Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

2007

At Seattle Grace, the days fold over one another until the calendar becomes nothing more than a forgotten detail on the wall.

Derek moves down the corridor with a chart in one hand and his pager pressed into the palm of the other. The fluorescent light erases nuance, reducing everything to the same pale shade of urgency. Someone has taped paper snowflakes to the glass of the nurses’ station. He doesn’t look long enough to notice.

He turns the corner near Radiology already thinking three steps ahead—post-op CT, a meeting with the family, a consult he promised he’d squeeze in—and nearly collides with an intern balancing a tray of coffees.

“Sorry,” the intern blurts, gripping the tray as if it were alive.

Derek reacts on autopilot: a brief nod, a “careful there” without edge, and keeps moving.

Behind him, a constant murmur: residents clustered in groups, the fragile laughter of people who haven’t slept. Someone tries to hang a cheap garland above the residents’ lounge door, but the tape won’t hold. It slips, hangs crooked. Derek walks beneath it without noticing.

Only when he passes the lounge does the sound reach him.

A carol—strong, rhythmic—leaks from a forgotten radio beside a tree too small for the space. Its branches are uneven; its lights blink in the faint way of something assembled in haste, between one emergency and the next.

Hark how the bells, sweet silver bells…

All seem to say, “Throw cares away”

Christmas is here, bringing good cheer

To young and old, meek and the bold

Derek stops.

The music hits his body first—before his brain has time to reject it—and suddenly the hospital smells less like antiseptic and more like pine and cold air.

For a second, the corridor wavers beneath his feet, the fluorescent light flickers, and Derek is back in New York. December cold clinging to his skin. An old memory returning without asking permission.

Addison in her favorite burgundy coat. Her hand threaded through his as they crossed the street with purpose and urgency. The city loud, lit up, and yet intimate. His mother’s house too full—nieces and nephews scattered everywhere, overlapping voices, dishes that never seemed to be enough. Nancy, Liz, Kathleen, Amy. And Mark, taking up space as if he were family too because, in practice, he was. Chaos and affection bound together in that rare, quiet feeling of belonging to something precious.

And Addison—moving through it all as if she were part of the season itself, as if she had always belonged to the Christmases of his life—making the rituals inevitable: the search for the perfect tree; the endless gift lists, marked in highlighter and coded in ways only she understood; Christmas songs echoing through the Brownstone from the first day of December into early January; the way her blue-green eyes shone even brighter beneath the gold and red lights that seemed to dress the entire city; the quick kiss on his cheek when his patience wore thin with his own family; and the sentence, delivered with the calm that always undid him: It’s Christmas, Derek. Our favorite time of year.

A laugh in the corridor pulls him back.

Cristina is leaning against the wall beside the residents’ lounge, a paper cup in her hand, watching someone struggle with a string of lights.

“This is stupid,” she announces to no one in particular, with the certainty of a verdict. “Christmas is stupid. Trees are stupid. People are stupid.”

Farther down, the hospital moves in a systematic pattern, and the carol keeps resonating.

Derek’s throat tightens in a way that irritates him. He blinks hard, as if he could erase the image that way and forces his feet to move.

Work is easy. Work doesn’t ask for explanations. It doesn’t require him to look at the shape of his own life.

“Derek.”

Meredith’s voice reaches him near the charting stations—soft, steady. She’s holding a folder, her face bearing the marks of early-residency exhaustion that never seem to really fade.

“You forgot this,” she says, holding the folder out.

He takes it. His gaze slides over Meredith’s face, as if searching for something he wouldn’t know how to name. There’s an ink stain on her thumb. A strand of tinsel caught on the shoulder of her scrub top, as if the hospital had tried to decorate her by force.

“What day is it today?” he asks, without thinking.

Meredith furrows her brow. “A day you’re on call,” she replies, with a faint edge of irony.

She pauses, looking past him toward the residents’ lounge, where the carol now sounds louder, more insistent. “It’s… December… almost Christmas. In case you’ve been living inside an operating room.”

Derek lets out a short, humorless breath.

“Right.”

Meredith’s gaze lingers on him a second longer than necessary.

“Well,” she says, adjusting the folder in his hand, as if nudging him back into alignment. “The patient in 3B is asking for you again.”

Derek nods once, grateful for the simplicity of an urgency he knows how to fix. He walks away before the music can reach him again.

Los Angeles feels completely wrong in December.

The air is too warm. The sky too blue. The palm trees in front of Addison’s new beach house are wrapped in white lights that convince no one, clashing with the season’s stubborn heat. There’s a wreath on the door she didn’t buy—delivered by some overly enthusiastic neighborhood committee, complete with a handwritten note about community spirit. Addison leaves the box unopened for three days before hanging it, with the contained irritation of someone complying with an imposed formality.

Inside, the house remains the same: functional and sterile. There is no decorations; no tree; no stockings hung. No December rituals. She tells herself she’s too busy for that. Tells herself she doesn’t care.

She drives through the city past shop windows dressed in lights and bows, past restaurants full of voices and clinking glasses, past palm trees wrapped in glowing strands, past houses already showing the first signs of Christmas décor. She keeps her eyes fixed ahead. Doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t stop. The music on the radio is too loud, too cheerful. Addison switches stations until there’s nothing left but static.

At Oceanside Wellness, she stays late on purpose. At night, the clinic becomes another creature altogether: quieter, corridors in half-light, the distant sound of Pacific wind seeping into everything like a low breath. The reception desk is empty. Naomi’s office door has been closed for hours, as have the others’. Somewhere down the hall, Sam’s low voice cuts through a phone call and then falls silent.

Addison tells herself that by staying, she isn’t running from the season. That she’s simply choosing productivity over nostalgia, medicine over muscle memory.

It doesn’t work.

She’s alone in her office when she finally allows herself to sit, the chair creaking softly under her weight. Outside, the parking lot lights cast long, unmoving shadows. Somewhere in the building, a janitor hums off-key, but it’s unmistakably a Christmas song. Addison freezes, pen suspended above the chart.

Her chest tightens suddenly, sharp, as if she’s been struck without warning.

She turns to the computer before she can talk herself out of it and opens a new email window.

The “To:” field sits empty for a moment. Then her fingers type his name by reflex: Derek Shepherd. The cursor blinks, impatient. Addison stares at the screen as if the screen itself were daring her.

She starts with something neutral. Hi, but quickly deletest.

Starts again. Derek—, but deletes that too.

Finally, her fingers move faster, and the truth spills out in a rush she can’t fully control.

It’s December and I didn’t think I’d feel like this. I keep waiting for the cold, for your mother’s kitchen and your sisters arguing over who gets to run Christmas morning. I keep seeing the way you carried the tree up the stairs like it weighed nothing. I keep—

She stops. Her throat burns.

Her fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling with a kind of honesty that exposes too much. That’s the problem with December: everything turns porous. It softens the edges of what you swore you’d already moved past, puts old rituals back into your hands like muscle memory and demands remembering, even when remembering hurts.

Addison scrolls back up, rereads what she’s written, and feels her stomach drop with the cruel clarity of it.

It’s too much. Too honest. Too dangerous.

She selects the entire paragraph and deletes it in one clean, brutal motion.

The blank page is both relief and accusation.

Addison inhales through her nose, slow and controlled—a surgeon’s breathing. She types a new message with the restraint of someone holding an open wound with bare hands.

Happy holidays.

She adds nothing else. No warmth. No pain. No exclamation point. She stares at the words until they stop feeling like hers.

Then she hits Send before she can change her mind.

