Chapter Text
Refusing to go to med school at Yale had probably been her first act of rebellion.
In her family, going to Yale was less a choice and more a tradition. An inheritance. An expectation passed down generation after generation. Her last name was etched into hallways, plaques, stories other people told with admiration. Her father—department chair, brilliant neurosurgeon, untouchable figure within the hospital—hadn’t just studied there; he belonged there. And by extension, everyone assumed Addison did too.
Over the four years of undergrad, she had learned exactly what that meant.
It didn’t matter how hard she studied, how precise she was, how flawless her evaluations turned out. There was always that noticeable pause whenever someone heard her full name. Always a second glance. A flicker of recognition that had nothing to do with her.
Montgomery.
And then came the rest.
"Are you Dr. Montgomery’s daughter?"
"Right. Okay, now it makes sense."
"It must be incredible having him as a father."
"And you’re saying you don’t like neuroanatomy? It’s in your blood. You can’t ignore it."
Sometimes the comments sounded admiring. Other times they were little more than whispers disguised as politeness. But they all carried the same weight: they reduced her. Compressed her until she became nothing more than an extension of someone else.
Because at Yale, Addison wasn’t Addison. She was "the daughter of."
The daughter of Captain Montgomery, the neuroanatomy professor. The brilliant neurosurgeon at New Haven Hospital. The man everyone respected… and the man everyone also talked about in lowered voices.
Because prestige didn’t erase the other things…
The uncomfortable looks in the hallways. The silence whenever she walked into a room that had been full of laughter seconds earlier. The secretaries whose tone shifted when speaking to her. The nurses who avoided holding eye contact for too long. And that constant awareness that her father was the kind of man who left a trail of rumors behind every closed door.
And as if that weren’t enough, there was Archer.
Her older brother, whose reputation mirrored their father’s almost perfectly. Charming, irresponsible, impossible to ignore. And more than once, his name dragged Addison’s along with it, as if they were inseparable even when she did everything she could not to be.
It was too much.
Too many looks, too many stories that didn’t belong to her. Too much weight tied to a last name she had never asked for.
So when the time came to choose where to study medicine, the decision had nothing to do with rankings or prestige. Quite the opposite. Yale was impeccable, perfect… and that was exactly why it was impossible.
Because staying meant accepting that she would never be evaluated for who she was, only for what came before her. It meant continuing to walk through hallways where every accomplishment would be interpreted as inheritance, never personal merit.
Leaving, on the other hand, was something else entirely. It was the possibility of starting over.
That was why she chose Columbia. Because it was far enough away. New York didn’t know her history. New York owed nothing to her last name. New York wasn’t going to look at her twice because of who her father was. Or her mother. Or her brother.
There, she could fail without it becoming a family scandal. She could stand out without someone attributing it to somebody else. She could simply exist without being an extension of the Montgomerys.
Moving away from Connecticut had been the second act of rebellion.
Leaving her hometown. Leaving home for the first time. Because during her four years at Yale, Addison had never needed to do that. Not the way everyone else did.
While her classmates fought over dorm rooms, learned how to live with strangers, and did their laundry in shared laundry rooms, she had continued living in the family home in Greenwich, just over forty minutes from campus. Forty minutes Robert, the family chauffeur, drove every morning without complaint—and sometimes at night too, whenever labs or rotations ran later than expected.
Bizzy considered it the most natural thing in the world: why squeeze yourself into a tiny room with a stranger, share a bathroom with an entire hallway of students, and sleep in a twin bed when you had your own bedroom, peace and quiet, and someone to drive you wherever you needed to go?
A Forbes Montgomery didn’t need that. A Forbes Montgomery had a home. And for four years, Addison had let that be true.
Until now.
Because turning down the family apartment in New York had been the third act.
Her mother had personally chosen and decorated it with the help of Susan, her assistant. It was spacious, immaculate, in exactly the right neighborhood for someone like her. Bizzy used it often whenever she traveled to the city and had simply assumed her daughter would stay there while attending med school.
But Addison rejected it without offering much explanation and instead chose an ordinary apartment in Washington Heights, on the fifth floor of a building near the medical campus.
It was small. Functional. Anonymous. No history attached to it. No expectations. A place where she could be alone and nobody would ask her anything.
Or at least that was what she thought until she slid the key into the lock and stepped inside… only to realize someone else had been there.
Or rather, not had been.
Someone was still there.
A half-finished cup of coffee sat forgotten on the table. Thin curls of steam still rose from it… meaning it was still warm. Off to the side rested a dark leather backpack slumped against a chair, too large and worn to belong to her. There was also a jacket thrown over the backrest, a pair of men’s shoes near the couch, and an open book lying face down as if someone had stopped reading only minutes earlier.
Fear shot through her chest so fast she dropped both suitcases she was carrying. She frowned, confused. Looked at the key still in her hand. Then at the number on the door.
"5A."
It was the right apartment.
Her apartment.
She had specifically chosen the top floor because she wanted silence. No one stomping around above her in the middle of the night, no neighbors dragging furniture across the floor while she studied, no constant noise breaking her concentration. Just the distant murmur of the city and the comfort of being high enough up to go unnoticed. Isolated enough that nobody would look at her too closely.
But before she could think any further, she saw the light at the end of the hallway—the bathroom light—suddenly switch off.
Addison immediately felt her shoulders tense. For a second she considered running. Finding the building manager. The police. Anyone. But before she could even move, she heard the dull sound of a door shutting, followed by footsteps.
Footsteps getting closer.
And then… a guy appeared. Thin, pale. Dark wavy hair… and an expression on his face that looked just as confused as hers.
"Oh… uh… Mark already left," he said, clearing his throat awkwardly.
Addison frowned even harder. Who the hell was Mark?
"For the party…" he added more quietly. "The welcome thing is downstairs on the first floor…"
"I have no idea what you’re talking about."
"Zoey, right?" he guessed. "Or… Mary? Rachel?"
"Addison."
"Right. Addison. Uh… I’m Derek," he said, holding out his hand with awkward politeness.
Addison didn’t even look at it at first. Her eyes dropped to the hand suspended between them as if the gesture itself irritated her. Then she slowly lifted her gaze back to his face.
And she didn’t shake it.
She left him hanging there for one painfully awkward second too long. Long enough for Derek to understand the rejection perfectly.
"Why are you here?" she asked at last.
Derek’s hand slowly dropped back to his side. "What do you mean?"
"This is my apartment."
Derek laughed. "No, it’s not."
"Is this 5A?"
"Yeah."
"Then it’s my apartment."
"No, it’s not," he repeated, slower this time, like he was explaining something obvious to a spoiled child. "It’s my apartment."
Addison let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "I have the damn key."
"So do I."
He slipped a hand into the pocket of his jeans and held up another identical key in front of her.
For a second they both just stared at each other in silence.
Then they spoke at the same time.
"That makes no sense."
"That’s impossible."
Derek let out a tired sigh and ran a hand through his still-damp hair from the shower.
"Look, I don’t know what mistake they made downstairs, but my friend and I got here at noon. I already unpacked my stuff. So maybe you should check the number again."
"Check the number again?" Addison repeated, offended. "Do you think I can’t read a fucking door?"
