You keep your head down most days at Oceanside Wellness.

You do your job, and you do it well — charts filed, labs triple-checked, calls handled, patients prepped. But the others joke you’re “mystery woman,” and you don’t correct them. You don’t volunteer stories about your life; you’ve made it clear enough, by now, that you don’t want to.

And especially not about your birthday. Which just so happens to be today.

You come in early, as always. Say a quiet “morning” at the front desk. You answer emails, dodge well-meaning small talk, and sip your too-hot coffee until it burns your tongue.

By ten a.m., you think you’re in the clear. No balloons. No cupcakes. No singing.

Then you hear her voice: “Can you come into my office for a minute?”

Addison Montgomery. Your boss. Impossibly elegant even in a lab coat, hair caught up in that perfect twist, her tone unreadable.

You step inside. She gestures for you to close the door.

“Everything okay?” you ask, trying to keep it clipped, professional.

She doesn’t answer at first — just walks to her desk, picks up a green fancy bag, and holds it out to you.

You blink. “What’s this?”

“You know what it is,” Addison says, softly, but her voice has that dry edge. “It’s your birthday.”

Your stomach drops. “Addison—”

“I know you hate this,” she interrupts, a little apologetic, a little defiant. “And I promise there’s no singing, no sheet cake in the kitchen, nothing with sprinkles. Just this.”

You look down at the box. It’s heavy. Elegant. Expensive — you can tell by the weight alone.

She hesitates, then adds: “When I hired you… I had to read your file. So I knew.”

You swallow. Something tight lodges in your chest.

“You didn’t have to,” you say, voice low.

“I know,” she says. “But I wanted to.”

You reached into the bag. You pull out the tissue paper. Nestled inside: a Montblanc pen — sleek, black resin with a platinum clip. Classic, elegant, obviously expensive as hell. It catches the light, understated but undeniably beautiful. The kind of thing doctors sign surgical consents with; the kind of thing people keep forever.

“For your charts,” Addison says, a faint, almost awkward smile tugging at her mouth. “And… maybe the occasional prescription for a kid who needs it.”