The email is gone. The room falls quiet again. Addison leans back in her chair and closes her eyes, letting the glow of the screen paint her eyelids a pale blue. She tells herself it’s fine, that it’s just a courtesy.

A well-mannered nothing.

In Seattle, Derek sees the email hours later, between one case and the next. His phone lights up when he’s washing his hands at the scrub sink. The water is too hot, the soap smells harsh and his pager is already vibrating again.

He looks down automatically and stops.

Happy holidays.

Two words. A period that feels like a door closed carefully.

For a moment, Derek just stares at the screen, his wet hands suspended over the sink while the water keeps running. He feels it there—the old rhythm, like one melody layered beneath another: Addison’s careful restraint. Her ability to make something neutral carry an entire history, if you know how to read it.

He reads it again, more slowly. Understands the subtext the same way he understands anatomy—instinctively.

I thought I was fine until December.

I miss what we were at Christmas.

I shouldn’t be writing this.

I’m writing it anyway.

A Christmas melody still echoes through the hospital corridor, softer this time.

Derek’s thumb hovers over Reply.

He could send something equally neutral. He could write Happy holidays to you too and pretend that’s all it is. He could offer a small kindness.

But kindness is complicated when it opens doors you’re not ready to walk through, when you’re busy trying to build a new life on top of the wreckage of another. So he doesn’t reply.

He locks the phone, the screen going dark, and turns back to the sink. Rinses his hands until the water runs cold, until his skin feels too clean, as if he were trying to erase traces.

When he steps into the corridor, a nurse is hanging a new string of lights above the residents’ lounge door. One of the bulbs flickers, stubborn, refusing to turn on. Someone taps it lightly, and finally it glows.

Derek walks past without slowing, jaw tight, eyes forward.

Outside, rain begins to fall—fine at first, then steady—coating the city in a chill sheen. Inside the hospital, the Christmas melody swells again, as if December refuses to be ignored.

2012

The house is too cold for December. Or maybe that’s just how Derek perceives it now.

In the living room, the faint smell of pine gives away the Christmas tree set up in the corner. It’s a modest tree, ornaments spaced out, placed without much thought. Meredith put it together more for Zola than for them. Derek barely registered it. He participated when he was asked to, but he can’t say he was ever really there.

December has arrived only to reopen wounds. Every cold morning brings back what he would rather forget: the sound of twisted fuselage, Lexie’s choked scream—her life beyond their reach—and the vacant look in Mark’s eyes in his final moments.

Since everything happened, all sorts of condolences arrived—flowers, cards, whispered words—, but nothing remotely enough to dull the pain that still settles into every corner. And December, with its naturally cheerful atmosphere, is an uninvited contrast that only seems to aggravate everything that already hurts deeply in his chest.

The doorbell rings. Derek takes longer than he should to get up. It isn’t distraction. It’s something else—an internal delay, a body still learning how to exist in the after.

When he opens the door, there’s no one on the step, just a small package, resting against the wood.

He closes the door, leans against it for a moment, then walks to the table.

The sender is handwritten.

Broad Beach Road

30842 Broad Beach Rd

Malibu, CA 90265

He runs his thumb over the address once.

Before this—months earlier—there had been flowers. They arrived without warning, in the same week when everything around him still smelled of burned metal and shock, when people spoke in hushed voices in the hallways out of respect or fear. A simple bouquet of white lilies, no message, no words that would only sound wrong.

Just a card with a name: Addison.

Derek didn’t respond. There was no possible response at the time. Everything was too raw, the wound too exposed. So he simply held onto the gesture, in silent gratitude.

Now, the paper gives way without resistance, revealing a simple box. Inside it, wrapped in tissue paper, is an ornament.

Derek stops.

He knows this object. Knows its exact weight in his hand, the soft sound it makes when it shifts. It’s a clear sphere, its gold edges slightly worn—an old gift, far too old to still exist.

Mark bought it when they were still interns. At the time, it seemed like a ridiculous gift—one of those ideas born as a joke that, without anyone noticing, endures through the years. They carried the ornament with them through moves; through joyful or hurried Christmases; through Decembers overcrowded at the hospital; through phases that demanded more than they had to give. Always the same sphere resurfacing intact, year after year, wherever they were.

It was meant for the first apartment Derek and Addison shared in New York, too small for two people and also for the naivety they still carried back then. That Christmas, they would only manage to go to Carolyn’s house on the 25th, trapped in long on-call shifts reserved for those just starting out in their careers, like the three of them.

Mark showed up early on the 24th, gift in hand, saying their tree needed a special touch, that it deserved to be brightened by his beauty. He said it the way he said anything, with the same excess confidence as always.

They laughed immediately, protested lightly. But they knew what lay beneath the joking tone: a quiet acknowledgment of friendship, a crooked and loyal way of saying he would always be there, that they could count on one another—on small days and on big ones.

Since then, that simple ornament followed them from home to home, from the cramped apartment of their first year of marriage to the spacious living room of the Brownstone, decorated with near-military precision by Addison.

He removes the ornament carefully, as if it were fragile—not the acrylic, but what’s inside.

The photograph appears slowly as the light passes through the curved surface.

Mark is there. Derek too: young; smiling; whole; immortal.

For a second, Derek expects to see someone else. The impulse is automatic, almost physical. But he doesn’t.

The absence isn’t accidental. It’s clean and deliberate. The image was adjusted with enough precision that anyone who didn’t know the story would never guess someone was missing.

Derek knows.

He closes his fingers around the sphere, just enough to keep himself upright. His breath goes shallow. There’s no sound. The break happens without warning, without visible tears, without movement. Just the sense that something inside has slipped slightly off its axis.

He sits on the couch with the ornament still in his hand, elbow resting on his knee, head slightly bowed. The silence of the house expands, filling everything.

Meredith appears in the doorway of the living room some time later. She sees him before she’s seen: his body folded inward, the object between his hands, the stillness too dense to interrupt.

She doesn’t ask what it is. Or who it’s from. She comes closer and sits beside him. Her presence is enough. Shoulder to shoulder, their breathing finds a shared rhythm.

After a moment, Meredith breaks the silence carefully, as if stepping onto unstable ground.

“It’s beautiful,” she says, simply.

Derek blinks once. The moisture in his eyes doesn’t fall; it stays there, contained, like everything else.

“It is,” he replies, softly.

After a while, he gets up and walks over to the tree in the corner of the room. The lights are on, reflecting gently off the ornaments, almost shyly, as if even they knew this wasn’t a Christmas for excess.

Derek hangs the ornament on a higher branch, adjusts the transparent string, and steps back half a pace to check it. The sphere spins slightly before settling.

The photograph inside turns with it, catching the gentle glow of the lights, and for an instant it almost seems like Mark is there in the room with them, laughing like he did on that long-ago Christmas Eve, so many years back.

Derek lightly touches the edge of the sphere with his fingertips, a gesture that feels like greeting and farewell at once.

His chest aches, but in a way that is, somehow, full of gratitude.

2015

The early afternoon light in Los Angeles arrives gently, filtered by ocean winds that never quite feel like winter. Addison is leaning against the kitchen counter, dressed comfortably, her hair still damp from the shower, a mug of coffee cooling beside her. The mail lies fanned out where she left it—bills, clinic flyers, a slim stack of Christmas envelopes in different shades.

She opens them slowly, one at a time, as if measuring the gesture.

Most are expected: colleagues, patients, friends of hers and Jake’s. The annual card from Seaside Health & Wellness—polished, impersonal, smiling faces she sees every day. Addison sorts them without much thought.

Then she recognizes the handwriting.

