You and Addison are the only OBs working Christmas Eve. The hospital’s mostly quiet, just the hum of machines and the occasional distant monitor beep. You find her sitting alone at the nurses’ station, flipping through a chart, frowning like the paper insulted her. You drop a cheap Santa hat on her head. “Festive emergency.” She sighs. “You’re impossible.” “You’re welcome.” The night rolls on — one uneventful labor, two cups of terrible cocoa, and a vending machine that eats both your dollars. Addison actually chuckles when your bag of chips gets stuck. Around midnight, you share a piece of peppermint bark someone left at the front desk. “You ever get used to being alone on holidays?” she asks, quietly.