The lecture room was buzzing with quiet excitement, the hum of med students on the cusp of something new.
"Welcome to your second year," Dr Richard Webber began, voice steady and clear, drawing the class to attention. "This is where medicine becomes real. Where theory meets blood and bone, pain and pressure. You'll be working in the hospital, with real patients, under real attendings who will expect real results."
A few nervous murmurs scattered through the rows.
Addison sat near the front, one hand curled lightly to her lips in thought, eyes narrowed with focus. Her other hand rested on the armrest between her and Derek— their pinkies hooked together in a subtle link.
Some shuffling from behind, then a whisper:
"Did I miss it?"
Mark dropped into the seat behind them like he'd always been there, nonchalant and grinning, hair slightly wind-tossed, energy loud even when he whispered.
Addison flicked her eyes sideways, slow and unimpressed. She shushed him with sharp precision, then cast a look over her shoulder—glasses perched low, brow furrowed in perfect academic scolding.
Mark grinned wider. He held a coffee just under her nose.
She eyed it. Top to bottom. Deliberate.
A beat passed.
Then—"Fine."
She plucked it from his hand and turned back to the front of the lecture hall, like nothing had happened.
Mark leaned in behind them, smug. "See? I know the way to her heart."
Derek chuckled under his breath, head tipping back against the seat. "Bribing her before 9 am. Bold move."
"Thank you, Sloan," Dr. Webber spoke up from the front of the room, firmly unimpressed. "Shepherd."
Mark straightened like a kid caught passing notes. Derek snapped forward in his seat. Addison took a long sip of coffee to hide her laugh, shoulders shaking just slightly.
"Some of you will thrive," Webber continued, raising a knowing brow. "Some of you will panic. Many of you will discover that you don't yet know as much as you thought you did." He let the words settle for a beat before offering a dry smile. "And that's perfectly alright. As long as you show up. As long as you try. Respect your attendings. Listen to your residents. And, if you're on general surgery…" His eyes sharpened with faint amusement, "…you'll have me. So do try not to screw it up."
Webber gestured, and a TA began passing out rotation schedules. A ripple of energy moved through the room as everyone craned for a look at the lists. Papers fluttered. Pens clicked. Conversations buzzed.
Addison glanced down at hers.
Internal Medicine.
A warm smile spread across her face. She elbowed Derek lightly, then looked at his.
Derek's eyes widened.
"Neuro," he breathed.
Addison grinned. She rubbed his arm, eyes sparkling. "Of course you did."
Naomi, sitting in front, twisted around to face them. "Family medicine," she said, lifting her sheet. "But look at my rotation group. I got stuck with this guy." She nodded toward Mark.
Mark put a hand to his chest. "I'm an excellent partner. My bedside manner is practically award-winning."
"Your bedside manner belongs in HR training," Naomi shot back, grinning.
"Some patients like charm," Mark replied, entirely unbothered.
Derek leaned in slightly, eyes on Sam. "What did you get?"
Sam turned around slowly, a frightened look on his face as he lifted his sheet with two fingers.
General Medicine.
Mark laughed, leaning forward over the seat. "The big guy himself."
"Let's hope I can keep up." Sam smiled, then took a puff from his inhaler.
The chatter dispersed, and Dr. Webber cleared his throat from the front of the room. "You'll be in this department for six weeks. After that, you rotate again. All year long, every six weeks, new specialty. By the end of each block, you'll sit a bench exam." He let that land for a moment. "Everything counts. Every rotation matters."
The energy in the room shifted—excited, yes, but sharp now, ready.
"Show up early, listen more than you speak, and most importantly—respect the work, and the people who do it," Webber said. Then his voice softened, just a touch. "You're here because you earned it. Now go prove it."
The hospital locker room buzzed with energy—half-laughter, half-nerves. Metal doors clanged open and shut as second-years crammed into the narrow space, exchanging names, comparing rotations, tugging on scrubs that still felt a bit too crisp.
Addison stood by her new locker, pulling her hair back into a tight ponytail. She slipped into her scrub top, smoothing it down. For a brief second, she caught her reflection in the small mirror. She looked… like a doctor. Not pretending. Not practicing. Real.
Naomi came up beside her, adjusting her ID badge. "Look at us," she said, grinning. "All grown up and about to be elbow-deep in real patients."
Mark walked by, a low whistle as he looked them over. "You know, if I'd known scrubs made everyone this hot, I would've started wearing them to bars."
Addison laughed. "You'd still get slapped."
"Worth it," he winked.
Addison rolled her eyes, but smiled.
Derek emerged, tucking a pen into his chest pocket. When he saw Addison, he stopped for just a beat. "Hey," he said, softer than the noise around them. His eyes flicked down, taking her in.
"Scrubs suit you," Addison smiled, straightening his collar.
"You too," he murmured. "You look like you've been working here for years."
Mark walked by again, sweeping a hand between them. "Okay, lovebirds, save it for after rounds. Some of us are trying to pretend we're professionals."
Addison laughed and reached for her stethoscope, looping it around her neck with practiced ease. She caught Derek's eye one more time before they filed out.
The internal medicine ward smelled like disinfectant and stale coffee. Everything buzzed under fluorescent light—the whirr of machines, the shuffle of shoes, the low murmur of doctors and nurses negotiating around patients' beds.
Addison stood at the edge of the nurse's station in fresh scrubs, still creased at the sleeves. Clipboard in hand, she looked alert—eager, even. The gleam in her eyes hadn't yet dulled from the weight of the floor.
There were four of them in the clinical rotation group: Addison, Priya, Nathan, and Jeremy. They stood in a loose semicircle as their attending emerged from a side hallway with a cup of coffee.
"Dr. Renner," Priya offered with a smile. "We're excited to—"
"Let's skip the small talk," he cut in, sweeping a sharp look over the group. "I have no interest in holding hands. Observe. Absorb. Stay out of the way. Speak when spoken to. Follow when told. Don't slow me down."
Addison straightened, spine locking into place. Efficient. Blunt. Not here to play. Fine.
Then his eyes landed on her. Something flickered—recognition? Disdain?
"Montgomery," he said, dragging her name like it left a bad taste. "Try not to coast."
Her jaw tightened. "Wouldn't dream of it, sir."
He turned without responding. "Let's move."
The morning blurred into a rhythm of rounding and clipped instructions. Renner quizzed Nathan on cardiac enzymes, Priya on imaging protocols. When Addison answered—clear, correct, without hesitation—he ignored it. When Jeremy misstepped on treatment options, Addison gently offered a correction.