The envelope is heavier than the others, suggesting deliberate care. Seattle postmark. She knows what’s inside before she opens it.

The card slides out, and Addison exhales softly—something between a brief laugh and a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Zola is caught mid-motion, one sock slipping down her ankle, curls refusing to behave. Bailey is a blur of chubby arms and legs and mischief, clearly on the verge of escape. Derek appears crouched too low, half out of frame, his sweater visibly clashing with Meredith’s. Meredith is laughing—unposed, not trying to control the moment—her head tipped back, joy unfiltered. Nothing matches, and everything is unmistakably alive. It is, unmistakably, a Meredith thing.

Addison smiles. A real smile—immediate, unguarded.

And then, just as quickly, something tightens behind her ribs.

She studies the photograph longer than necessary. Derek’s hand rests on Zola’s back, steadying her. Bailey’s fist is tangled in Derek’s sleeve. There’s no question of belonging there. This is a family in motion—imperfect, real—entirely theirs.

Addison presses her thumb lightly against the edge of the card, anchoring herself.

Two things can be true at the same time.

She props the card upright against the fruit bowl, where the light can reach it fully. It deserves to be seen.

Not long after, soft footsteps cross the kitchen. Henry appears, hair sticking up at the crown of his head, dragging his favorite blanket behind him—a habit he’s kept since the day he learned to walk.

“Mommy.”

The word comes drawn out, heavy with sleep and trust. Addison turns at once, and the rest of the world falls into the background. She crouches and lifts him into her arms. Henry tucks his face into his mother’s neck without thinking, warmth and comfort settling instantly.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she says, kissing his forehead. “Did you have a good nap?”

Henry nods, then furrows his brow, far too serious for his age.

“I dreamed about the train.”

“The train?” Addison asks, already knowing.

“The Christmas one.” He thinks for a moment. “The one that goes really fast.” He makes a low, excited sound, pulling in air and pushing it out again. “Choo… chooo…”

“The Polar Express?” she ventures.

Henry nods vigorously.

“That one.” A brief pause. “I was inside.”

“Inside the train?”

“Uh-huh.” He shifts in her arms. “There was a bell, but it didn’t make noise. Only when I listened.”

Addison feels the smile rise before she can stop it; she could spend hours listening to the little stories her son invents, attentive to the way his small mind arranges ideas and discovers the world as he goes.

“And was Santa there?” she asks.

Henry considers this carefully, like he’s reviewing something important.

“He was busy.” He looks around the kitchen. “Like you.”

Addison smiles, shaking her head.

“I’m not busy, honey. I was just looking at the mail.” She rests her forehead against his. “But now that you’re awake, we can do lots of fun things. What do you think?”

Henry nods, satisfied, but then frowns again.

“And Daddy?”

“Daddy’s at work,” Addison says, with practiced calm. “He went to help a mommy have her baby. It’s a girl. Her name is Holly.” She pauses. “But he’s already on his way back. And when he gets here, you know what we can do?”

Henry's eyes lift.

“What?”

“Christmas cookies.”

He considers this very seriously.

“Can we make one shaped like a train?”

Addison laughs softly.

“We can try.”

She spins Henry once in her arms, just enough to coax his easy laughter and, then, spin again, slower this time, until the laughter settles into a contented sound.

And that’s when Henry notices the card.

He stretches slightly, attentive, his eyes fixed on the image.

“Kids,” he declares solemnly, as if identifying his own species.

“Yes,” Addison says, carefully placing the card in his hands. “They’re kids.”

Henry traces the children’s faces in the photograph with the tips of his little fingers, focused, as if counting something invisible. Then he points to himself, considers the comparison for a moment, and breaks into a small smile.

“Me too.”

Addison laughs, caught off guard by the simple weight of the statement, and pulls him a little closer against her body.

Later, while Henry is busy with the small slices of fruit on his plate—testing the laws of gravity one piece at a time—Addison opens the drawer and takes out her own cards.

She chose them weeks earlier. Heavy paper; cool tones. The photograph is simple: Henry seated on a neutral rug, a large white-and-gold Christmas tree glowing behind him. The light hits his face just right, lending him an almost angelic air. The smile is restrained, nearly solemn. Neither Addison nor Jake appears in the image.

She writes carefully, her handwriting precise.

She addresses an envelope to Seattle, seals it, and adds it to the outgoing mail without ceremony.

In Seattle, December arrives louder.

The entryway is cluttered with shoes kicked out of place. A box of ornaments sits open beside the door, its contents already migrating across the floor. Derek comes in carrying a stack of mail and immediately has to sidestep a plastic dinosaur Bailey has abandoned in the middle of the path.

“Daddy!” Zola shouts from somewhere in the house. “Bailey ate the glitter off the Christmas garland!”

Meredith’s voice quickly carries from the kitchen.

“He did not eat the glitter.”

“I licked it,” Bailey corrects, proudly.

Derek exhales, a sound that nearly turns into a laugh. He drops the mail onto the small table by the door, adds his coat to the growing pile, and crouches to intercept Bailey before his son can test another theory.

Later—after the garland is secured and the kids are occupied with overly sugary cookies and a movie about a princess who shoots snow from her hands, talks to a snowman, and solves everything by singing—Derek sorts through the mail. Most of it is predictable. He flips through the envelopes without reading until one makes him stop.

Los Angeles.

He opens it carefully.

The card is different from theirs—quieter, more composed. Henry is centered, the light balanced with precision, his expression thoughtful in a way that makes him seem older than he is. Addison’s presence is everywhere—contained, elegant, unmistakable.

Derek feels it all at once.

Immediate, fierce pride. Relief, that she has this. And something hollow, settling just beneath it.

He studies Henry’s face, the delicate seriousness of the smile, the way the light curves along the boy’s small cheek. He imagines Addison behind the camera, drawing that expression out with ease. He imagines her house, her morning, a life he is not part of.

Two things can be true at the same time.

Meredith leans against the counter nearby, watching him in silence. She notices the pause but doesn’t interrupt.

Derek sets the card down on the counter, then picks it up again and places it where it will stay—near the coffee maker, within easy sight.

In Los Angeles, Addison drops the outgoing mail into the box and doesn’t look back.

In Seattle, Derek hangs the last ornament on the tree, the lights blinking steadily.

December closes in around them both—full of children, noise, magic, and lives that worked.

Just not together.

And this year, that is a truth neither of them resents.

2023

If someone had asked Addison where she might be on a December night like this one, this would have been among the very last places she could have imagined.

The Columbia University alumni holiday reception unfolds around her. The Class of ’93—thirty years older and unmistakably louder—packed into a campus reception hall dressed in garlands and soft golden lights.

A Christmas tree occupies one corner, elegant and slightly excessive, its ornaments catching the light whenever someone passes nearby.

Addison nods politely as she drifts through a conversation she’s only half following. She smiles at a joke that reaches her a beat late. The sound feels displaced, as if it had taken a longer path to get to her.

In truth, she feels slightly adrift. Present in body, absent somewhere quieter. She’s here only because they insisted on honoring her tonight and she’s already been reminded more than once that she never attends events like this.

They aren't wrong.

She extricates herself gently from the conversation—something about kids in college (“Wow. Three already? That’s… wonderful.”)—and walks toward the tall windows lining the hall. Outside, snow falls lightly, visible beneath the yellow glow of the streetlights.

It’s beautiful, the thought slips in uninvited. New York in December always is.

Addison lets out a slow breath, adjusts the wine-colored shawl over her shoulders, and takes a small sip of champagne, as if she needs to anchor herself to something solid. The entire evening carries a faintly unreal beat: familiar faces softened by time, voices she recognizes before she can attach them to names, lives that branched off decades ago and never truly crossed again. Thirty years since medical school.