"I think somebody messed up."
"Yeah. Columbia. By assigning you my apartment."
He laughed again, though this time there was no humor in it.
Addison crossed her arms tightly.
"Listen to me carefully. I signed this lease two months ago. I called the housing office three times. If I didn’t get here earlier it’s because I live in Connecticut, and trust me, getting here today was not easy. This apartment is under my name."
"Mine too."
She clenched her jaw.
Derek looked only slightly less exhausted than she felt, but he had the kind of irritating calm that made you want to hit him. Like the whole situation seemed absurd to him more than concerning. Meanwhile, Addison could feel tension pulsing beneath her ribs ever since she had walked through the door.
Because this place mattered.
Not because of the apartment itself. It was small, old, and probably had heating problems. But she had chosen it herself. Alone. Without her parents’ opinions. Without the Montgomery name opening doors for her ahead of time.
And she wasn’t about to let some stranger show up out of nowhere and take that away from her.
"You need to leave," she said finally.
"No."
"You don’t—"
"I got here first."
"That doesn’t matter."
"It matters a lot if I already unpacked."
"Then pack it back up. I don’t care."
He stared at her for a few seconds. "I’m not leaving at nine at night because some rich girl decided so."
The comment hit harder than he probably intended.
Addison immediately stepped toward him. "Excuse me?"
"The Louis Vuitton luggage kind of gives it away."
"You know absolutely nothing about me."
"And you don’t know anything about me either, so stop acting like you own the building."
"I own this apartment. At least for the next year."
"No, you don’t."
"Yes, I do!"
"You don’t."
Their argument bounced off the narrow walls of the apartment, mixing with the distant sound of music drifting up from somewhere downstairs. The party the second-years were throwing was still going on out there. Laughter, footsteps, someone yelling something. All of New York moving around them while they seemed trapped in a conversation that kept getting more ridiculous.
Addison spun sharply toward the door.
"Fine. I’m getting the building manager."
"Go ahead."
She grabbed the doorknob too hard and pulled—
But the door didn’t move.
She frowned and tried again.
Nothing.
"What did you do?" she asked, glaring at him.
"Me? Nothing."
Derek walked over with obvious annoyance and gently pushed her hand aside.
"Let me."
He turned the key from the inside and shoved the door with his shoulder. A dull clunk echoed through the lock mechanism… but the door stayed shut.
"Oh, great," he muttered.
"What do you mean, ‘great’?"
Derek twisted the key again, harder this time. Metal scraped inside the lock.
"I think it’s jammed."
"What do you mean jammed?"
"I mean the lock is a piece of shit. It’s stuck."
Addison felt panic slowly rise into her chest. "Move."
She snatched the key out of his hand before he could protest and tried turning it herself with more force.
The key barely moved half an inch.
"Don’t force it that hard," Derek said immediately.
"I’m not forcing it."
"You’re literally bending it. You’re gonna break it."
"Then help me, damn it!"
He stepped closer again, and somehow they both ended up gripping the key at the same time, awkwardly struggling in front of the door.
"To the left."
"I am turning it to the left!"
"Well, turn better."
"Oh, you want to do it?"
"Clearly." Addison scoffed and yanked hard before suddenly letting go.
And then came a—
Crack.
Both of them froze.
Very slowly, Derek lowered his gaze toward the lock and…
Half the key was still stuck inside it.
The other half remained in Addison’s hand. The break was so clean it looked almost intentional.
Silence filled the apartment. Derek closed his eyes for a second.
"Tell me that didn’t just happen."
Addison stared at the broken piece between her fingers.
"…I think the key broke."
"Yeah. I can see that."
He tried pulling the fragment out of the lock with his fingernails, but barely managed to move it. It was completely lodged inside.
"Perfect," he muttered, letting his forehead fall against the door. "Perfect. Locked in. Amazing."
Addison swallowed slowly.
"There has to be another way out."
Derek let out a dry laugh. "It’s the only door. We’re on the fifth floor. Unless you want to jump off the balcony…"
"And let you keep my apartment? Not a chance."
The look he gave her was half exhaustion, half disbelief.
Addison ignored him. She was already turning in circles again, too worked up to stay still. She dropped the broken piece of key onto the table and started pacing through the tiny apartment like the solution might suddenly appear hidden somewhere in the walls.
Because there had to be a solution… right? There always was.
"There’s gotta be a phone," she muttered, more to herself than to him.
Derek was still leaning against the door, watching her. "I think there was one downstairs in the hallway."
"Perfect, then—"
She stopped herself as soon as she realized how absurd the sentence was.
They couldn’t get into the hallway.
"Okay. Fine… okay."
She started pacing again. Nervous. Fast. The sound of her heels echoed against the old hardwood floors while she tried to think.
"Maybe the building manager has a spare key."
"Probably."
"Then we just need to call."
"Using what phone?"
Addison immediately turned toward him. "You don’t have one?"
"I haven’t had the line installed yet."
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Of course he didn’t. It was the first day. They had both just arrived.
She dragged both hands over her face in frustration before walking toward the living room window. She yanked it open, and the nighttime sounds of New York immediately flooded into the apartment: distant horns, muffled music, voices blending into the warm late-summer wind.
Five floors below, the building lights were still on. The party seemed concentrated in one of the first-floor apartments; she could hear laughter even from up there.
"Hello?!" Addison shouted outside.
No answer. Just a siren cutting through some distant avenue. Derek let out a short laugh from the chair.
"Yeah, I’m sure all of Manhattan’s gonna stop because we’re trapped…"
She ignored him. Leaned farther out the window.
"Is anyone down there?! Hey! We need help! Heeelp!"
Nothing.
A taxi sped down the wet street below. Addison slammed the window shut and turned back toward the apartment, taking a deep breath, trying to stay calm even though she was clearly losing it layer by layer.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered. "Completely ridiculous. How the hell does a key even break like that?"
"Well… you were trying to rip the door off the hinges."
"You were wrestling with it too."
"Yeah, but you’re the one who broke it…"
She shot him a murderous glare.
Derek barely lifted his hands in surrender before sinking farther into the chair by the table. He already seemed weirdly resigned. Like he had accepted his fate much faster than she had.
That only irritated her more.
"How are you so calm?"
"I’m not calm."
"Yeah, well, you seem pretty calm."
"I have four sisters. Trust me, I’ve lived through worse."
Addison opened her mouth to answer, but before the words came out… she stopped and looked at him more carefully.
His hair was still damp. His T-shirt slightly wrinkled. Faint shadows sat beneath his eyes. There was something tired about him, even sitting still like that. Something that didn’t quite fit the relaxed arrogance he’d shown at first.
Derek rested an elbow on the table and watched her make yet another lap around the apartment.
"You’re gonna wear a hole into the floor if you keep pacing like that."
"I’m thinking."
"You’re panicking."
"I am not panicking."
"Uh-huh."
Addison yanked open one of the kitchen cabinets too hard. Empty. Then another one.
Also empty.
"What are you looking for now?" he asked.
"I don’t know. Something."
"Very specific."
She slammed the cabinet shut. "Could you stop making comments for thirty seconds?"
"I could. But honestly, this is the most entertaining thing that’s happened to me all week."
Addison let out an exasperated sigh.