Renner didn't look at her. "Good effort, Jeremy."
Addison blinked. Seriously?
By midday, the delegation began.
"Nathan, follow Dr. Kwan on the lung mass consult. Priya, go observe the GI scope with Dr. Levin."
Then, to Addison: "You can pick up the imaging results for Bed 5A. We're low on suture kits—grab more from the supply closet at the end of the hall."
"Of course, sir." She offered a mild smile. "I live to serve."
The sarcasm was feather-light, automatic. She turned before he could reply.
She wasn't going to beg for a seat at the table. She'd set the table herself, if she had to.
Downstairs, the records clerk—a gray-haired woman named Rosie—gave her a kind smile.
"New?" she asked.
"Is it that obvious?" Addison leaned lightly on the counter.
"They make every new med student feel like they don't belong the first week," Rosie said. "Don't take it personally."
Addison gave a practiced smile. "I'll try."
While she waited, she asked about archived scans and the cross-referencing system between labs and imaging. Rosie, pleased to be asked, explained in detail. Addison listened, took notes, absorbed everything.
Then came the supply closet—gauze, kits, gloves—and back upstairs, arms full. On the way, she stopped a nurse she recognized from rounds.
"What's the story with the troponin in 5A?" Addison asked. "No ischemia on ECG—could it be stress-related?"
The nurse, Mags, looked her over, half surprised. "Sharp eye."
"Trying to keep it sharp," Addison said, smiling. "Even if I'm just the errand kid right now."
Back on the ward, she dropped off the requested reports and supplies—plus a few extras he hadn't asked for, just in case. She placed everything neatly on the desk.
"Imaging results, suture kits, and since I was there, the updated labs for Bed 2B. Elevated creatinine—you might want to take a look."
Renner didn't glance up. "Put it with the others."
She did. Then quietly took her place at the back of the group.
He kept brushing past her. Kept not seeing her. She wasn't sure why—only that he did. But her eyes stayed sharp, her focus honed. She would learn from every hallway, every nurse, every gap in the system.
Addison stood just inside the cafeteria doors, scanning for a familiar face, and her heart lifted the moment she spotted Derek, at a table near the vending machines. He waved her over with one hand, still half-scanning the papers spread out in front of him.
"Hey, Addie," he smiled, sliding his chair back slightly so she could perch on the edge of the table.
She leaned down and gave him a quick kiss. "You look like someone handed you a brain in a box."
He laughed. "Close. We got to observe an fMRI sequence tracking motor neuron decay in real time — real ALS case. My attending said I had a good eye for cortical atrophy." Derek beamed at her as he stood. "He said he wants to walk me through it again this afternoon, so I gotta head back."
"That's amazing," Addison said, meaning it. "You're glowing."
He leaned in for one more kiss, warm and quick. "You're glowing."
"I'm tired."
"Still glowing," Derek said with a grin, then disappeared into the tide of white coats and chatter.
Addison didn't realize she was hungry until her stomach reminded her, a loud growl.
She grabbed a sandwich, a coffee, a fruit cup. She was halfway through the checkout when the card reader beeped.
"Declined."
Addison blinked. "Sorry?"
The cashier tried again. Still declined.
"That's weird," Addison said, forcing a light laugh. "Can you try it again?"
A third time. Declined.
The line was growing behind her. Someone sighed. Addison felt heat rise in her chest.
"I'll just—" she grabbed the tray awkwardly, pushing it aside. "Sorry."
Addison stepped out of the cafeteria with her head down, shoulders stiff. She found a payphone by the locker hallway, dug in her pocket for coins, and called the number on the back of her card.
A calm, too-calm voice answered. "Thank you for calling the Montgomery Trust Office. You've reached the account line."
"Yes, hi, this is Addison Forbes Montgomery. My card just declined and—"
"Ms. Montgomery. Yes. Your access has been suspended. You were notified by mail. Any additional inquiries can be directed through your legal representation."
Click.
Addison stood there with the receiver in her hand, air stuck in her lungs.
It's happening. The thought pulsed through her, sharp and sudden. It's happening now.
Her fingers went numb around the phone. The dial tone echoed for a moment too long before she hung up.
Her feet carried her numbly across the corridor. She found a bubbler and leaned down, letting the water run for a moment before sipping. It tasted metallic. Cold. But she filled her stomach anyway.
Addison began to realize her family didn't need harsh words to punish her—they just pull strings and let her feel the absence of safety.
She made it through the rest of the day lightheaded, hyper-focused, teeth gritted. She didn't tell her friends when she passed them, fleeting in the halls. Didn't tell Derek. She just pushed through rounds like her life depended on it—because suddenly, it felt like it did.
That night, her apartment was quiet. Still. Addison dropped her bag at the door, kicked off her shoes, and went to flip on the hallway light.
Nothing.
She tried the kitchen switch.
Darkness.
The refrigerator hum was gone. Her heart stuttered.
She turned—and slammed into the dining table.
"Shit!"
Addison stumbled back, holding her leg, blinking in the darkness. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, like the air had turned thinner.
The power was off.
Not a grid issue. Just her.
Addison stood in the dark, pulse pounding, barely breathing.
So this was how it was going to be.
Fumbling through the darkness, Addison's hand slid along the table till she felt the phone. She picked it up. Silence. No dial tone. She slammed it back down.
She hurried to the window, checking the section of street below where she usually parked her car.
Gone.
In it's stead, a dark car was parked, someone reading a newspaper inside.
Addison quickly turned from the window, back against the wall and breathing rapid. Shit. This was bad. This was really bad.
Her family had offically declared a cold war.
And, calculatingly on brand, they'd waited until the worst possible moment to do so.
The light from Addison's scented candle was enough. She held it, flickering in one hand, and found the fridge.
She opened it fast and shut it faster, holding in a breath. Inside: a few slices of bread, an open jar of peanut butter, a few eggs, and some sad-looking celery and a carrot. The milk had already gone off.
Addison wrapped what she could in foil, stuffed it all in the freezer, and shut it tight like it would keep her life together a few hours longer.
There was no heat, no water. Addison washed her face in the bathroom sink with bottled water, then sat in her bed under the blanket, arms wrapped tight around herself, as if holding herself still could hold back the panic.
Maybe I should've just smiled and nodded.
Maybe I ruined everything.
But then, Addison remembered the look on Derek's face when they'd made fun of his watch - his dead father's watch - and the regret was gone.