How did that happen?

Only yesterday they were all kids. Veins full of adrenaline and anxiety, learning to hold a scalpel without shaking. Life felt like an open map spread out in front of each of them, and they were all invincible, immortal.

So much has changed that, for a moment, she has to take a deeper breath to contain the thread of emotion threatening to spill over.

“Addie?”

The voice comes from just behind her.

Addison turns and for a second, she simply stops.

It’s Derek. Unmistakable, even after all these years. The tuxedo is formal in theory, but slightly undone in practice: the tie loosened, his posture too relaxed for the setting, as if he’d never quite fit into this kind of event. There’s a half-smile on his face, hesitant, careful.

She had imagined he might be here tonight. The thought had crossed her mind when the invitation arrived, but she’d dismissed it just as quickly. She hadn’t wanted to create expectations. Events like this were never very Derek. Never very either of them, in reality.

“Derek.”

She says his name evenly, despite the immediate acceleration of her heartbeat.

My God. They hadn’t seen each other in person for… years. Not truly.

They hesitate at first, but Derek moves first, stepping forward and offering an awkward, restrained hug. Addison shifts her champagne flute to her left hand and returns it lightly.

It’s quick, careful and unexpectedly comforting.

They step back and Addison realizes she’s smiling for real.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” she says.

He lets out a small, almost incredulous laugh. “I could say the same. You were never exactly a regular at these things.”

“I was bribed,” Addison replies flatly, lifting her glass in a dry, ironic toast. “Put a big enough award in front of me and, apparently, I’ll show up anywhere.”

His smile deepens, finally reaching his eyes. “Congratulations, by the way. I read the entire study.” A brief, sincere pause. “It was extraordinary. The award was more than deserved.”

She tilts her head, a flicker of warmth crossing her face. “I got the card and the flowers you sent.” A beat. “Thank you, again.”

“Of course,” Derek says easily. “Either way, you deserve to hear it again.” He holds her gaze. “This time, in person.”

There’s something inevitable in that. They grew professionally side by side, back when they were still just babies fresh out of med school, driven by ambition and not yet marked by time’s first disappointments. Nights that ran too long, victories both small and monumental, failures that shaped them both. It’s impossible for one person’s achievement not to reverberate in the other, even after life chose different paths for them.

Addison takes that in, then adds, her voice lower: “It was a team effort. But…” She exhales, honest, unguarded for a brief second. “I’m very proud of what it meant and of the results we achieved.”

He nods. For a moment, they simply look at each other. It’s surprising how easy it is to be together. Surrounded by people and noise, yet wrapped in a quiet kind of bubble that seems to exist just for them.

Derek breaks the silence, a spark of amusement in his eyes. “Thirty years,” he says. “It’s hard to believe how fast it went.”

She murmurs her agreement.

Neither of them mentions who should be here and isn’t. Nor the fact that, in another timeline, in a few months they would also be celebrating thirty years of marriage.

“If I’m being honest,” Addison says after a moment, “the twenty-something version of me could barely imagine making it to my mid-fifties.” She gestures vaguely toward the room—the shine, the rehearsed elegance, the carefully curated nostalgia. “I definitely didn’t picture myself at an alumni Christmas gala, talking about retirement, knee replacements and grandchildren. Grandchildren, Derek. How did we get this old so fast?”

He laughs.

“Don’t get me started… And yet, here we are.”

“Surreal,” she agrees.

Addison’s gaze drifts past him for a second—colleagues laughing in small clusters, a couple slow-dancing to a jazzy version of a Christmas song. From across the room, she spots one of the event organizers scanning the crowd, clearly looking for her. It won’t be long before she’s called to the stage.

She turns her attention back to Derek, tilting her head slightly. A familiar half-smile curves her mouth.

“To be honest,” she says, lowering her voice a notch, “I only came because I’m being honored. Free dinner and a plaque.” A brief pause. “Hard to resist.”

Derek laughs, unable to help himself. That dry humor was always a side of Addison few people truly knew. A side he used to love… in another life.

“Makes sense,” he says, still smiling. “That’s a reason that would’ve gotten me here too.”

She arches an eyebrow, amused. “See? Deep down, we’re still consistent.”

He holds her gaze a beat longer than necessary. There’s no effort there. No excessive caution. It’s surprisingly simple: talking, laughing softly, finding each other’s rhythm as if time hadn’t required any relearning at all.

“Some things don’t change all that much,” he replies lightly.

There’s a second of silence after that. A comfortable space, almost intimate, suggesting the conversation could stretch on indefinitely if the world didn’t have a habit of intruding.

And then the world intrudes.

“Shepherd! Is that you?”

A man in a navy blazer—another colleague whose identity Addison can’t immediately place—appears at Derek’s side with a smile far too expansive for the moment.

“Man, it’s been ages!”

He’s already pulling Derek into an exaggerated handshake, followed by enthusiastic claps on the back.

Derek turns, assembling a polite, slightly startled smile.

“Hey… wow. Hi.”

As the reunion sweeps him up, he sends Addison a quick, apologetic glance.

She answers with nothing more than a small nod and a knowing half-smile—something that says go on, I get it.

Then a hand touches her arm lightly.

“Dr. Montgomery, we’re just about ready for the presentation,” says the alumni coordinator, a woman with a kind expression who has spent the entire evening orchestrating honorees and schedules. “If you could come closer to the stage?”

“Of course,” Addison replies without hesitation.

Before stepping away, she meets Derek’s eyes one more time. He lifts his chin in a quiet, encouraging gesture and mouths, “Good luck.”

Her lips curve into a brief, almost private smile before she’s guided toward another part of the room.

Addison hasn’t prepared a speech and, thankfully, none is required.

Everything is kept relatively simple. One of the faculty directors speaks about the Catherine Fox Award, mentions her groundbreaking research in uterine transplantation, its clinical impact, its reach and achievements. Addison steps onto the small stage to warm applause and accepts the commemorative plaque.

The lights are bright, direct, but she still finds Derek in the crowd. He’s farther back now, arms crossed, watching her with a smile.

For a brief moment, she’s pulled into another life when she used to find his gaze across surgical galleries and lecture halls, and that single, silent exchange was enough to steady her.

She keeps her remarks brief. Thanks Columbia for the honor, acknowledges the colleagues who made the work possible. Makes a light joke about how she used to avoid alumni events, but might reconsider if they kept treating her this well.

A few laughs; applause again. Photos. Handshakes. Repeated congratulations. And then it’s over.

As soon as she can, Addison slips away from the stage and the small circles forming around her.

Derek finds her almost immediately, two fresh glasses of champagne in hand. He offers one to her.

“Congratulations again, Dr. Montgomery,” he says, lifting his glass for a second in an informal toast.

“Thank you, Dr. Shepherd.”

She taps her glass against his and takes a short sip. The golden liquid slides down her throat with an old, familiar comfort.

For a moment, they stand there, close, wrapped in a comfortable silence while the party carries on elsewhere in the room.

Derek tilts his head slightly. “So… how have you been?”

The honest answer is long. Too complex for that night. Addison opts for lightness.

“Oh, you know. Older, a little wiser, occasionally bored,” she says with a small smile. “Saving lives one uterus at a time.”

He lets out a low laugh. “Sounds about right.”

There’s something affectionate in his gaze. And something else, that neither dares to put a name on. They hover at the edge of saying more than what’s safe, but neither crosses that line. Addison breaks the silence carefully.