The music still pulsed downstairs. She could picture exactly what the party looked like: new students trying to impress each other, cheap alcohol, people desperate to seem confident even though they were probably just as terrified as she was.
And she was trapped up there… with a stranger. In an apartment she still wasn’t even sure belonged to her.
Finally, she slid down to the floor, resting her head against the wall near the kitchen and crossing her arms tightly.
"This cannot be happening on the first day. I mean, it’s not even the first day. I haven’t even started yet and this city already feels like it’s trying to spit me back out. I almost lost one of my suitcases at the airport because the stupid carousel stopped without warning and mine got stuck on the other side. The flight was delayed an hour and a half because of the storm, and then another forty minutes because the pilot decided he needed to check something in the engine right when we were about to take off. Some kid kept kicking my seat the entire flight, and when I politely asked his mother to control him, she looked at me like I was the problem. Then the cab driver charged me double the normal fare because I had too much luggage to argue with him, he accidentally broke my suitcase and didn’t even apologize. I stepped straight into mud getting out because there was a giant hole in the sidewalk that apparently nobody thought needed to be marked. And after all of that… this stupid apartment, you, the lock, the key. Ugh… Bizzy was right."
Derek tilted his head slightly.
"Who’s Bizzy?"
"My mother."
It caught his attention that she didn’t call her own mother "Mom," but he didn’t say anything.
"She said I wouldn’t survive a single day on my own in New York, you know, without their help. And it’s not like I don’t have it anyway. I mean, if I were really on my own, I’d probably end up homeless. So fine, I accepted enough help. But… you know!"
He blinked. "I actually don’t know."
"I managed to make some money on my own for the first time in my life, okay? I tutored at Yale over the summer. Organic chemistry, mostly, although I also did a few biochem sessions for first-years who were on the verge of a breakdown in June. And before that, the summer before, I worked as a waitress for exactly five days before Bizzy found out and nearly called a lawyer. After that I told her it was volunteer work at a clinic, which was a lie, but at least it was volunteer work at a clinic, you know. The point is… I earned something. Not much. Not enough to pay for anything that actually matters. Not tuition, not the apartment, nothing except my economy-class plane ticket on a one-hour-and-fifteen-minute flight and the cab driver’s ridiculous fare. So yeah, obviously they’re paying for the rest. I’m not stupid enough to turn down their help with my education. But still… I turned down the rest. The car, the luxury apartment, the unlimited credit card. I turned all of that down and ended up here. Trapped. Holding half a key in my hand."
"Hmm. Must be rough."
"I know I sound like an ass."
She went quiet the moment the words left her mouth.
Because yeah. She did.
She was sitting on the floor of a perfectly functional apartment, at a university she had gotten to choose, with two Louis Vuitton suitcases full of clothes she hadn’t paid for herself, complaining about a cab driver overcharging her for a ride her parents would reimburse without even asking how much it cost. Complaining about a delayed flight she had arrived at in a chauffeured car from a six-bedroom house in Greenwich. Five days as a waitress and one summer of tutoring, and she acted like she had built something from scratch.
She shut her mouth.
Derek didn’t say anything. He didn’t laugh or use the silence to throw another comment at her.
He just let her sit there with it. Quietly.
Addison rested the back of her head against the wall and stared at the ceiling for a moment.
"I just wanted to accomplish something," she said finally, her voice quieter now. The sharpness from before was gone. "Just one thing that was mine. That didn’t come with the last name or somebody else’s checkbook attached to it. That when someone asked me how I got here, the answer would simply be… me. Just me."
She paused.
"I guess that didn’t work out so well either."
He rested his elbows on his knees and looked at her for a second without saying anything. Then he glanced toward the window, where the reflections of the city flickered faintly against the glass.
"It worked out well enough to get you here," he said finally, without emphasis. He didn’t want it to sound comforting.
Addison didn’t answer.
Derek walked to the fridge, opened it, and pulled out two small beers. He held one out to her.
"I don’t like beer," she muttered.
Derek rolled his eyes. "It’s not like we can go buy something else. It’s either this or water."
She gave a small shrug. "I have red wine in my bag."
"They let you fly with a bottle of wine in your bag?"
"Obviously not. I bought it here… right after I landed. You know. To forget about the little demon child on the plane for a while."
Derek looked at her with an expression somewhere between disbelief and reluctant admiration.
"Do you have wine glasses?" she asked.
"I barely have disposable cups. Two of them."
Addison twisted her mouth. "Okay. Give me a second."
She pushed herself up from the floor with less grace than she probably intended—her bag had ended up near the door, half crushed beneath one of her suitcases—and started digging through it. Derek watched without moving, the unopened beer can slowly turning between his fingers.
"Found it," she announced, holding up the bottle like a trophy.
It was a Cabernet Sauvignon. A pretty good one, too. He noticed immediately, though he didn’t say anything.
"Corkscrew," Addison said then, looking around.
"Don’t have one."
"I figured."
She turned the bottle in her hands, thinking. Then she walked into the kitchen and started opening drawers with the same systematic method she had used earlier on the cabinets. Silverware. A roll of duct tape. Nothing else.
"There has to be something," she muttered.
"What about a knife?"
"What do I want a knife for?"
"To push the cork in."
She looked at him for a second with an expression that wasn’t exactly gratitude but wasn’t her usual rejection either.
"Not ideal," she said finally.
"No, but it’s Friday at ten at night and we’re locked on the fifth floor."
Addison opened another drawer. She found a butter knife, which clearly wasn’t going to help, and then—after digging a little more—a flathead screwdriver someone had forgotten in the back, rusted at one end with a cracked handle.
"This," she said, holding it up.
Derek wrinkled his nose. "You sure?"
"I think so. Come here."
He walked over. Addison held the bottle against her torso with one hand and tried wedging the screwdriver into the edge of the cork with the other. The metal slipped twice in a row. The third time she managed to push it in maybe half an inch.
"Press harder," Derek said.
"I am pressing harder."
"You’re squeezing the bottle, not the screwdriver."
"Can you help instead of commenting?"
Without another word, he held out his hand and she handed him the bottle. Derek braced it against his hip, adjusted the screwdriver more firmly, and started twisting with slow, steady pressure. The cork moved a millimeter. Then another.
"It’s working," Addison said, leaning in for a better look.
"Yeah. Careful, don’t get so close."
"I’m looking."
"You’re in my space."
"It’s my apartment. Everything is my space."
Derek exhaled through his nose, somewhere between a laugh and exhaustion, and kept twisting. The cork rose with excruciating slowness until, with a dull satisfying pop, it finally came out in one piece.
Both of them stayed quiet for a second.
"Okay," Addison said.
"Okay," he repeated.
She took the bottle and looked at it. Then toward the kitchen, where the two disposable cups still sat on the counter, wrinkled and dusty from storage. She considered them for a moment with an expression that didn’t hide her opinion very well.
"It’s more dignified to drink straight from the bottle," she said finally.
Derek looked at her. "Excuse me?"
Then Addison drank first. A long sip, careless and inelegant, wiping the rim of the bottle with the back of her hand before passing it to him. Derek drank too. The wine was good—noticeably better than anything he would’ve expected to find in a situation like this—and somehow that made the night feel like it contained at least one reasonable thing.
