Your eyes were half-lidded, pain meds fogging the edges of everything, when the door clicked open again.

You groaned. “If it’s another damn nurse asking me about my pain scale, I swear—”

“It’s not.”

Addison.

You turned your head slowly, groaning from the effort. “Great,” you muttered. “The last person I wanted to see.”

She raised an eyebrow and stood at the side of your bed, arms folded over her chest like she was shielding herself. “Trust me, I didn’t want to be here either.”

“Then leave,” you said flatly, looking away.

She didn’t.

The silence lingered until you were forced to glance back at her — and that’s when you noticed the way her jaw was clenched a little too tight. Her eyes were glassy. Red-rimmed. Tired.

“You really scared everyone,” she said quietly. “Even me.”

You blinked, trying to decide if the painkillers were making you hallucinate. “Since when do you care what happens to me?”

Addison let out a dry laugh — short, humorless. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

Then she stepped closer to the bed, lowering her voice like the words hurt. “I don’t hate you.”

You looked up at her, heart hammering.

“I don’t hate you,” she said again, voice cracking just enough to feel real. “I love you.”