“And you? The kids… Meredith?”

Derek inhales slowly, as if organizing his thoughts.

“The kids are great,” he says. “Really great.” A small smile forms, almost involuntarily. “They grew up far too fast. They have opinions about everything now. Smarter than I’d like to admit.”

Addison smiles, genuinely. “I can imagine.”

“Zola was talking about surgical techniques over dinner the other night, can you believe it?” he adds, with a low, almost affectionate irony. “I thought I still had a few years before that.”

She lets out a brief laugh. “They take after you.”

“Unfortunately.”

There’s a short pause, almost imperceptible.

“Meredith is in Boston,” he adds, as if fitting in a missing piece.

Addison nods slowly, processing it. Boston. Not Seattle… Not here.

“And you?” she asks, her voice lower.

“I’m here.”

He holds her gaze as he says it. The answer is enough. It’s the implicit explanation Addison needed—the silent justification for the absence of a wedding band on Derek’s ring finger. She had noticed, of course. She couldn’t avoid it. Still, for a moment, she finds it strange that Amelia hadn’t said anything about this new development. Her former sister-in-law had never been one to stay neutral in matters like this, but maybe it was simply loyalty to everyone involved.

Derek frowns slightly, confused.

“I thought you knew,” he says, cutting himself off mid-thought.

“No,” Addison admits, simple and direct, not trying to hide her surprise.

“And… Jake?” he asks. “That’s it, right?”

“Yes.” Addison presses her lips together for a second before adding, “Jake is in Los Angeles.”

Derek nods. His gaze drifts briefly to her left hand, also bare. When he looks back at her, his voice is low.

“And you’re here?”

A trace of a smile appears on her lips.

“And I’m here.”

They don’t try to fill the silence that follows. They simply remain there, about a meter apart, champagne in hand, the unspoken words suspended in the air like the notes of Fade Into You beginning to echo.

The soft, almost ethereal melody—a recurring presence in the Brownstone, playing quietly on different nights—spreads through the room, pulling them out of the present and nudging them toward something that feels like it belongs to another life.

Derek moves first. He offers his arm, tilting his head slightly toward the main floor.

“Dance with me?”

Addison lets out a low, surprised laugh. She can’t help it.

“You don’t dance in public,” she teases, narrowing her eyes as if still deciding whether he’s serious.

His smile is easy, almost serene.

“Apparently, tonight I do.”

Derek leads her to a small open space where a few couples sway slowly to the music. The lights are lower there; the glow of the Christmas tree reflects softly in the window glass. Addison’s pulse quickens when he turns to face her. She rests one hand on his shoulder, and Derek slides the other to the gentle curve of her back. The touch is careful, nearly restrained and still, it sends an immediate jolt through her.

They begin to move with the music. It’s a simple sway, but Derek is steady, warm, present, and Addison relaxes without effort.

“I never really understood why you say you don’t like dancing,” she murmurs, almost casually. “You’re great dancer.”

He tilts his head, a half-smile forming.

“I make exceptions.”

“Oh?” She lifts an eyebrow slightly.

“I made a big one at our wedding,” he says, easily. “And a few other times.” 

Addison can’t deny it. They danced all night that glowing evening at The Plaza—laughed, spun across the floor without caring about the rest of the world, pulled guests along with them as if joy were contagious. Over the years, there were other exceptions too: hospital galas, formal events where he claimed he didn’t like dancing in public but always gave in when she wanted to. He always did. Until the moment he stopped showing up altogether, but she doesn’t let the thought go any further. Not when his hand fits so perfectly at her back after all these years.

“It’s true,” she says, simply.

Silence settles back in as they glide across the polished floor. Addison barely registers the rest of the room. There is only the small circle of light they share and the faint trace of his cologne—woody and far too familiar not to pull at some stored memory.

After a minute or two, Derek draws her a little closer. It isn’t presumptuous or rushed, just closer. Addison allows it. She moves her hand from his shoulder to wrap around his back, feeling the solidity beneath the fabric of his jacket. The way they fit together is still easy.

The song blends into another, softer one, and they keep moving without speaking. Addison closes her eyes for a moment, letting herself simply feel. She hadn’t realized how tense she’d been until now. The floor gives slightly beneath her feet with each step; Derek’s hand remains steady at her waist; around them, distant laughter and the clink of glasses mingle with the music into a comfortable murmur.

“This is… nice,” Derek murmurs low, near her ear, almost swallowed by the melody.

Addison opens her eyes. Her cheek is dangerously close to the collar of his jacket; she hadn’t noticed she’d drifted that near. She lifts her face just enough to meet his gaze.

“It is,” she answers at the same volume. “It really is.”

His eyes are a warm blue, fixed on hers with a quiet intensity that makes Addison’s heart miss a beat. She wonders what he sees reflected back in her eyes, whether he can tell that beneath the calm, something in her is still beating too fast.

She thinks of a dozen questions. Feels one of them nearly reach her lips. But the music shifts to a slightly more energetic rhythm, and the moment dissolves with the transition.

At some point in the evening, they lose track of how many songs they dance to, or how many conversations swirl around them. They stay together. At one point, Derek rests a hand at the small of Addison’s back and simply doesn’t remove it. She notices and lets him.

The night moves on like that—continuous, without clear markers. Occasional laughter, light, unassuming conversation, comfortable silences. There is no hurry.

Until, almost without warning, the room begins to thin out. The lights brighten subtly, signaling that the formal part of the event has come to an end.

Addison and Derek finally step apart, reluctantly. Addison blinks, adjusting to the brightness. People gather coats, exchange goodbyes. The band bows and begins packing up; the catering staff circulates, tidying what remains.

“Looks like they’re closing up,” Derek says, lightly, though something in him seems to resist the idea.

Addison surveys the nearly empty room. The night has faster than she expected.

“We closed the party,” she says with a low, slightly incredulous laugh. “I can’t remember the last time I stayed this late at one of these events.”

“Neither can I,” Derek admits.

And there it is, unspoken between them: they stayed because neither wanted to be the first to leave.

Addison feels warmth rise to her face. She occupies her hands smoothing an imaginary crease in her dress.

“I should probably go. They’ll be turning the lights off any minute now.”

“Of course.” His voice is polite, but he doesn’t move away. He watches as she picks up the plaque and her clutch from the side table. His coat lies draped over a chair; he grabs it, hesitates. “Where are you headed now? Are you… staying at a hotel, or…?”

“I’m at The Lucerne, on the Upper East Side,” Addison replies. “It’s not too far.”

He nods.

“I’m just a few blocks from here. I got a place in the city.”

Her eyebrows lift, surprised.

“Back in New York? After all this time.”

Derek offers a brief smile as he slips on his coat.

“It’s a long story.”

Addison hesitates for a moment, then asks, as if broaching the subject carefully:

“And… are you spending Christmas in the city this year?”

He tilts his head, as if he’s already thought about it more than once.

“I am.” A short pause. “Did Amy mention that Liz is hosting Christmas this year?”

“She did,” Addison confirms. “She said Liz was really excited about doing Christmas entirely her way.”

“She is,” Derek says, with a half-smile. “But I doubt it’ll be entirely her way. You know my mother and my sisters. They always end up micromanaging some part of Christmas.”

Addison can’t help a low laugh.

“Poor Liz.” A brief pause. “But you’re staying in the city straight through Christmas?”

“No. Before that, I’m flying to Boston to pick up the kids with Meredith.”

Addison nods slowly, taking it in.

“That’s how we’re doing it this year,” he continues, his tone practical, almost rehearsed. “Christmas with me. New Year’s with her.”

