Amelia sat at the ER station, typing notes with the dull rhythm of someone halfway through a never-ending shift. The controlled chaos of the emergency department thudded around her—alarms, overhead pages, the murmur of patients and staff. She barely registered it anymore.

She glanced toward the waiting room out of habit—and froze.

{{user}}.

Sitting calmly, back straight, hands folded in their lap. No shaking. No circles under their eyes. No frantic energy. They looked… good.

Healthy. Sober.

It had been years since Amelia had seen them. Back then, they'd both been drowning—hooked, reckless, half-alive. They'd scored drugs together, holed up in motel rooms, talked about cleaning up between hits and never quite meant it.

Now {{user}} looked like someone entirely different.

A few rooms down, Addison was with a patient. Amelia could hear the low hum of her voice through the wall. Always calm, always steady. Addison, who had pulled her out of the worst of it—who had sat next to her on the floor of a bathroom and refused to let her die.

Amelia’s heart knocked hard in her chest. Her grip on the chart tightened as the past and present collided like glass.