Addison hadn't just burned bridges with her family—she'd dynamited the entire highway.
But this was the road that she chose.
Now she just had to survive it.
The next morning, Addison turned up to Internal medicine a little early, hair in a slick ponytail, makeup and scrubs neat. She had packed a peanut butter sandwich and a carrot, the last of her food. It wasn't much, but it was something.
Rounds were long. She listened, nodded, answered questions when asked, nodded again. She took notes like her life depended on it.
By the time they broke for lunch, Addison was dizzy. She found an empty stairwell and devoured her sandwich in under two minutes. She sat there for a while afterward, chewing the carrot slowly, staring at her hands. They were shaking.
The hospital doors whooshed open into the evening air and Addison hurried out, shrugging her coat over her scrubs, head already swimming with the checklist of urgencies she needed to address before morning.
"Hey," Derek's voice called gently behind her.
She turned, surprised. He jogged a few steps to catch up, a fond smile playing at his lips. "You've been hard to catch."
Addison gave a breezy shrug, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Rotations. You know how it is."
Derek studied her for a beat, then nodded. "Yeah. I knew you'd be in your element."
"You too," Addison said with a half-smile, eyes flicking toward the street—already calculating the time she had left to budget, plan, stretch, survive.
Derek shifted his bag on his shoulder. "I got to review scans with my attending today. Real cutting-edge stuff—want to get dinner? I'd love to tell you about it."
Addison hesitated, her heart tugging at the thought of a warm meal, and warmer company. Derek's voice low and soft as he shared his dreams, his wallet, his home, anything she asked of him, really. She knew he would. But her problems were bigger right now than just meeting her basic needs.
Addison's mind was locked in survival mode- her med school tuition.
She had to find a way to pay before it was too late. Before they kicked her out of the program. And Derek couldn't help with that.
"I've got so much to do, Derek. Sorry. Another time." She leaned in and gave him a quick kiss, hand briefly brushing his as she turned away.
Before Derek could answer, Addison was gone.
As she walked, Addison saw the same black car idled by the curb of the hospital. Behind the tinted window, someone sat reading a newspaper.
Addison's eyes narrowed slightly and she kept walking.
Addison sat stiff-backed across from a bank officer. Her portfolio was neatly stacked: transcripts, letters, budget.
"I'm a second-year med student. I just need a short-term education loan—collateralized against future earning potential."
The banker blinked. "Do you have proof of income?"
A beat. "Not currently, I'm in clinical rotation, and the hospital—"
"I'm sorry. Without income, there's not much we can do."
Addison forced a smile, gathered her things.
The government support office buzzed with the low thrum of printers, coughing, restless kids, and the occasional frustrated sigh. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead.
Addison stood in line wrapped in her coat, scrubs still visible beneath it, clutching a manila folder against her chest.
At the counter, the woman glanced at her form. "You're applying for what assistance, exactly?"
"Temporary study support," Addison said, clearing her throat. "I need a letter of income verification to apply for a student loan. Medical school fees."
The woman's eyes drifted from the form to Addison's coat, then to the sleek designer bag on her shoulder.
"You sure you're in the right place?"
Addison's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. She adjusted the strap of the bag, uncomfortable. "It was a gift."
She left the office empty-handed, folder still clutched to her chest.
The smell of grease and sounds of deep fryer filled the air.
Addison, now in jeans and a button-down, handed over a crisp resume to a disinterested teen manager.
"I'm fast, polite, I'll take any shift. Nights, weekends—Christmas."
He skimmed her resume. "You've never worked in food service."
"No," she admitted. "But I'm in med school. If I can catheterize a stranger, I can make a burger."
He gave her a flat look. "We'll call you."
They didn't.
Addison perched at the corner of a busy bar, face lit by neon, resume again in hand.
The bartender glanced at it, unimpressed. "Any experience?"
"A lifetime." She smiled. "I've been mixing drinks for my father and his guests since I could carry a bottle."
His brow lifted.
Addison's smile faltered. "A joke. That was a joke. You see? I'm funny. I can banter with the customers."
His eyes already drifted to the next person in line.
"I'm good," Addison blurted, "I promise I'm good."
He shrugged. "We'll let you know."
He won't.
Addison's apartment was silent.
No lights. No heater. Just Addison, cross-legged on the hardwood floor, wrapped in a blanket which draped over her head like a hood. She was wearing a surgical headlamp she's slipped from the hospital, its cold circle of light cutting through the dark like a miner in a cave.
Her breath fogged in the beam as she flipped through the stack of unopened mail she'd been too afraid to touch. Her hands were cold. The whole place was cold.
She sorted the envelopes by order of dread—credit card statements, final notices, student loan threats—and paused on one thicker envelope marked from the trust. She already knew what it would say, but opened it anyway, as if the words might be different this time.
Vacate the premises.
All utilities suspended until further notice.
She didn't cry. She just rubbed her hands together for warmth and set the letter down beside the others.
Everything of value had been dragged into one corner of the room—her jewelry box, designer heels lined up like soldiers, her father's vintage wine, her mother's cashmere coat. Things that had once made her feel like someone with a future, now reduced to numbers.
She pulled her notebook into her lap and flipped through pages already covered in her neat, looping handwriting. On one, she had underlined the top figure in red ink:
Tuition Due: 63,000
Underneath it:
Assets (Estimated Resale Value):
• Jewelry: 4,500
• Wine: 1,200
• Silverware: 1,000
• Shoes & Designer Clothing: 3,800
• Misc (vintage coat, electronics): 2,500
Total: ~13,000
She circled the number twice. Not even close. But something.
Next page.
Remaining Balance: 50,000
Addison exhaled slowly, breath catching in the light, then scribbled:
Job Options
• Waitressing: 22/hr x 20 hrs/week = ~1,760/month
• Tutoring undergrads: 30/hr x 5 hrs/week = 600/month
• Medical research assistant? Ask hospital
• Blood plasma?
Max Workable Hours/Week: ~25
Max Income/Month: ~2,400
Then, with a hesitant hand:
Estimated Time to Earn 50,000:
~29 months.
Her pen hovered. Two and a half years.
She only had two weeks until the university cut her off.
Addison stared at the numbers, her stomach twisting. A beat of panic fluttered in her chest, threatening to rise into her throat.
Then—something else. Her fingers paused on a cream-colored envelope tucked into the pile. Cursive handwriting. Personal. Not from a bank.
To my wild thing.
She froze.