There’s no drama in the way he says it. Just logistics. An arrangement that’s been discussed enough not to require further explanation.

“And you?” Derek asks in return, with the same care. “Where are you spending Christmas?”

“In L.A.,” Addison answers. “My colleagues from the clinic are organizing a big celebration. We’ve grown really close… a sort of improvised family.”

He smiles faintly.

“Amelia always talks about your colleagues there. About how you all look out for each other.”

“I imagine she exaggerates a little,” Addison says, a half-smile tugging at her mouth. “But not entirely. We really have become family to each other. And now, with the kids, everything feels even closer. They’re always at one another’s houses, truly like cousins.”

“That’s wonderful, Addie.”

“It is,” she agrees. “Especially because Henry loves Christmas.” She pauses, the memory softening her voice. “All the little traditions—decorating the tree together, baking cookies, choosing ornaments, setting the house up bit by bit. So it’s wonderful to have everyone around this time of the year. He really enjoys it.”

Derek laughs. “Sounds like someone I know.”

Addison can’t help a light laugh in agreement.

She loves being able to share her own love of Christmas with her son—to build traditions that belong only to them, to watch the light in Henry’s eyes as they decorate the tree, the contagious excitement as they choose gifts for each member of their large, improvised Los Angeles family. The house always full of her friends’ children this time of year. All of it so different from the childhood she herself had. There is nothing more precious to her than her son’s happiness, and she works toward it every day—to make sure Henry has the best life possible.

“I’m sure he must be an incredible kid,” Derek says, with a genuine smile.

Addison doesn’t hesitate. “I’m biased, but he really is the best.”

There are dozens of questions she could ask in return—about Boston, about the kids, about how he ended up back in the city—but the middle of a nearly empty ballroom doesn’t feel like the right place. And, if she’s honest with herself, she isn’t ready for the night to end just yet.

Beyond the tall glass doors, small snowflakes spin under the campus lights, slow and quiet, as if the city has eased its pace to match the moment.

Derek follows her gaze outside. After a moment, he clears his throat.

“It’s late, but…” He tries on a light smile. “Would you like to take a walk? Around campus, maybe. Just for a bit.” A brief pause. “It feels like a waste to end the night now.”

Addison’s answer comes easily, matching his smile as she slips on her coat.

“A walk sounds perfect.”

A visible trace of relief crosses his face. In an old, familiar gesture, Derek steps forward and helps free her hair from the collar of her coat as she adjusts the fabric over her shoulders.

“Thank you,” Addison murmurs.

His hands linger for a second longer than necessary—a faint pressure through the fabric—before pulling away.

They step out together through the main doors. The air that greets them is sharp, cold enough to steal Addison’s breath for a moment. She tucks her chin into her scarf as they descend the steps. Tiny flakes of snow cling to her hair and to the fur trim of her coat. Derek pulls on a pair of leather gloves and, after a brief—almost shy—hesitation, offers his arm to Addison, who accepts without pause.

For a while, they simply walk. Their steps crunch softly over the thin layer of snow slowly gathering on the path. The campus is quiet at that hour; only the faint glow of a few dorm windows and scattered Christmas lights punctuates the darkness. The hush of falling snow forms a small cocoon around them, set apart from the rest of the city.

They pass the library, its grand staircase looming, then the old lecture building where they used to sit side by side, scribbling notes and whispering to each other. Addison slows as they approach a newly built glass atrium attached to one of the brick buildings she recognizes.

“Was that always there?” she asks, nodding toward the modern wing.

Derek follows her gaze.

“No. That’s new. Probably some expensive lab.”

Addison wrinkles her nose, amused.

“I miss the old brick buildings.”

He lets out a low laugh.

“We’re starting to sound old.”

Her shoulder brushes lightly against his arm as they walk.

“We are old.”

He laughs at that, and the silence returns as they follow a narrower path, lined with leafless oaks. Ahead, lit by a single streetlamp, the familiar façade of the anatomy lab building comes into view. The bricks look the same as they did decades ago; the tall, arched windows reflect the night.

Derek slows his pace.

“Did you come back here often?” he asks quietly.

“To New York?” Addison considers. “Or to Columbia?” She thinks for a moment. “I’ve been in the city a few times over the past years, for work or to see friends. Savvy and Weiss, mostly.” A short pause. “But Columbia… not much. A few events, conferences. You can count on one hand the times I’ve been back on campus.” She lets the air out slowly. “Life has been… somewhere else. This place feels like another dimension.”

He nods.

“And you?” Addison asks.

“The same,” Derek replies. There’s a brief silence before he continues. “I haven’t come back to New York much in recent years. Less than I should have.” A crooked half-smile appears. “Especially around the holidays. My mother was never very fond of that. My sisters even less so, as you can imagine. There were plenty of complaints over the years.” He shakes his head, almost in a belated apology. “But I’m trying to fix that now, especially because of the kids.” His voice drops slightly. “And because my mother isn’t getting any younger. Some things can’t be put off.”

Addison nods, slowly.

She had always loved Christmas with the Shepherds. That was no secret to anyone. The constant chaos, the crowded house, the nieces and nephews running from one end to the other, that sense of affection filling every corner of Carolyn’s house—even in the midst of the natural disorder of a big family. Losing that was one of the hardest absences after the divorce, especially in the early years. Still, she realizes, with a flicker of surprise, that over time she had stayed in closer touch with Derek’s sisters, nieces and nephews—sporadic messages, occasional calls, cards—than Derek himself had.

“I get it,” she says at last, simply. “Those moments… they matter.”

He looks at her for a second longer than necessary, as if recognizing something there.

“They do,” he agrees.

“I imagine your mother must be very happy this year, with everyone together.”

“She is. Even more so now that she’s just become a great-grandmother.” He pauses briefly. “Ryan had a baby. Which is still kind of surreal, considering that not so long ago he was just… missing his front teeth and—”

“Causing absolute chaos on Christmas morning,” Addison finishes.

“Exactly.”

“Ryan was always a… spirited child.”

“You mean terrible, don’t you?”

They both laugh.

“And now he’s a father,” Addison says, almost thoughtfully.

“Yeah.” Derek shakes his head, still amazed. “Can you believe that? And the baby is the most beautiful thing, green eyes and a full head of dark hair. Born just now, the first week of December.”

“A Christmas baby,” Addison says.

“Your favorite kind.”

Derek pauses, and from her expression he can tell it’s not news.

“But you already knew, didn’t you?”

She nods. “Nancy sent photos as soon as he was born.” A small, genuine smile. “He really is beautiful.” She hesitates for a moment. “I sent a gift.”

Derek lets out a low laugh, almost a sigh.

“Of course you did.”

There’s no irony in his voice, just recognition. Addison had always been like this with his family—present, attentive, often more so than he himself—and apparently some things hadn’t changed all that much.

They fall silent for a moment, until they stop right in front of the old building. Through the glass, the lobby is dark, but Addison can still make out the checkered tile floor, the bulletin board on the wall, even the display case with black-and-white photos of past classes. A wave of nostalgia washes over her and, for an instant, she can almost smell the formaldehyde of the first-year labs.

“This is where we met,” she says, watching the interior.

Derek steps closer beside her. Their reflections hover faintly in the glass.

“First day of med school,” he recalls.

“Anatomy lab,” Addison adds. “Mark wouldn’t stop talking.”

“Not for a second,” Derek agrees. “Naomi was trying to pretend she knew exactly what she was doing.”

“And Sam seemed strangely calm. Like all of it was… normal.”

Derek smiles at the memory.

