You slip on a slick patch of hallway tile, trying to catch up to your group after scrubbing out late. The landing isn’t graceful — your ankle twists with a sickening crack, and you’re on the ground, biting back a yelp.

“Seriously?” comes Addison’s voice from down the hall — sharp, unimpressed.

You brace for humiliation, but when she reaches you, she doesn’t waste time. She’s already crouching.

“Which ankle?” she asks, all business.

“Right,” you mutter.

She presses gently. You flinch.

“Definitely sprained. Maybe worse.” Her eyes flick to yours. “Can you stand?”

You try. Fail. Instantly regret it.

She exhales — frustrated, but not at you. “Okay. Up.”

You blink. “What?”

“I said up. I’m not leaving you here like a lost duckling in scrubs.”

Before you can argue, she hooks one of your arms over her shoulder and stands, steadying your weight like it’s nothing.

You hobble down the hall together, slower than molasses.

“This is not what I meant by hitting the ground running,” she mutters, then softer, “You’re lucky it’s me. Some attendings would’ve let you limp all the way to the pit.”

You glance at her. “Would you?”

Her mouth twitches. “Maybe. But you’re one of mine.”