Her heart leapt and her hands suddenly felt clumsy. She tore it open.
Inside: a folded page, and a stack of bills. Fifties, hundreds—more than she could count at a glance.
She unfolded the letter, breath caught in her throat.
You're an idiot.
Working out how to help you, but it's a challenge. They're having you followed.
This is war now, Addie. Don't say I didn't warn you.
For now, here's something. Don't spend it all at once.
—A
She stared at the page. Her throat closed tight. A small, breathless sound escaped her—part laugh, part sob. Not out of desperation. Out of fierce, blinding gratitude.
Her eyes flicked back to the open notebook. She found the line she'd written—Remaining Balance: 50,000—and began subtracting, hand steady now as she laid out the bills, counting softly.
New Total: 40,000
Still impossible.
But less impossible than before.
Addison exhaled, breath visible in the cold. She put Archer's money back into the envelope, carefully slipping it between the pages of the notebook she'd been filling with math and misery.
The headlamp flickered slightly, but her hands were steadier now. And her eyes were dry.
People at the hospital had started acting weird.
A procedure she'd fought to observe was suddenly overbooked.
A prestigious attending she was supposed to meet with stopped replying to her emails.
Doors that had once been open, now clicked shut.
Addison didn't know why. Not yet. Just that things were different.
She blinked under the fluorescent lights of the internal medicine ward, standing at the edge of the nurse's station, scrubs still crisp, clipboard in hand. Her stomach churned—nothing but water since yesterday—but her answers were sharp, focused. She was ready.
They rounded Bed 5A.
"Vitals," Dr. Renner barked.
"Heart rate 112, BP 94 over 60," Addison replied, voice calm. "Temperature 39.2. Likely early sepsis—we've started fluids and cefepime."
Renner moved on without comment. Quizzed Nathan on enzymes. Priya on imaging. When Addison offered a correct answer—concise, confident—he didn't even look at her.
At one point, Jeremy hesitated on treatment options. Addison gently stepped in with a clarification. Renner ignored her.
Addison blinked. You've got to be kidding.
She caught up beside him, pace even. "Sir, I noticed you haven't acknowledged any of my input this morning. Have I done something wrong?"
Renner didn't stop walking. "No. You've done what's expected."
"But not enough to warrant the same feedback as everyone else?" Addison's tone was neutral, professional.
He looked at her, finally. "You're Montgomery's daughter, right?"
Something in her stomach went cold.
"…Yes."
"Let's just say I know your father." His gaze was unreadable. "Good man. It's a shame, the things he has to put up with."
Addison held her breath.
Of course.
She didn't ask what The Captain had said. She didn't need to. The quiet dismissal made sense now. The way Renner kept her at arm's length. As if he already had her figured out.
"Go to supply," he said. "We're low on suture kits."
Addison nodded, lips tight. "Yes, sir."
She walked off without pause—head high, steps measured—but her skin buzzed with heat. She could feel eyes following her. Every interaction suddenly felt sharper, louder. Like everyone already knew.
In the supply closet, she pulled the door shut behind her.
Only then did she let herself collapse—back sliding down the shelves until she hit the floor. She pressed the heel of her hand hard over her eyes, trying to will the tears away, trying to slow her breathing, but her chest kept hitching like her body was arguing with itself.
They had made the calls.
She didn't know what her family had said—just that it was enough. Enough to tarnish her. To mark her. She felt it now, like a stain no one would say aloud. The quiet dismissal. The side glances. The doors silently shutting.
But this was hers.
Medicine. Her dream. Her future.
When everything in her life felt unpredictable, this was the one thing that made sense. A body had rules. A diagnosis had steps. Medicine was steady where nothing else was.
Medicine made Addison feel like she mattered—undeniably, unshakably. Like she was needed.
And now—they were trying to take that too.
Addison's breath hitched. She pressed both hands to her face, trying not to sob, but tears slipped free anyway. She swiped them away, fast and hard.
Not here. Not like this.
She forced her breath to slow. In. Out. Again. Again.
She swallowed hard, blinking fast until her vision cleared. Then, slowly, deliberately, she stood.
She gathered the suture kits. Smoothed her scrubs.
When she stepped out of the closet, no one would know. She'd do her job. She'd outwork them all. Even if the game was rigged.
Especially then.
Addison wandered into the hospital cafeteria, clutching her clipboard, shoulders stiff. She was ready to ask for help.
Her eyes scanned the tables. No Derek. No Mark. No familiar laughter. No one to ask. Everyone was gone, busy on rotations.
And even if they were here—what would she say?
Hi. Can you buy me a sandwich? I haven't eaten in thirty-six hours and I cried in a closet this morning.
Her stomach clenched again, a hollow ache that made her sway slightly where she stood.
She saw a table of interns get up, joking loudly, brushing past her without seeing her at all. A half-eaten basket of fries sat abandoned on the table. A handful of golden chips left behind, cooling in the open air.
Addison hesitated. Looked around.
No one was watching.
She moved fast—hand out, snatching them up and stuffing them into her mouth so quickly it almost hurt. Salt. Grease. A trace of ketchup.
Humiliation rose with the heat in her face. She swallowed hard, and it sat in her throat like shame.
By the time Addison left the hospital, the sky had cracked open. Rain pounded down in sheets.
She ducked her head, holding her coat over her, but it was useless. The wind whipped, water soaking her hair, her scrubs. Her body immediately stiffened with memory.
Addison glanced around, eyes wide. Searching for help, for a way out.
She didn't have money for the bus. No coins to call for the payphone. All the money from Archer was locked in her apartment, set aside to pay her medical tuition.
So, Addison took a deep breath, and walked.
Addison hated the rain. Always had. Ever since she was a kid, she'd flinch at the first drop.
She let out a slow breath, trying to distract herself. Trying to find the funny side. First the famine. And then they sent the flood.
Adddison let out a quick, breathless laugh. Her arms clutched tight around her torso as she trudged down the dark sidewalk, wet hair plastered to her cheeks.
A car passed, sending a fresh spray of gutter water up her legs. She froze, closed her eyes.
Her body went tight as a wire, instincts firing off at a danger that wasn't real. Ocean waves slapping her face, soaking her lungs, the press of it all closing in.
Addison forced another slow exhale, fighting against the response. She tightened her arms around herself, willing it away.
You're okay. It's just water. Breathe. Don't be stupid. It's just water.
With every step, the cold bit deeper into her skin. Addison fingers were stiff and numb, teeth chattering.
A flash. Thunder.
