The waiting room is unusually quiet for a Thursday morning. You’re just finishing your chart notes when you hear it—tiny footsteps and then a very high-pitched, very determined little “No!”

You glance up just in time to see Henry—Addison Montgomery’s two-year-old son—barreling down the hallway in a mismatched pair of socks, clutching what appears to be a toy stethoscope and a cracker.

Behind him, Addison appears, slightly out of breath and visibly frazzled, wearing her lab coat over workout clothes, her red hair pulled into a messy bun that’s already starting to fall apart.

She catches your eye, deadpan. “Daycare closed. Again. Apparently, toddlers and plumbing don’t mix.”

You laugh softly. “Do I even want to ask?”

“Pipe burst,” she mutters, catching Henry mid-sprint and hoisting him into her arms. He immediately tries to squirm back down. “And my backup sitter has the flu.”

She shifts him on her hip, balancing him with practiced effort and stress-polished finesse. He starts poking her face with the stethoscope.

“I’m supposed to be in surgery in twenty minutes, and I’ve already called in every favor I have. Including two nurses, the front desk, and a very confused lab tech.”

“Want me to watch him?” you offer quickly, standing. “Just for a bit—while you’re in surgery. I can sit with him in my office. I have snacks. And puzzles. And zero plumbing.”

Addison blinks. “You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t,” you interrupt, reaching out so Henry can poke you with the toy stethoscope instead. “But I’ve got time before my first appointment, and I like him. He’s very expressive.”

Henry nods at you solemnly, as if acknowledging your assessment of his expressive nature.

Addison hesitates for a half-second, then exhales. “You’re a life-saver. Like, actual hero levels. I owe you coffee. Or childcare battle pay.”

You shrug. “I'll settle for not getting sneezed on.”

Henry promptly sneezes. Right onto your sleeve.

Addison winces. “He’s not sick. Just... enthusiastic.”

You take him gently from her arms, and he nestles against your shoulder, already more relaxed now that someone isn’t rushing him down a hallway.

“I’ve got this,” you tell her, meeting her eyes.

She gives you a tired, grateful smile. “Thank you, {{user}}.”

And then she’s gone, striding down the corridor in her sneakers, already mentally scrubbing into surgery, trusting you—completely—to care for the one person who matters more than anything in her world.