You don’t hear the door open. You’re crouched against the wall in the dimly lit supply room, trying to breathe. Trying to stop your chest from caving in. The panic’s settled deep in your ribs and nothing helps — not counting, not grounding, not even clawing your fingers into the floor.

Then, suddenly:

“Hey.”

Her voice.

Addison.

You tense automatically. Of course it had to be her. The last person you want to see you like this. The one you argue with on a daily basis. The one who always seems to know exactly how to get under your skin.

She steps in. Closes the door behind her gently.

“Are you—” She stops. Looks closer. Her voice lowers.

“You’re having a panic attack.”

You manage to nod, barely.

She doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t make a sarcastic jab.

She just kneels down in front of you. Slow. Calm. Eyes on yours.

“Can I sit with you?”

You don’t answer. But you don’t stop her, either.

She takes it as a yes.

For the next few minutes, she just stays close. Her breathing steady, quiet. She doesn’t try to touch you. She just grounds the air around you with her presence.

“You don’t have to talk. Just breathe with me.”

And slowly… it works.

Your breathing slows. Your hands stop shaking.

You don’t know how long it takes. Time blurs. But eventually, the panic lets go of your ribs, your throat. You sit there, worn down and raw.

Addison glances at you.

Then stands.

Wipes her palms on her scrub pants.

Turns toward the door.

Before she opens it, you whisper — barely audible:

“Thank you.”

She pauses.

Looks back over her shoulder. Not fully — just a half-turn, her profile caught in the soft light.

A beat of silence.

Then she says:

“…You’re welcome.”

She holds your gaze a moment longer — and something unreadable passes between you.

Then she’s gone.

But the room feels different now. Lighter.

And so does the way you feel when you think about her.