Addison flinched violently, involuntarily, her breath fast and shallow. It wasn't rational. She knew that. It never was. But the rain—the heaviness of it—triggered something deep within her bones.
The deck of the Captain's boat. The flash of a martini glass. The swing of the boom mast. Cold water swallowing her whole.
Addison closed her eyes. Her lungs locked. Her chest constricted.
Breathe. Just breathe.
She whispered it to herself, over and over, even as her legs buckled from exhaustion and panic, she kept walking.
Just a little longer.
By the time she reached her building, her whole body was trembling, but she was overcome with relief.
She fumbled with the key, tried again, then again.
It wouldn't turn. Wouldn't click.
Wrong key?
…No.
She looked again.
Tried again.
No, no, no…
The lock had been changed.
Addison's breath left her in a hollow gasp. She slammed her palm against the door. Once. Twice.
Nothing.
She made a small panicked sound, hitting her palms into the door. Calling for help. Then slowly, her body slid down the door, knees folding beneath her, arms wrapping tight around her soaking-wet frame. Her forehead pressed into her wood.
Just like that, her home was gone.
Sobs racked Addison's frame as the rain soaked her, as her breath caught and her body shuddered, curled up against the door.
She felt overcome with an aching loneliness. Ashamed to admit how much it hurt that they'd cut her off.
But then—something twisted in her gut. A single thought that shocked her back into awareness.
Everything was inside.
The envelope Archer had sent. The cash. The vintage wine. The silver. The jewelry. Her notes. Her textbooks. Her neonatal journals. All the research she'd compiled over her first year of fighting for this degree.
Every last piece of hope. Every last piece of evidence that she was trying. Every last piece of her.
Gone, if she couldn't get them out.
Addison's jaw clenched, hand to the door. She stood, the movement shaky but determined.
Her apartment had a narrow balcony around the back. She could climb it.
She had to climb it.
The rain hadn't let up. It hammered the fire escape in a metallic rhythm as Addison reached the alley beside her building. Mud slipped and sucked at her shoes. She found a ledge, then the drainpipe, climbing up.
Addison caught the bottom rung of the fire escape and hauled herself up with a gasp, wet fingers squealing against the rail. Her lungs burned with effort, her coat heavy with water. Her knees banged the metal as she scrambled upward, each rung a battle.
The rain poured down in thick, cold sheets, soaking Addison to the skin, blinding her. Triggering her. She couldn't breathe properly—not through the wet, and the memory rising up like floodwater in her throat.
Salt water. Screaming wind. A younger version of herself, small and terrified, slipping below the surface.
Addison's breath hitched. Her body remembered this climb.
Gripping tight to rope. Clawing up the side of the boat, trying to haul herself out, crying so hard her chest hurt, half-drowned and choking. Begging. Begging with every cell in her body for him to see her. To save her.
Now, climbing this fire escape, soaked and sobbing and desperate, it all folded in on itself. The rain didn't feel like rain anymore. It felt like drowning.
Addison pulled harder. Rain stung her eyes, blurred her vision. The edge of the balcony was close. She reached, fingers gripping the rail, slick with rain—
And slipped.
Her foot lost traction. She fell, backward.
A gasp.
Thud.
Addison's back hit the ground hard, the impact jarring the breath from her body. Her head smacked —and she went still.
Rain poured over Addison. It streaked down her face, her ears, her collar. She lay there, arms sprawled out beside her. She didn't move.
Above her, the sky loomed wide. The clouds churned as the storm soaked her.
Addison blinked, slowly. Once. Then again.
She stared up at endless and gray, raindrops streaking down like bullets through her vision. She lay there, dazed, watching the rain fall directly into her face.
There was no sound but her heart hammering. No warmth. Just the ground beneath her and the storm above.
Addison's lips parted slightly. A slow breath. Rainwater filled her mouth, and she coughed.
And that cough was enough.
Addison rolled weakly onto her side, groaning. Her back ached. Her elbow stung. Her head throbbed. Her body wouldn't stop shaking. But she was breathing.
She felt the urge to close her eyes, to lay right down here in the mud, and sleep.
But she wasn't done.
Addison looked up again. The balcony waited.
Addison wiped water and tears from her eyes, leaving behind a streak of mud, and tried again.
The hospital was bright, though the sky outside was pitch black.
Addison's shoes squeaked with every step as she trudged down the corridor, soaking wet from head to toe. Mud streaked the bottoms of her scrubs, smeared up the sleeves of her coat, and her hair was soaked, limp and plastered to her face and neck.
A nurse glanced at her, then away, pretending not to notice the trail of rainwater pooling behind her. Addison's scrubs clung to her legs, every shiver rattling her bones.
Addison gripped the heavy canvas bag tight to her chest—her arms wrapped around it like it might fall apart without her.
It clinked faintly as she walked, filled with the last of her valuables, everything she could carry. Jewelry. Silver. A pair of vintage heels. A plastic bag of clothes. The envelope from Archer tucked between them like a secret heartbeat. Her textbooks —wet and heavy, pages warped and curling. Notes and journals she'd bled herself into. It was all there. It was everything she had left.
Addison reached the locker room, fingers trembling as she spun the dial. Her breath came in uneven pulls, little gasps that shook her ribs. The locker door creaked open.
She shoved the bag in hard, the weight of it slamming against the metal wall. Water splashed the floor. One of her journals slipped out sideways, and she crammed it back in, slammed the door, turned the lock.
Click.
A breath. Shallow. Just one.
Then she turned, shoes squeaking again, and walked without thought or hesitation into the residents' lounge. She wasn't supposed to be there—she knew that—but rules felt far away now. None of this was calculated. It was survival.
The lights inside buzzed softly. The room was still, full of unspoken exhaustion. She passed a sleeping form curled in one of the chairs and didn't look twice.
Addison found the bathroom and peeled her wet coat from her shoulders, kicked off her shoes.
The shower turned on with a groan of pipes. Steam filled the air. She was shaking as she stepped under the hot water, still fully clothed her scrubs.
Addison collapsed against the tile, knees buckling slightly. Her forehead pressed into the cold wall, eyes closed.
The heat ran over her like mercy. For the first time in hours, she could feel her fingers again.
Water cascaded down her bruised back, over aching limbs. She let it wash the mud away. Let it run over her face and down her arms like it might take some of the weight with it.
She didn't cry.
There was nothing left to cry out.
She just sat there for a long time, unmoving, eyes staring empty ahead.