They ended up on the couch.
Not because they wanted to, exactly. It was more the inevitable result of two people standing around in a tiny apartment with nowhere else to go, and the couch being the only remotely comfortable piece of furniture available. Addison sat down first, deliberately leaving space between herself and the other end. Derek took the opposite side with the same logic. The bottle sat on the coffee table between them.
Outside, Manhattan kept being Manhattan. Sirens. One long furious car horn. The muffled rhythm of music drifting up from somewhere downstairs.
"How long do you think we’ll be stuck here?" Addison asked.
Derek stared at the ceiling for a moment, calculating. "Depends when somebody comes through the hallway."
"It’s Friday."
"Exactly. So either very soon or around three in the morning when the party ends."
Addison closed her eyes briefly. "Three in the morning."
"Probably."
"Fantastic."
She grabbed the bottle from the table and took another drink. Derek held out his hand without looking at her, and she passed it over automatically now, like shared territory they hadn’t officially negotiated.
"We could yell," she said, "when somebody walks by."
"We could try."
Addison leaned her head against the back of the couch and looked toward the window.
"You have classes tomorrow?" Derek asked.
"No. Orientation’s Monday. You?"
"Same."
"So technically we could stay trapped in here until Sunday and it wouldn’t affect anything."
"Technically… or just until Mark comes back," Derek said, and there was something in his voice that wasn’t exactly annoyance but wasn’t entirely neutral either. "Assuming he comes back tonight."
"That doesn’t make me feel better."
"Yeah, me neither."
"He’s not coming back?"
He exhaled through his nose.
"Depends. If he finds someone… maybe not. Or he’ll show up at four in the morning with her. Or without her but smelling like somebody else’s perfume." He went quiet for a second. "I know him."
Addison glanced at him sideways, noticing something in his tone. "Does it bother you?"
Derek took a moment before answering.
"Mark is… I don’t have any blood brothers, but he’s the closest thing I’ve got to one. We grew up together, same school, same college, same building now. If there was ever a point in my life where I needed someone, he was there. No exceptions." He paused. "But there are times when I watch him run off after a woman, or several women, and disappear for three days… and I don’t get it. Never really have. So yeah, maybe it bothers me a little."
"I have a brother and sometimes I can’t tell if I love him or hate him. Especially when he gets… too interested in women. If you know what I mean…"
"That’s exactly what I mean."
"Hmm."
The bottle kept circulating between them. The wine level had already dropped below halfway.
"Medicine?" Derek asked suddenly, changing the subject.
Addison glanced at him sideways. "How do you know?"
"The medical campus…"
She gave a small nod. "You too, I’m guessing."
"Yeah."
"What specialty?"
Derek took a second.
"Neurosurgery. Probably."
Addison didn’t answer immediately. Something in her expression shifted very slightly, a tension flickering in and out before it could fully settle.
"And you?" he asked.
She looked down at the bottle in her hands.
"I still don’t know. Anything except neuro."
Derek only raised his eyebrows slightly. He didn’t ask anything else.
Addison looked down at the bottle she was holding and took another sip. The wine was starting to do its job now, that slow warmth spreading upward from her chest, loosening something she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding tight. She wasn’t drunk yet, but she had crossed that invisible line where things started mattering a little less than they should.
Or maybe a little more.
That was when she looked at him.
Not the way she had before, all irritation and desperation. This was different. More honest, maybe, than the wine would’ve allowed her to admit if she’d been completely sober.
His dark hair had almost fully dried by now, the waves more defined as they fell slightly across his forehead. Clean jawline. Very blue eyes. The kind of face that didn’t have to try to be memorable.
He was handsome.
Objectively. Uncomfortably handsome. Hot, even when he wasn’t doing anything to prove it.
Addison looked away toward the window immediately, though it was already too late for the thought not to settle in her mind.
"You have nice hair," she said before she could stop herself.
Derek glanced down for a moment. Shifted slightly on the couch, unsure what exactly to do with that comment.
"Oh—" she rushed out, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. "Sorry. I… um… I didn’t mean it like that. Just… sorry."
"Huh?"
"You have a girlfriend, right?" she continued, stumbling over her own words a little. "God, she’s gonna be furious when she hears about all of this. And honestly, she should be. I mean, no amount of explanations would make this sound believable. There’s no way you don’t come off looking like a liar, I mean…"
Derek laughed. A short laugh, without any meanness behind it.
"I don’t have a girlfriend."
"Oh." Addison paused. "Great."
"Great?"
"Not great." She closed her eyes for a second. "Just… um… you know, less complicated. For the situation. For explaining to someone that you’re trapped in an apartment with a stranger at…"
She turned toward the clock on the wall.
10:47.
Ugh. The hands seemed to be moving slower on purpose. Every minute took twice as long to pass. Or maybe it was the wine. Or maybe the whole night had simply decided to stretch itself into something unbearable.
Addison rested her head against the back of the couch and closed her eyes briefly. Music still drifted up from downstairs now, slower now, heavier, mixed with laughter muffled through the ceiling and walls.
The bottle passed back and forth between them again without either of them mentioning it.
"So why medicine?" Derek asked after a while.
Addison opened her eyes. "Sorry?"
"Why you’re going into medicine." He shrugged slightly. "We’ve got time."
She considered the question more seriously than it probably deserved at that hour and with that amount of wine in her system.
"Family obligation, I guess."
"You guess?"
"I never really thought about it that much." She paused. "That sounds awful. But it’s true. In my family, medicine just… is what you do. What everyone did. You know, my father’s a surgeon. His father was a surgeon, my uncles are surgeons. It’s what I was supposed to do too. And at some point I just accepted it without questioning it much… because it’s been that way for as long as I can remember." She slowly turned the bottle in her hands. "I don’t know if that makes me brave or pathetic."
"And do you like it?"
Addison took a second before answering.
But she did take a second.
And that meant something.
"Yeah," she said finally. "I do. More than I expected, considering I didn’t even consciously choose it completely. But… yeah, I’m good with sutures and scalpels. I’ve got a good memory, I learn fast, I react fast. Blood doesn’t bother me. Or bodily fluids. And… I like the idea of being useful. Of someone needing you and you actually being able to do something about it. Not just stand there. But know. Have the tools and use them to change someone’s life… to save it."
Derek listened without interrupting her. Without the sarcasm from earlier. He simply listened, with that same calmness of his that no longer irritated Addison the way it had at first.
"There’s something about it," she continued more quietly, almost like she was thinking out loud instead of talking to him, "about someone coming into your hands broken and you being the difference. It’s not your last name, it’s not money, it’s not your parents, none of that. Just you and what you know how to do." She let out a small laugh that wasn’t entirely happy. "I mean, it’s the only thing I can think of where a last name can’t do anything for me. In an OR, either you know what you’re doing or you don’t. No last name can buy that."
Derek didn’t answer right away. He looked toward the window for a moment.
"And needing to be needed?" he asked, without emphasis. It was a genuine question.
Addison glanced sideways at him. "Is there something wrong with that?"
"I didn’t say that."
She considered the response.