“As for me,” he says, “I remember thinking, right from the start, that you had an absurd amount of dexterity.” A brief pause. “Even then, you always seemed to know exactly what to do with your hands.”

She tilts her head slightly.

“You weren’t far behind.”

“Only behind you,” he replies. “You finished first in our class. The first of many times.”

She shakes her head, almost laughing, as if the memory is too distant to fully fit in the present.

“My God,” she says quietly. “We were just kids.”

He agrees, his eyes still on the building. Then he says, simply, without emphasis:

“I’m glad we were there together.”

Addison’s throat tightens unexpectedly. Derek’s phrasing is deliberately ambiguous, but she can’t stop her heart from speeding up.

She lowers her gaze to the snow gathering at the tips of her shoes. The weight of everything unsaid—the past, the lost years, this strange, unforeseen present—settles around them, soft and inevitable.

Derek clears his throat, the quiet sound drawing Addison’s eyes back to him.

“Addison…” he begins, then hesitates. His expression is thoughtful, careful.

She waits.

“I wasn’t going to come tonight,” he admits at last. “You know… this kind of thing was never really my scene.”

She just nods, briefly, fully attentive—her whole body angled toward whatever comes next.

He gives a restrained, almost self-conscious smile. “I only came because I saw your name on the program. I saw you’d be here.”

The air between them stills, and time nearly seems to stop, except for the rapid beating of both their hearts.

“Oh,” Addison breathes, almost soundless.

“I just…” Derek searches her face, as if trying to confirm something there. “I didn’t want to miss the chance to see you. To congratulate you in person.” A pause. “It had been a long time.”

For a moment, Addison completely forgets the cold. The emotion rises in her chest unexpectedly, almost too big to hold. She blinks quickly, pushing away the sting in her eyes, and manages to keep a small, slightly unsteady smile.

“I’m glad you came.”

Something loosens in his expression—maybe relief, maybe gratitude. They hold each other’s gaze for a second longer than is safe, sharing a look that says too much to be comfortable, but that neither of them seems willing to break.

Then a gust of wind hits them, stirring the lapels of their coats and lifting a swirl of fine snowflakes around them. Addison shivers, and Derek reacts on instinct, running his hands along her arms to warm her. The gesture is old, automatic.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

She nods. “Just a little cold.”

He’s even closer now, his hands still resting on her arms, over the wool of her coat.

“We can go back inside,” he suggests quietly. “I don’t want you freezing out here.”

“I’m fine,” she answers too quickly. The truth is, she barely feels the weather. “The night is beautiful.”

He smiles at that—a soft, almost cautious smile.

Addison turns her face to look through the glass door again. In the faint reflection, she sees how close they are, his outline pressed near hers. Thirty years ago, they had stood in this same spot as students, with their whole lives opening out in front of them. Now, so much lies behind them.

And still, here they are.

She turns back to him. “Do you remember the night after the final anatomy exam? We snuck in here after hours, with a bottle of cheap champagne.”

Derek’s lips curve into an immediate smile of recognition.

“How could I forget?” He lets out a low laugh. “We’d just survived the first big challenge of med school. We thought we were invincible.” A brief pause. “Practically doctors.”

They both laugh softly, the sound dissolving into the cold air.

A snowflake lands on Addison’s lower lashes, and she blinks it away. When she speaks again, her voice comes out quieter, closer.

“That was the first night I realized…” She hesitates for the briefest instant. “…that I was truly in love with you.”

Derek’s breath catches. The smile disappears, replaced by something intent, delicate, almost disbelieving.

“Addie…”

He says her name as if it were a promise, and Addison’s eyes sting immediately. She lifts her face toward his. The streetlamp behind him casts a soft halo, and she notices the vapor of her own breath mingling with his.

At some point, without her quite realizing when, her hand finds the front of his coat, her fingers closing in the fabric as if to keep him there. Derek notices at once. Slowly, he raises his hand and slides his thumb along her cheek, brushing away a tiny bead of melted snow. Then his hand cups the line of her face, warm against cold skin.

Addison leans into the touch, her heart pounding so hard she’s certain he can feel it.

Derek’s gaze drops for an instant to her lips. He hesitates a second longer, offering space in case she wants to pull away.

She doesn’t.

He leans in, and Addison meets him halfway.

The first brush of their lips is soft, almost careful, like a question. Addison answers by moving closer, meeting his mouth with the same gentleness. A sigh slips from her before she realizes she’d been holding it, and Derek receives it with a low, restrained sound.

It’s different from every other time they’ve kissed—when they were young and everything felt incendiary; when they were married and everything was comfort; or in the later years, when the only constant feeling was that everything was about to collapse. This is something else, entirely new.

Sensing the weight of the moment, Derek wraps an arm more firmly around Addison’s waist, drawing her closer. She goes without hesitation, her free hand sliding up to the nape of his neck. His lips are steady, patient, tasting of champagne and winter.

The cold world around them dissolves. Addison notices nothing anymore but his warmth and the echo of her own pulse in her ears.

He deepens the kiss gradually, and she follows, a quiet intensity building between them. Her fingers lose themselves in the hair at the base of his neck. Derek lets out a low sound—a blend of relief and restrained desire—that nearly undoes her.

After so many years convincing herself that this part of her life was behind her, here they are in the very place where it all began.

They pull back slowly, reluctantly. Derek places one more tender kiss on her lips and then rests his forehead against hers. Addison realizes she’s trembling. It isn’t the cold; it’s the opposite of it.

With her eyes closed, she simply breathes for a moment. Derek’s hand moves in a calm, grounding motion along her back, as if trying to soothe the same tremor he must feel beneath his fingers. When Addison opens her eyes, she finds in him an expression she hasn’t seen in years.

“Hey,” he whispers, a nearly shy, almost boyish smile flickering into place.

A damp laugh escapes her, and Addison lifts a hand to her face to wipe away the tear that’s slipped free.

“Hey,” she answers, her voice unsteady.

They remain wrapped in each other, the only sounds their shared breathing and the soft thud of the icy wind against the glass door. Addison can’t remember the last time something felt so right. Derek rests his cheek against her head, and she closes her eyes again, listening to his heart beneath his coat. Neither of them is in a hurry to speak. In the silence, everything is understood.

She shakes her head, awed, a smile lighting her face.

After a moment, Derek lifts her chin with a gentle finger, searching for her eyes. His thumb glides along her cheek.

Addison draws in a shaky breath, the tenderness of it all almost too much to bear, until she manages a shy laugh.

“We should probably go,” she whispers, even though she makes no move to pull away.

“Probably,” he agrees, and still doesn’t move.

So they stay there a little longer, entwined beneath the snow that continues to fall softly.

Neither of them knows exactly what comes next and, for the first time, neither is in any hurry to find out.

It’s enough to be there, in the quiet glow of the old campus, before the building where everything began, and in the same season of the year that for so long had been inseparable from the two of them. Everything feels delicate, unexpected, and somehow still inevitable.

2024

In the week before Christmas, Derek shows up unannounced at Addison’s clinic in Los Angeles, without any fanfare or grand entrance. Just the secretary tapping lightly on the office door and saying, with a curious half-smile, that Dr. Shepherd is here asking if he may come in.

Addison looks up immediately. She glances at the clock on the wall for a second, then at the half-open door. Her chest tightens in a brief spasm. She exhales slowly, regaining her composure before replying, controlled: yes, he can come in.

Derek enters without ceremony, as if he’s been there hundreds of times. He’s without his coat, sleeves rolled up, his hair still slightly rumpled from the flight. The smile comes easily. Addison takes in every detail, her heart beating a little faster.