Eventually, Addison turned off the water, her hands steadier. She dressed in dry spare scrubs from the residents room, her movements slow but automatic. It wasn't the right size, hanging loose over her frame, but it was dry.
She walked barefoot down the hall, still damp, hair dripping, wet shoes in hand. Her skin was flushed from the heat. Her eyelids were heavy.
The on-call room was quiet. Dark.
She slipped inside and lowered herself into the nearest bed, the sheets thin and scratchy, but clean. Her body trembled with exhaustion. She pulled the blanket over her shoulders.
One long, shuddering breath.
And then—sleep, like a switch being flipped.
Addison startled awake to the sound of the door creaking open, a sharp wedge of fluorescent light cutting into the dark on-call room.
She blinked, momentarily disoriented, breath catching as she squinted up at the silhouette in the doorway.
"Uh… you're not on call."
The voice wasn't unkind—just confused. A little judgmental. A little awkward. A man. Resident. She didn't recognize him.
Addison sat up slowly, her head pounding with a dull throb. She smoothed her hair on instinct, swallowing against the nausea that curled at the edges. "Sorry," she muttered. "Got in late. Must've read the board wrong."
The guy hesitated—long enough to register the muddy, half-wet coat and shoes at the end of her bed, the faint smell of rain still clinging—then stepped back out. The door clicked shut behind him.
Addison sat still for a second, hand braced against her forehead, pulse echoing behind her eyes.
Mental note: You can't do this here again. This place isn't safe. Not if you want to keep your reputation intact.
She got up and walked quietly down the corridor, heading for the locker room. Her wet footprints had long since dried into ghostly outlines on the floor. She opened her locker with a slow twist of the dial, the metal door creaking like it knew better.
Her bag was still soaked, fabric sagging and dripping when she pulled it out. She unzipped it carefully, and dug through the mess until she found the smaller pouch she'd packed—a plastic zip case with a toothbrush, hairbrush, makeup, a few safety pins, glasses case, deodorant. Survival gear.
Addison locked the rest back inside, wiped her hands on her pants, and made her way to the nearest bathroom. She passed a nurse who looked at her a little too long, a security guard who blinked like he wasn't sure where he'd seen her before. She didn't flinch, didn't acknowledge it. Just kept walking.
The bathroom was bright and empty. She splashed water over her face, dried it with a paper towel, then carefully applied makeup. Brushed her hair into something vaguely respectable. Tied it back. Quick, practiced.
Cleaned her glasses under the tap, then slipped them on.
She looked up and met her own eyes in the mirror.
"You're Addison Montgomery," she murmured. "Get it together."
She exhaled, straightened up, and walked out like nothing had happened.
Addison was on her game with Dr. Renner. Sharp, crisp, precise. Rattled off vitals before he asked. Anticipated questions. Assisted with intubation like she hadn't slept in a call room. Like she didn't feel bruises blooming across her back. Like she hadn't slipped off her own balcony in the middle of the night.
She made it through the shift. Barely.
But she did it.
And when the sun dipped below the horizon, when she clocked out with clean clothes, makeup intact, hair freshly brushed, Addison stepped outside feeling like she'd won.
Same dark car, same man inside. Newspaper unfolded in his hands like this was all routine. Like he wasn't here to make her nervous.
Addison didn't hesitate.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three sharp knocks to the car window with the flat of her palm.
The man jumped, startled.
"Not dead yet," Addison called, already walking past, one of the nicer outfits she'd packed, sleek and pulled tight with a belt.
He looked at her through the window, blinking.
Addison turned as she walked, still in motion but facing him, arms spread like a magician.
"They're gonna have to try harder than that."
And with a slight smirk she turned back and kept walking, hair swaying behind her.
The sign out front said Bartender Wanted - Apply Within.
Addison pushed the door open and stepped into the warm, beer-slicked air. It smelled like sweat and old whiskey. A woman behind the bar with a bored expression looked up at her.
"You're here for the sign?"
Addison nodded. "Yeah. I bartended all through undergrad," she lied smoothly. "Fast learner. Good under pressure. You won't regret it."
The woman raised an eyebrow. "You know how to make a Rusty Nail?"
Addison smiled, didn't answer right away.
In her mind, a memory stirred — the low hum of the boat beneath her bare feet, the soft creak of wood and rope, the lazy glow of late afternoon light bouncing off the deck.
Addison was six. Maybe seven. Small for her age, but quick, and eager to please. One of the women who wasn't Bizzy lounged on the cushions nearby, legs tanned and crossed, a glossy magazine in her lap. Addison wasn't supposed to talk about her later.
She stood at the galley bar beside the Captain. He smelled like salt and bourbon and aftershave, and he'd let her help with "important duties." Addison had beamed. She felt like his first mate.
"Watch, Kitten," he said, voice smooth and indulgent, like he was letting her in on something sacred. "Two parts Scotch, one part Drambuie. Pour slow — don't drown it. Always over ice, always in a rocks glass. Got it?"
Addison nodded, lips parted in concentration as she watched. Her little fingers clutched the bottle with both hands, mimicking his movements with focus. Every pour, every swirl — a ritual. She wanted to do it perfectly. She wanted to be the kind of girl he'd trust with something like this.
"Try it," the Captain said, nudging the glass toward her. "Just a sip. Go on — rite of passage."
Addison hesitated. Her eyes flicked to the woman on the cushions, who was watching with an arched brow and a smirk, but said nothing. The Captain was watching, too, his gaze expectant. Warm.
So she took the sip.
It hit the back of her throat like fire — pure gasoline in a glass. Her lungs seized. The burn curled up behind her nose and made her eyes water instantly. She coughed, hard. Nearly choked.
Laughter bubbled from the woman on the cushions. The Captain chuckled and tousled her hair, fingers warm and firm against her scalp.
"That's my girl," he said, eyes gleaming.
And just like that, Addison smiled. Her throat still ached, but the heat in her chest bloomed into something golden. She'd made them laugh. She'd done something grown-up. She was useful. She was wanted. In that moment, she felt closer to him than ever.
Even now, it remained one of her best memories.
That version of her father — the one who'd winked and called her Kitten, who'd let her into his world, if only for an afternoon. She missed him. Grieved him. Grieved who they'd been, and what they'd become.
The memory slipped away like seafoam.
Now — Addison stood at the bar, every line of her body deliberate and polished, her gaze unflinching. She looked like someone in control. And mostly, she was.
She offered a smile — practiced, but genuine in its way.