"My family’s very good at being present without actually being useful," she said finally. "They’re experts at it. You can have all of them in the same room and still feel completely alone. So… yeah. I guess I want the opposite. I want it to matter when I’m in a room with someone. I don’t want to just be decoration."
She said it without drama. Without the bitterness she’d had earlier when she was sitting on the floor feeling like the whole city was collapsing on top of her.
Derek took a long drink before handing the bottle back to her.
"I guess that makes sense."
"And you? Why did you choose medicine?" Now it was her turn to ask.
"For the same reason."
"Your parents are doctors?"
Derek shook his head. Took a second before answering.
"No."
Addison raised an eyebrow.
He looked at her. "When I was fourteen, my father was murdered right in front of me."
"Oh… my God. I’m so sorry."
Derek gave a small nod. Those words didn’t really do anything for him anymore. He’d been hearing them for at least eight years.
"It happened in our store," he said. "Two armed guys came in trying to rob him for money and his watch. He refused because that watch was a gift from my mom… so one of them shot him. In the abdomen."
He stopped.
Addison didn’t say anything. She just listened.
"I was there." Derek rested his elbows on his knees and looked at the floor. "Two feet away. I was with my little sister, Amy. She was five. I covered her mouth so she wouldn’t scream and hid with her behind the counter while it all happened. I watched him fall. Then I watched him bleed out on the floor for… I don’t know how long. Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Until the ambulance got there. And I didn’t do anything. I just froze there watching him, not knowing what the hell to do with my hands."
"Oh…"
"I still think about it," he continued, his voice lower now. "I think that if I had known then. If I had known where to press to stop the bleeding, how much pressure it takes, how to hold someone while they’re losing consciousness. If I had known CPR when he stopped breathing before the paramedics arrived…" He paused. "Maybe he’d still be alive. Maybe not. But at least I would’ve done something. Something other than standing there watching the life leave him without being able to touch him."
Addison held the bottle without drinking from it.
"I had four sisters and a widowed mother," Derek said. "I was the only man in the house after that." He leaned back slightly against the couch, staring at the ceiling. "So I guess at some point I decided I was never going to be in a room, or a store, or anywhere in the world ever again without knowing what to do when somebody’s dying right in front of me."
Silence settled between them.
"That’s why medicine," he said finally. Without emphasis. Like it was the simplest conclusion in the world.
Addison looked at him for a moment without saying anything. There was something in the way he had told the story—without asking for pity, without dressing it up—that made any response feel either too much or not enough.
"And neuro?" she asked quietly after a moment.
Derek took a second. Something in his expression shifted slightly, softened just a little, as if this part was different.
"The brain’s the only thing you can’t replace," he said. "A heart beats or it doesn’t. A bone breaks and heals. An artery gets repaired. But the brain… the brain is you. Your memory, the way you talk, what you say to your kid before bed, how you recognize your mother’s face." He paused. "When you operate on somebody’s brain, you’re not operating on an organ. You’re operating on who that person is. What’s left of them in the world." He lifted one shoulder slightly. "That feels like… I don’t know. The closest thing there is to touching something that actually matters."
Addison looked down at the bottle in her hands.
Empty.
The last drop had disappeared at some point without either of them noticing. She set it down on the coffee table.
A silence settled between them that wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just silence.
Then Derek turned toward her. "Can I ask why not neuro, in your case?"
She made a face. "Because it’s boring."
He laughed. "I don’t think that’s actually why."
Addison held his gaze for a second.
"No," she admitted finally. "It’s not."
"Then what is it?"
"My father’s a neurosurgeon. Neuroanatomy professor at Yale. And… I hate him."
Derek waited without saying anything.
She rested her elbow against the back of the couch and turned slightly toward the window, as if it were easier to talk without looking directly at anything.
"I’m eight years old. And my father takes me to his office on a Saturday morning because he says he wants to show me something important. Something only doctors know how to do." She paused briefly. "He takes a sausage out of the mini fridge behind his desk, puts it on a dissection tray, and hands me a scalpel. Explains how to make a clean incision to separate the skin from the muscle. Says it’s like the dura mater. That if I learn to feel tissue resistance young, I’ll have an advantage over everyone else by the time it matters."
Derek watched her without interrupting.
"And I do it. Eight years old, scalpel in hand, cutting into a sausage in my father’s office." She let out a short laugh that carried very little amusement. "I was proud, too. I felt incredible." The laugh disappeared as quickly as it had come. "Then he told me to wait a minute because he needed to go get something. And I stayed there alone in that office with the scalpel and the tray, waiting."
She stopped.
"And?" Derek asked calmly.
"And forty minutes went by," Addison said. "Maybe more. I couldn’t really read a clock properly yet, so I can’t tell you exactly. But I know it was ten in the morning when we got there, and by the time he came back, the light coming through the window had changed. That kind of light you get around noon." She paused briefly. "When he came back, his hair looked different. And he smelled like Camilla’s perfume."
"Camilla?" Derek asked.
"His assistant."
Derek said nothing.
"I was eight," she repeated more quietly. "I didn’t fully understand what it meant. But I understood enough to know something was wrong. That he hadn’t gone to get supplies. That the messy hair and perfume that wasn’t my mother’s weren’t a coincidence. I understood enough to suddenly feel strange sitting in that office. Enough to want to leave."
Derek stared at the floor, elbows resting on his knees.
"I never told my mother," Addison continued. "Not that day or afterward. Because after that there were more days like it. More times waiting in his office or the campus library while he disappeared for half an hour. More different perfumes. More excuses I learned to recognize before he even finished saying them. Camilla was first, then a resident, then one of the nurses, then another resident, one of my nannies…" Her voice held no drama. It sounded almost clinical, like she was listing symptoms. "And in the middle of all that, he’d come home to dinner and explain to Bizzy what an amazing day he’d had. How many students needed him. How important he was at the hospital. And she’d listen with that look she has, you know, immaculate, perfect, like she believed every word. Or like she had decided it was easier to pretend she did."
Derek looked up at her.
"I still don’t know," Addison said, answering the question he hadn’t asked. "Whether she knows or not. Whether she always knew. Whether she chose to ignore it. I don’t know, and I’m not sure which possibility feels worse."
Silence stretched between them. A few seconds that somehow felt endless.
"So it’s not neuro…" Derek said finally.
"It’s not neuro," she confirmed. "Neuro is actually fascinating. Objectively. What you said earlier, about operating on someone and touching who they are… I get it. It makes sense." She leaned her head back against the couch. "But every time someone mentions neuroanatomy, or the dura mater, or the Sylvian fissure, or anything else from that goddamn field… I see him. Standing in that office teaching me how to hold a scalpel, with all that perfect fatherly patience. And then I see the noon light through the window and the messy hair when he came back." She paused. "I can’t separate them. They’re the same image."
Derek didn’t answer immediately.
"And the worst part," Addison said more quietly, "is that everyone at Yale adores him. He’s brilliant in the OR, and in the classroom too, I won’t deny him that. Maybe that’s the one thing I can’t take away from him. But outside of that he’s… he’s a completely different kind of man. And nobody sees it. Or they don’t want to. And I had to walk through those same hallways every day carrying that last name, smiling whenever someone told me how lucky I was to have a father like that. Adulterer. Womanizer. Irresponsible enough to drag me into those awful moments since I was a child…"
She went quiet.