“Were you just passing through Los Angeles by any chance?” she finally asks, leaning casually against the desk. The tone is teasing, a raised eyebrow underscoring the question.

Derek tilts his head, pretending to consider the answer seriously. “If I said yes, would you believe me?”

“No.” Addison’s reply is immediate, without a trace of hesitation.

He lets out a brief laugh, conceding the point. “Fair enough. I came to see you.”

Addison narrows her eyes in mock solemnity and crosses her arms over her chest, as if scolding a mischief. “Dr. Shepherd, if someone overheard this conversation, they might think you have ulterior motives.”

“But I do.” Derek keeps smiling and takes a step forward, closing the distance between them. “Very deliberate intentions.” His voice drops a notch as he continues. “I’ve been trying to make that very clear for a year now… but someone has been bravely resisting my advances.”

“Resisting, no.” Addison corrects him, lifting a finger beside the arched eyebrow. “I’ve been cautious. Which, let’s be honest, is hardly a crime.” She lets a half-smile soften the statement. “Especially since a certain someone has a habit of running when things get intense.” The last sentence comes out quieter, almost a whisper, heavy with truths that don’t need to be said out loud.

The subtext hangs thick between them, dense with history, even as they both keep the tone light, almost careful.

Derek drops any pretense of joking. “Not anymore.” The two words land firm, leaving no room for doubt.

He runs his tongue over his lips before going on, his voice calm and sincere. “You can ask my therapist. It’s been an intense year of self-discovery, to say the least.”

Addison lets out a soft laugh and shakes her head, her lips curving into a smile she can’t quite contain. “Of course it has.”

Before she realizes it, she’s already moved closer. It’s an almost involuntary motion: Addison’s body steps into his space, guided by a familiarity long held in reserve. She presses her lips to Derek’s in a brief, deliberate kiss. There’s no rush in the touch. When she pulls back, her face remains inches from his, their breaths mingling.

Addison keeps her arms resting on his shoulders and lifts her eyes to meet his up close.

Derek can’t stop the sigh that escapes him in that moment.

“God… you look beautiful.” The pause is minimal, honest. “Even more beautiful.”

He tilts his face and kisses her again, quick, almost inevitable, as if his body decided before his mind did.

When they pull apart, Derek doesn’t step away. His hands remain in Addison’s hair, lightly playing with the red strands in an automatic gesture. For a second, she lets him. She feels the weight of the touch, how much it says without saying and it’s precisely that which makes her draw in a breath.

Addison pulls back just enough to create space between them. Her hand slides from his shoulder to his chest, a silent request for pause.

“But you didn’t come all this way just to tell me that, did you?”

His smile comes easily, unguarded.

“Just for that, no. But I can’t resist.”

For a moment, Addison allows the distraction again. She closes her eyes and lets herself stay there, fully in the present: the slow, rhythmic movement of Derek’s fingers in her hair, the familiar pressure of his hand, the way that simple gesture still finds her body without effort. A subtle shiver traces the back of her neck, slides down her shoulders and settles too low to be ignored. Her breathing shifts. Everything else falls away.

Time seems to lose its edges for a few seconds, almost long enough for her to forget what she was asking, what she needed to know. Then reality returns, firm and inevitable. Addison inhales deeply, creating space between them before the moment stretches too far.

“So…” She tilts her head slightly. “Are you really not going to tell me what you came here to do?” A brief pause before she continues. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

Derek sighs, a short sound that carries a silent apology. “Sorry about the surprise. I know you hate them.” He lifts one hand, conceding the point. “But I needed to see you. And I’ve learned—the hard way—that some things in life can’t wait.”

Addison stays quiet for a moment, her eyes studying every line of his face. Then she smiles softly. “There’s nothing to apologize for.” Her voice is low, sincere. “I loved the surprise.”

“Good.” Derek closes his eyes for a second and lets out a breath, clearly relieved.

They remain close, their bodies almost touching. Addison’s arms circle Derek’s neck again, and his hands now rest firmly at the curve of her waist. The warmth of his body seeps through the thin fabric of Addison’s dress, and she feels her heart hammer beneath the calm she’s projecting.

“So… Addie,” Derek resumes, his tone calm, measured. “I know the 24th and 25th are yours with Henry and Jake, which is great.” He pauses briefly, choosing his words. “And I say that without a trace of jealousy. Truly.” A half-smile. “I actually just ran into Jake in the hallway. It was all very civilized, exactly as it should be.”

Addison lifts an eyebrow, her lips curving into an almost amused smile. “Therapy?”

“A lot,” Derek admits, with a laugh that warms the air between them. “Like I said: it’s been an intense year.”

They laugh together now, that easy laughter of people who’ve finally learned how to laugh at themselves.

Derek dips his head a little closer toward her, without breaking eye contact. “So… I was thinking maybe…” He hesitates, choosing the next words carefully. “After that… you and Henry could come to New York and spend the rest of the holidays with us.”

Addison feels her heart skip a beat, but she doesn’t interrupt him. She only loosens her arms around him slightly, pulling back just enough to see his face better as he speaks.

“My whole family’s going to be together,” he continues, slowly. “The kids, my sisters, my nieces and nephews… everyone. And I’d love for you to be there too.”

Derek stretches slightly to reach the coat draped over the nearby chair. From one of the pockets, he pulls out a folded envelope and holds it out to her. “And you might not believe this, but my mother wrote this by hand.” He smiles crookedly, still surprised by it. “She said I’m not allowed to show up there without you.”

Addison takes the card carefully and reads the few handwritten lines. An incredulous laugh escapes her lips. “Derek…” She lifts her gaze from the paper, feeling her eyes grow damp.

“Addie…” Derek whispers, moving even closer. “Christmas is for spending with the people we love.”

The words hang in the silence between them.

Addison closes her eyes for a moment. It’s impossible not to remember the last time she heard something like that. Years ago, he’d said almost the same thing, and those words had sealed the end of everything, even though she had resisted admitting it at the time. Back then, they’d come with another confession, another name, another choice. Addison feels the old wound flare—brief and sharp—somewhere inside her chest.

But now it’s different.

Getting here hadn’t been easy. There was distance, silence, the constant motion of trying and retreating. But there was also hard-won growth and maturity.

Derek holds her gaze, steady. He lifts one hand to Addison’s face with almost reverent care, making her look at him without turning away. His voice comes out calm, filled with honesty:

“And you’re the person I love. You and the kids. You’re who I want to spend Christmas with and, well… the rest of the year too, if you want to. If you’ll let me.”

The impact of those words hits Addison full force before she can even think of an answer. Her chest tightens and her throat closes; her eyes burn with held-back tears.

The truth is, there is still so much to talk through, to align, to rebuild before a certain future can truly take shape. But in that moment, those words are enough to give her the certainty that it’s worth trying.

Derek tilts his head, almost resting his forehead against hers. His voice barely rises above a rough whisper now. “So… what do you say?”

Addison doesn’t answer with words.

In a quick, decisive motion, she grabs Derek by the lapel of his shirt and pulls him into her, kissing him deeply. He wraps his arms around her at once, firm and sure, as Addison gives herself over to the kiss without hesitation. There’s no urgency there, only choice. A choice that, in some way, both of they had already made.

A few moments later, she pulls back just enough to brush her lips against his and murmur, still against his mouth:

“Yes.”

It’s the same word she had spoken thirty years earlier, when Derek asked her to marry him on a cold December night, and once again, it feels absolutely right.

After all, some things remain unchanged—just like the magic of Christmas.