"Two parts Scotch, one part Drambuie, served over ice in a rocks glass," Addison said smoothly. "Smoky, sweet, with a honeyed finish. Old man drink, but classy."
The woman seemed to weigh her, eyes narrowed. Then: "One of my guys just flaked. You can start tonight if you want."
Addison's stomach dropped and soared at once. She thought of the morning. The rotation. Renner.
Then she thought of the trail of water in the hallway. The locked door. Final payment notices from the University.
Addison nodded. "Yeah. I can start now."
The lights were low, music thumping—a blur of glass, sweat, and noise. Addison moved fast behind the bar, all sharp hands and practiced ease. She poured, mixed, smiled when she remembered to, charmed when she had to. Somehow, she still looked impossibly polished for someone running on fumes.
The last guest left at 3:12 a.m. Addison clocked out the moment the door shut.
Without ceremony, Addison headed for the fridge and drank orange juice straight from the mixer jug. She ate lemon slices out of the garnish tray, anything she could stomach. It took everything not to take more. She couldn't risk getting fired—not on her first shift. She needed the pay stub for the bank, proof of income for her study loan.
She curled up in one of the leather booths, coat wrapped tight around her, bag tucked beneath her head. Addison stared up at the ceiling, eyelids heavy, and let herself drift to sleep.
The bathroom lights flickered overhead—harsh, fluorescent, too bright for this early in the morning.
Addison stood at the sink, scrubbing her face first, then washing under her shirt, trying not to shiver. She leaned over and wet her hair, squeezing shampoo from a hospital-issued bottle she'd pocketed earlier. Rinsed in tap water.
She bent awkwardly beneath the hand dryer, combing her fingers through wet hair as it roared to life.
"Hate. Hate. Hate," she muttered, jaw clenched, trying not to think about it.
Addison pulled on clean scrubs from her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and paused. Then, quietly, she locked the bar behind her, heading to the hospital.
Another day.
No one could say she wasn't fighting.
Addison stopped dead at the hospital entrance, eyes catching a familiar figure.
Mark Sloan was leaned against the entryway, two coffees in hand, the early morning sun catching in his hair like it always had.
"Finally," Mark said, flashing that easy grin. "I knew the smell of good juju would summon you eventually."
Addison blinked. For a second, it felt like breathing again. Like everything had cracked open just enough to let in some light.
"Thought I'd have to file a missing person's report," he went on, walking toward her. "You ghost better than anyone I know. Derek's been calling every night. He even stopped by your place—"
Addison stepped forward and hugged him. Fast. Tight. Sudden.
Mark jolted, coffees almost spilling. "Whoa. Hey—Addison?"
She didn't answer right away. Just stood there, forehead pressed to his chest, arms clinging like he was the only thing tethering her to solid ground.
"Just…" Her voice was quiet, breath catching. "Really bad week."
She wanted to tell him. That she wasn't okay. That she needed help. The words pushed against her throat like they might claw their way out.
But her body stayed locked—rigid, coiled, conditioned. Survival mode. Keep moving. Keep smiling. Keep standing. Don't need. Don't ask. Don't fall apart.
Mark didn't joke. Didn't tease. He just held her tighter, grounding her.
When she finally pulled back, Mark's face had shifted. No grin now—just concern.
"You alright?"
Addison gave him the best smile she could manage, weak and worn. "You know how rotations get."
He didn't answer, just handed over the coffee, still watching her, careful.
She took it gratefully—too fast. The smell alone made her knees weak. She drained half of it in a single go.
"Thanks," she said, breathless, dizzy from the caffeine and the sudden rush of emotion she didn't know what to do with.
Mark frowned. "Addie—"
"We're gonna be late," she cut in, already moving toward the doors.
"Hey—wait, just—"
But she didn't stop.
The door swung shut behind her, and Mark stood there a moment longer, concern settling heavy in his gut.
Addison was sharp. Focused. Exhausted.
She scribbled notes without looking up, presented two cases before lunch, jogged across the hospital to hand-deliver samples. Up the stairs, down again. No time to sit. No time to think.
A patient coded. She stepped in to help with the charting, her pen moving almost automatically as adrenaline took over.
Her stomach growled and she winced, but kept moving. One foot in front of the other.
When she noticed Dr. Webber walking beside her, it registered as strange. Webber didn't usually make unannounced appearances on the floor. It didn't make sense why he would be here, talking to her now. Addison blinked, unsure if she was hallucinating.
"How's the rotation going?" Webber asked, his voice measured.
"Good, Sir." she said quickly. Her smile was a flicker. "Busy."
They walked in step through the corridor, Addison updating Webber on her patients. Her voice stayed steady, but the words started to bleed together at the edges, slurring.
Webber glanced at her. She didn't see the crease form between his brows, the way his eyes sharpened.
Addison swallowed, sick to the stomach. Her head suddenly felt light. She stopped walking for a moment.
"You okay, Montgomery?"
She opened her mouth to answer—then everything tilted.
Addison slowly opened her eyes, finding herself in a bed.
Her head throbbed dully. A bag of saline was clipped above her, the IV trailing down to her arm. Her hair was damp from washing it in the bar bathroom—still drying in frizzy waves—and the scent of cheap hand soap clung to her.
Across from her sat Dr Webber. Silent, steady. He'd pulled a chair up beside the cot and hadn't moved since she'd woken.
Addison looked away first. She stared at a crack in the tile floor, willing herself not to feel small.
"I guess you're going to report me," she said, finally.
Webber didn't answer right away. When he did, his tone was calm. "Should I?"
She blinked, thrown. "No," she said, a little sharper than she meant. "I—I'm still doing the work. I'm not behind."
"But you're falling apart," he said.
It wasn't judgmental. It wasn't even surprised. It was just the truth.
Addison swallowed hard. Her fingers twisted the edge of the blanket.
"I'm trying," she said, voice low. Her eyes didn't leave the floor. "I've been trying."
She hesitated—just a beat too long—then added, "My family… didn't just cut me off financially. They made sure every door I ever walked through slammed shut behind me." Her eyes shifted, "Including the one I used to live behind."
Her breath caught like it embarrassed her to say it out loud. But she kept going.
"I've got a week left to pay my student fees. I'm bartending nights, sleeping in the booth. Living out of my locker like I'm twenty and flunking out." A tight, bitter laugh slipped out. "But I'm still here, Sir. I'm still doing the work."
She braced herself—shoulders tense, chin lifted like she was daring him to think less of her.