"That’s why Columbia, actually," she said finally, almost to herself. "That’s why this ridiculous fifth-floor apartment. That’s why all of this, I guess."
Derek glanced up at the ceiling for a moment. Then looked at her sideways.
"That makes sense," he said. And he didn’t add anything else.
He didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t search for some comforting angle or a sentence that would redeem any part of it. He just let it stay there in the air, as something that was simply true and didn’t need correcting. It wasn’t really his place to keep talking to her about it anyway, especially considering he’d known her for a little over two hours. Three, actually, because time—however slowly—was still moving.
Addison looked at the empty bottle on the coffee table.
"What a pair we are," she said finally, something almost like a smile pulling at her mouth. "You with your father and me with mine."
"Yeah," Derek said. "Although the reasons aren’t exactly similar."
"No," she admitted. "Yours are much worse. Mine are just… complicated in a different way."
"Everything’s always more complicated than it looks."
Addison gave a small nod. "Maybe I will take that beer after all."
Derek looked at her for a moment. Then he stood without saying anything, walked to the fridge, grabbed the two cans again, and handed her one.
She took it. Held it for a second, cold against her palm.
"I’m not promising I’ll like it," she said.
He laughed. Addison opened the can. Took a short sip, grimaced slightly, and said nothing else.
Derek sat back down on his side of the couch. Opened his own.
"Why didn’t you go to the party?" she asked him.
"Because I got trapped in here with you, maybe?"
"But before that. I mean… the party had already started before I got here. I don’t know you, but you don’t seem like the kind of person who shows up late to things."
"Hmm."
"And your friend, that Mark guy, had already left. Without you. Which means you weren’t planning on going. Am I wrong?"
"No. I wasn’t going."
"Why?"
"I’m not the kind of person who enjoys parties. I don’t like dancing, I’m not good at it. And most of the time I’m just watching Mark chase after some girl. Or several girls… so I end up invisible."
"Is that why you’d rather not go?"
"I guess it doesn’t really matter whether I’m there or not. And instead of having a miserable time… I just stay here. I’m not a teenager trying to fit in anymore."
Addison nodded slightly, resting her lips against the metal rim of the can without drinking.
"I wasn’t going to go either…"
"Good. Because you wouldn’t have been able to anyway."
Addison let out a short laugh. She took another sip of the beer, this time with more commitment, like maybe the second try would somehow be different.
It wasn’t.
She wrinkled her nose immediately. The reaction slipped out before she could hide it.
"Still don’t like it," she announced.
Derek laughed. A real laugh this time, long enough to completely change his face. "I know. I saw your face."
"I did not make a face."
"You looked like you were swallowing medicine."
She managed to hold her composure for exactly one second before giving in and laughing too. It came from deep in her chest, unplanned, still tangled up with the last traces of fake indignation. She leaned forward to set the can on the coffee table, but the movement was badly miscalculated: the alcohol moving lazily through her veins betrayed her, and her balance failed halfway through.
She tipped forward.
Derek reacted before she fully realized what was happening. His fingers closed firmly around her forearm, pulling her back, steadying her.
Addison lifted her head.
And suddenly they were like that.
Her torso leaning toward him, hair falling across her face in messy strands, Derek’s hand still wrapped around her arm. Him turned toward her, arm extended. Both of them frozen for one second too long for it to still count as accidental.
He could feel her breathing.
That was the first thing he noticed. That he could feel it. Warm, slightly uneven, close enough that the distance between them stopped being measured in inches and started being measured in something else.
Addison looked at him through the loose strands of hair. He looked back at her.
And then she laughed.
A tiny laugh that escaped before she could stop it.
Derek’s eyes dropped to her lips for a second. After drinking straight from the bottle earlier, there was no trace left of the lipstick she’d worn before, but he could still swear they shone. Full, soft, slightly reddened by the wine stain… and she could tell he couldn’t stop looking at them.
Neither of them thought about it too much.
Addison kissed him first.
It was a short kiss, slightly hesitant, lasting only as long as a half-made decision. Her lips barely brushed his before she pulled away. She stayed still for a moment, eyes half-lidded, mouth pressed into something that wanted to be a serious expression and failed completely.
Then they both laughed at the same time.
And it was in the middle of that laughter that Derek kissed her.
Not like her innocent kiss. This one was different from the start. Slower. Deeper. One hand sliding up to her jaw and holding her there. Addison let her body find its place almost on its own, turned toward him on the couch, one knee bent on the cushion, her weight lightly braced against her own arm on the backrest. Derek’s torso angled toward her, his hand on her face, fingertips barely grazing her cheekbone. Both of them leaning inward, like the narrow old couch had finally decided it belonged to them as much as it belonged to the apartment.
The music downstairs kept playing.
Manhattan kept moving.
Neither of them noticed.
Addison pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes still half-lidded, hair messy across her forehead. Then, with very little grace, she shifted her weight and settled herself on top of him.
Derek didn’t complain.
She kissed him again, slower this time than urgent, as if now that they’d gotten this far there wasn’t any particular rush anymore. Her hands rested against his chest, fingers lightly gripping the fabric of his T-shirt. His arms circled her waist instinctively.
They kissed like that for a while. Unhurried. Free from the weight of everything that had filled the night until then.
But Derek’s body was beginning to form opinions of its own about the situation.
Addison moved against him without much awareness of what it was doing to him. Or maybe with complete awareness—it was hard to tell. The weight of her spread across his hips, the slow friction every time she leaned down to kiss him or shifted back slightly to look at him, that constant almost-casual movement that was not casual at all in terms of what it was doing to him.
He felt it before he could ignore it. Blood rushing exactly where it shouldn’t if he planned on maintaining any kind of control over the situation.
And Addison noticed.
She knew the exact moment it happened, from the subtle change in his breathing, from the way he was getting increasingly tense beneath her. And then, with a subtlety that wasn’t subtle at all, she started moving with more intention. A slight shift of her hips that was anything but accidental.
Derek’s fingers tightened around her waist, not entirely sure whether he was trying to stop her or simply hold on. He felt his pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with the wine anymore. His breathing grew shorter, less controlled, and he had to make a conscious effort not to bury his face in her neck and completely surrender to the logic of his body.
Which he was not going to do.
Or at least that’s what he told himself… right up until Addison’s fingers found the buckle of his belt before he’d even seen her move.
Derek caught her hand before she could keep going. Gently, but without ambiguity.
"We should probably stop," he said quietly. He hated how shaky and fragile his voice sounded.
Addison looked up at him.
"We’ve been drinking," he continued.
"I’m not drunk."
He held her gaze for a second without giving in.
"Addison."
"I’m not," she repeated, leaning in to kiss him again. "I have a high alcohol tolerance."
Derek stopped her again. This time with an open hand against her shoulder, slow and careful.
Addison stayed still on top of him. Looked at him. Something in her expression flickered between genuine confusion and a disappointment she didn’t quite know what to do with yet.
"You don’t want to? You don’t think I’m hot?"
"You’re very hot. But…"
"Damn it, are you a virgin?"
Derek frowned, clearly offended by the conclusion she had just jumped to.
"No."
"Then what?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, waiting. "Is it because you just met me? I don’t do this with every guy I run into. Actually, only seven men have ever seen me naked. I know that sounds like a huge number, but I mean from seventeen to twenty-one. Besides, I already confessed all my family issues to you. You’re one of the few people who knows any of that. Actually, probably the only one, because I don’t have friends. And maybe that makes me weird, but you’re just as antisocial as I am because—"
He held her gaze. Exhaled slowly.
"I don’t have a condom."
Addison stared at him for a moment.
"…oh."
"Yeah."
A brief silence followed. The music downstairs kept playing.
"That is," she began, "a pretty reasonable reason."
"I know."
"Hmm."
She got up without saying anything else. A little clumsy, head lowered, and walked toward the table without looking at him.
Derek stayed where he was.
"I’m sorry, I got here a few hours ago, I only packed essentials and…" He scratched the back of his head nervously. "I wasn’t exactly planning on you showing up tonight, and… honestly it’s not something I… buy very often," he admitted.
Addison didn’t answer. Her bag was open on the table and she was digging through it with a calmness he found impossible to read. Was she annoyed? Just ignoring him? Both felt equally possible after how abruptly he’d shut things down.
Damn it.
"I could… I could check if Mark has anything in his suitcase…" he offered. "I mean, he probably has options and—"
"Not necessary."
The neutral tone made him stop talking immediately. He watched her for a second, unsure how to read her.
"No?"
Addison looked up. There was the faintest crooked smile on her face, and between her index and middle fingers she held a small silver packet. She showed it to him without saying anything, clearly pleased with herself.
Derek let out a short laugh, more relieved than anything else. "That bag really is impressive."
She walked back over to him and handed it to him. "You better make it worth my while."
Derek took it slowly. Looked at it for a second, then looked back at her.
"Make it worth your while?"
It wasn’t exactly a question.
"For the wait," Addison said, staring at him dangerously. Her voice sounded lower now. "And for taking over my apartment. And the key. And forcing me to spend my Friday night trapped in here with you. At least prove to me all of this was worth it."
Derek didn’t respond.
He got to his feet slowly, looked down at her for a second, and cupped her face with one hand. He kissed her with a new kind of intensity, his fingers spread against her cheek, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. His other hand went straight to her waist and pulled her against him with a firmness that left no doubt about his intentions. Addison wrapped her arms around his neck. She buried her fingers in his hair and gave his curls the slightest tug, and he answered by pressing her even closer, leaving no space between them.
Then he lifted her.
A soft sound of surprise slipped out of her as she held on tighter, and he carried her the few steps to the couch, laying her down slowly against the cushions. He stayed over her, propped up on one arm, and without rushing began undoing the buttons of her blouse. The first. The second… just enough to part it slightly, enough to reveal the black lace of her bra and the curve of her cleavage beneath it.
He paused for a moment, looking at her with open admiration. Addison looked back at him without saying a word. Then, without waiting any longer, he lowered his head and kissed her neck slowly, tracing the line down toward her shoulder. She closed her eyes. Her fingers slid through his hair while he kept moving lower, pressing kisses to her collarbone, to the edge of the lace.
Her hands found the hem of his T-shirt almost on their own. She started pulling it up, and he sat back just enough to help her. He pulled it the rest of the way off and tossed it onto the floor without looking where it landed.
Addison ran her hands down his torso and finished undoing his belt properly. Then she found the zipper of his jeans. He yanked her blouse fully open and slid it off her shoulders while she kept kissing him nonstop, lips parted, urgent. She ran her tongue along his lower lip and he answered the same way, one hand tangled in her hair while the other worked at the zipper of her skirt.
They got rid of the rest of their clothes like that, between kisses, never fully pulling apart. She kicked off the shoe that refused to come loose. He banged his elbow against the back of the couch, and this time neither of them laughed. There was no room for that. Just searching hands, fabric giving way, and the sound of their breathing mixing in the little air left between them.
When there was finally nothing left between them, Derek paused for a moment. He reached for the silver packet he’d left on the cushion, opened it, and took care of it quietly. And Addison couldn’t help looking at him. The way his hands moved, calm and confident… the sight of him under the apartment’s dim lighting sent an unexpected shiver through her. It was… big. Much bigger than she’d imagined. And instead of scaring her, it only made her more excited.
He glanced up just then, catching her staring at him without even trying to hide it, and the corner of his mouth curved slightly. Then he came back to her. And kissed her again, slowly this time, as if the urgency from before had been something else entirely and this was the real beginning.
Derek held her jaw gently the moment he pulled away from her mouth. The way he looked at her, completely focused on her, made warmth spread all the way up her throat. No one had ever looked at her like that before… not really.
He brushed his nose against her forehead before kissing her again. Addison felt his hand slide down her waist, tracing her side, the curve of her hip, and then gently parting her legs with a quiet confidence that sent goosebumps over her entire body. He kept kissing her while he did it, wanting to make sure there wasn’t a single second where she stopped feeling comfortable and cared for.
"Is this okay?" he murmured against her lips. "Can I…?"
The question caught her off guard. Not because she thought he was unsure… but because no other man had ever asked before. And it didn’t feel rehearsed or performative, like he was trying to impress her. He genuinely wanted to know.
Addison gave a small nod. "Yeah."
He kissed the corner of her mouth. Then her jaw. Her neck.
"Tell me if you want me to stop."
The tenderness of that, spoken in that low, rough voice while his hand stroked the inside of her thigh, unraveled something in her chest… and a second later he made her gasp.
He entered her slowly at first, watching her face the entire time. Addison felt his fingers tighten against her waist, the tense muscle in his arm holding part of his weight so he wouldn’t crush her against the couch. He brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek before moving a little deeper.
The sensation pulled a muffled sound from her throat.
Derek closed his eyes for a second, breathing hard through his nose. Just feeling her like this was already testing his control.
"Jesus…" he murmured softly.
Addison dragged her nails lightly down his back. She felt the immediate shiver beneath his skin, and the reaction filled her with an unexpected sense of satisfaction.
He moved again, deeper this time. Harder. The force of it arched her back against the couch, and Derek reacted immediately, sliding a hand behind her neck so she wouldn’t hit the armrest before kissing her again, swallowing the moan straight from her mouth.
And that was when Addison realized he knew exactly what he was doing. There was no awkwardness. No ego. He wasn’t lost in himself… everything about Derek seemed tuned in to her. To her pleasure.
The way he watched her between thrusts, checking her reactions. The way his thumb stroked her thigh whenever the rhythm got rougher. How he kissed her jaw when she lost her breath. How he slowed down for half a second only to thrust deeper again and make her tremble all over.
He was taking her exactly where he wanted her.
A sharper gasp slipped out of Addison.
"Right there," she whispered without thinking.
He understood instantly. The hand on her waist slid lower, gripping her thigh to open her up for him, and in one smooth movement Derek lifted one of her legs onto his shoulder. The change in angle was immediate. Addison let out a choked cry before she could stop it when he pushed into her like that, so much deeper, the sudden wave of pleasure hitting so hard it stole the air from her lungs. A rough sound escaped him against her neck, clearly affected by her reaction, and he held her thigh firmly while keeping the pace steady. Hard and relentless.