Webber didn't.
He looked at her for a long moment.
Addison looked back. "I'm not going to quit, Sir."
Webber nodded slowly, as if that was exactly what he'd expected.
"No," he said. "You're not."
Addison looked up at him. "So what happens now? You give me a lecture? Tell me resilience is good for character?"
He raised an eyebrow, just slightly. "Addison," he said, with the beginnings of a smile. "I know you're resilient. I also know that resilience isn't about going until you break. It's about knowing when to accept help."
That made her flinch. Help. That word always sounded like failure.
"What your parents did," Webber continued, "that's not your failure. That's theirs."
Her voice dropped. "It still feels like mine."
He didn't try to correct her. Just nodded, slowly. Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Held it out like something delicate.
"There's a residency fund," Webber said. "Not publicized. Meant for emergency hardship. Not for people who are failing—but for people who shouldn't have to choose between eating and finishing med school."
Addison stared at the paper in his hand like it might burn her fingers. It wasn't that she was ungrateful, she wasn't - But it didn't feel right. There were people who were born into poverty, not just for a week. Addison didn't deserve this.
"You want me to take charity?"
"I want you to make it to third year with your body and soul intact."
She frowned a little, confused. "Why are you helping me?"
Webber's gaze softened. He sat forward, resting his arms on his knees.
"Because I've seen this story before," he said. "Bright, promising students burning out under the weight of other people's expectations. But I've never seen one walk through fire quite like you."
Addison's throat ached. She didn't know what to say. She looked down at her hands, then slowly reached out and took the paper from his. It was light. Stupidly light, for how much it might change everything.
"I'm still getting used to people believing in me." she murmured.
"Get used to it," Webber said, smiling now, just barely. "You'll still have to do the work. But you won't be hungry. You won't be sleeping in booths. You'll have a bed, if you need it. And time to breathe."
She nodded, tight and fast, as if the words were holding her upright.
"Okay," she whispered.
"Okay," he echoed.
He stood, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. It was warm, steadying—so different from the cold, ornamental touch of her Bizzy, or the distracted absence of the Captain. For a moment, it felt like someone real was on her side.
"I'll let Renner know youre under my service for the rest of the day," he said. "But unofficially? You're off duty, Montgomery."
Addison watched him go, the folded paper clutched tightly in her fist.
Only when she was alone did she unfold it again. She read it once. Then again.
The paper Dr. Webber had given her wasn't magic. It wasn't a key to some secret door that erased every consequence of what she'd done. But it was help. It was a quietly run fund—set up years ago by former residents and compassionate attendings—for students facing sudden, life-altering hardship.
It didn't cover luxuries. It didn't fix everything. But it could freeze her tuition payments while a committee reviewed her case. It could give her access to meal vouchers at the hospital. It could offer a temporary housing grant if she was at risk of becoming unhoused—which she was.
Addison had something close to a foothold. Not a solution. But a chance.
She lay back down on the cot, the IV ticking beside her.
For the first time in days, Addison felt her body relax. She let herself close her eyes.
Day passed into evening, and the haze of sleep gave way to dim light and quiet voices.
Addison stirred slowly, her lashes fluttering. There was a soft weight at her side, warm and familiar—a hand cradling hers, fingers laced. Her heart pulled.
Derek.
He was seated in a chair beside her bed, leaned forward with his head resting gently on her stomach, arm draped around her waist and his other hand protectively holding hers like he'd been clinging on for dear life. His breathing was even, his soft hair mussed, eyes closed.
"Derek," Addison whispered.
Across the room, Naomi straightened in her chair. "She's awake."
Derek startled, lifting his head quickly. His eyes met hers, wide with relief—then softened into a crooked, sleepy smile that went straight to her chest.
"Hey," he murmured, like it was the only word he could find.
Addison smiled back, tired but true. Her fingers drifted up into his hair, brushing through the tangled curls. He let her, gaze fixed on her like he was trying to memorize every part of her face.
"You scared the hell out of us," Mark said from across the room, trying for casual but not quite landing it. He held up a paper bag in one hand like a peace offering. "So I brought McDonald's. You need to get fat again."
Addison eyed the bag with mock offense. "I'm still bitter they didn't hire me."
There was a beat of stunned silence—then Naomi snorted, and Mark lost it first, nearly dropping the bag as he laughed.
"They wouldn't have known what hit them," Sam grinned. "Red-haired cult leader behind the fryers? That place would've been a movement."
Naomi laughed in agreement. "Oh, Addie. You'd have had the deep fryer running like a surgical suite."
"Ronald McDonald would've had to resign on the spot," Mark added.
Addison laughed, too hard and too suddenly, then winced, clutching her stomach. "Ow. Stop. I'm literally held together by caffeine and a hospital gown."
Derek's expression shifted in an instant. His brow furrowed, like the pain she felt was echoing in him.
"Easy fix," Mark tossed the bag onto her lap. "One cure for everything—salt, grease, and a medium fry."
Addison shot him a look, but her expression was warm.
"You okay?" Derek asked quietly, hand still wrapped around hers.
"Fine," she smiled.
Derek's eyes searched, the way he did when he knew there was more. He looked as if he was going to speak, then stopped, as if deciding now wasn't the right time.
Instead, Derek rested his chin gently back on her bed, his arms folded in front of him. His eyes didn't leave her. Not once. Addison ran her fingers through his hair again, gentler this time, and felt him exhale—like he could breathe for the first time in days.
"You're moving in with me," Naomi spoke up, like it was already decided. "I've got at least six overpriced hair products, multiple cakes in the fridge, poor impulse control. You'll fit right in."
Mark scoffed. "Please. Red's coming home with us. Sports. Beer. Questionable life choices. I've been waiting for this day since undergrad."
Sam lifted a brow. "Cool. Love how I'm not even a contender."
"That's because your apartment smells like patchouli and unresolved commitment issues," Naomi replied.
Addison laughed too—gentler this time—and blinked fast, trying to stay present. Her gaze flicked between them. Her people. Her family. Somehow, still here.
She had little left of what she'd built. No safety net. No legacy. No name.
But lying there, with Derek's head resting against her and her friends surrounding the bed like a protective wall she didn't know she needed, she understood something that shifted in her chest.
Her family took everything they could, but still they hadn't broken her.
Because what she had wasn't just medicine.
It was them.
They loved her, wanted her, accepted her—mess and all.
And Addison knew: no matter what her family did next, no matter how many doors they slammed shut, there was nothing they could do to touch that.