The couch bumped softly against the wall with every thrust, and Addison couldn’t pretend to stay composed anymore. She clung to his shoulders, breathing unevenly, completely undone by the impossible mix of how carefully he touched her and how intensely he was making her his.
Because Derek was still careful even like this. And she could feel every reaction from her body driving him a little crazier.
He buried his face against her neck when a higher moan slipped out of her, and Addison’s hand ended up tangled in his hair again, tugging without realizing it.
She could feel the pleasure building fast, unbearably fast, and he must’ve noticed because he lifted his head slightly to look at her. His hair was messy, falling over his forehead, his breathing completely uneven.
"Look at me," he asked softly.
She did. Her eyes were shining now, damp with tears. Yeah, maybe he’d even pulled a few involuntary ones out of her.
He kissed her again while still moving with that brutal steadiness that was already turning her legs weak. His hand slid up her body until it found hers, and he laced their fingers together against the couch, holding her there like he wanted to anchor her in place.
"Derek…" His name slipped out of her before she could stop it, and even hearing herself say it surprised her. She’d avoided using it all night, deliberately even if she hadn’t fully realized why, as though saying it out loud would cross some line she could still pretend didn’t exist. She’d used you. Looks. Gestures. Anything except his name. Because names shortened distances. Names made people real in a different way. And Derek was already far too real for what she needed him to be that night.
He cupped her face with one hand and kissed her again, deep enough to swallow the sound she made when one especially hard thrust made her legs shake.
"I know," he murmured against her mouth. "I know, Addie."
The way he said it completely unraveled her.
Not just because of the nickname—that "Addie" almost nobody used anymore, and somehow in his mouth it sounded like he’d been saying it for years. It was the tone. That impossible mix of calm and urgency, care and desire, that sounded nothing like what she expected to hear from a man in a moment like this. Other men would’ve said anything. Empty words. Pretty, disposable compliments. Praised her body or her energy. Maybe cursed under their breath.
Derek had simply said her name.
And he’d said it like he knew exactly what it meant to say it that way, in that moment, while holding her like that. Like he understood it was too much… and chose to say it anyway.
Addison felt the orgasm rush through her fast, too fast, tightening low in her stomach until thinking clearly became impossible. He kept stroking her back between thrusts, his hand sliding over her waist, holding her steady through all of it, careful not to break her. And at the same time he was pushing her right to the edge.
She ended up clinging to him hard when the pleasure finally shattered through her. The gasp came out trembling as she buried her face against his neck, her whole body tightening over his.
A low sound escaped Derek the second he felt her shaking like that. He wrapped his arms around her tighter immediately, slowing slightly without stopping, staying with her while she tried to breathe again. He kissed her jaw, her neck, her temple, murmuring something incoherent against her skin.
And feeling her still trembling around him finally snapped whatever control he had left.
Addison felt him tense beneath her. Really tense. His breathing turned ragged, and he hid his face in the space between her neck and shoulder while his rhythm faltered for the first time since they’d started.
"Oh, God…" he breathed out, low and rough.
The hand on her back tightened slightly against her skin, and then Derek finally came too, holding her tightly against his chest as he let out a slow breath.
For a few seconds neither of them spoke. The only sound left in the tiny apartment was their uneven breathing.
Eventually Derek let himself sink fully back against the couch, still holding her. The space was ridiculously small for two people, but somehow they made it work. Addison ended up half sprawled on top of him, one leg tangled with his, her head resting against his damp, racing chest.
He didn’t let go of her for even a second.
He kept stroking her back slowly, up and down. Sometimes he brushed the damp hair away from her face with an absurd kind of gentleness for someone who barely knew her. Other times he just left his palm resting against her waist, keeping her there on top of him like it was exactly where she belonged.
Addison could hear Derek’s heart pounding hard beneath her cheek. Still racing. Still trying to settle back into a normal rhythm. And she stayed there, perfectly still… something she normally hated after sleeping with someone.
Afterward, she always looked for distance sooner or later. Some excuse to get up. The bathroom. Water. Clothes. Some urgent obligation she invented on the spot. Anything to cut through that awkward intimacy that came afterward and that she hated dealing with.
But this time she didn’t feel any need to escape… and that was what unsettled her most.
Because Derek was practically a stranger. A man who had shown up in her apartment barely… what, five hours ago maybe? A man she technically shouldn’t even have met that night. And yet, lying on top of him on that ridiculously narrow couch, she felt strangely at peace.
Like her body, for some reason, had decided to trust him before her mind did. And she really didn’t trust anyone.
She closed her eyes for a second when he ran his fingers through her hair again. The gesture was so absentminded, so natural, that it tightened something in her chest. It didn’t feel like the exaggerated kind of tenderness some men faked after sex to seem sensitive or earn another round. Derek wasn’t performing or trying to impress her. He’d been just as attentive, patient, and focused on her even during the most intense moments.
And she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
About the way he’d asked if she was okay, if he had permission to keep going. About how he slowed down just enough to kiss her when she lost her breath. About how he held her the entire time like she was something important and not just a woman he happened to end up tangled with on a Friday night by chance.
A strange ache twisted in her stomach.
She wasn’t used to being treated like that, and the worst part was that she’d felt the difference immediately… and liked it far too much.
Addison slowly opened her eyes and lifted her head just enough to look at him. Derek was staring absently at the ceiling, still catching his breath, one hand moving lazily along her back. When he noticed her watching him, his gaze dropped to her immediately.
And he smiled.
Just like that. As if seeing her there on top of him was something good.
A ridiculous warmth spread through her chest. A completely different kind than the one from a few minutes ago.
What the hell was happening to her?
Maybe it was just adrenaline. Or oxytocin. Or the wine. Or the fact that she’d just had the best sex of her life with an absurdly attractive and skilled man.
Yeah… that had to be it.
Right?
Because the other possibility was much more complicated.
The other possibility was that she’d felt a real connection with someone she’d known for less than five hours. And that sounded completely insane.
Or maybe he made every woman feel like this.
The thought appeared out of nowhere, and she disliked it more than she should have. Addison frowned slightly before resting her head back against his chest, annoyed with herself for even thinking it. What the hell was that feeling? Jealousy? Jealousy over assumptions she’d made up herself?
She didn’t know. But she did know she didn’t want anyone else but her to feel this way with him. She wanted all of it for herself.
After a while, he let out a soft, breathless laugh.
"Did I make it up to you?"
She smiled faintly against his skin, too exhausted to fake indifference.
"Mm… I’d say so."
She felt the vibration of Derek’s laugh beneath her before he kissed the top of her head.
"What are you thinking about?"
Addison hesitated for a second… she was thinking about several things at once. About how she didn’t want to move. About how much she liked the way he was holding her. About how ridiculously comfortable his chest felt beneath her.
But in the end she only murmured: "About how hard it’s gonna be getting you out of my apartment after this…"
"Do you actually want me to leave?"
She lifted her head again, and that was the problem. Because he hadn’t asked with a smile. There was no arrogance. No teasing tone. Just genuine curiosity. Like the answer actually mattered to him.
Addison opened her mouth to say something clever. Something light, a joke, a sarcastic comment. Something that would put distance between them again.
But nothing came out. She just slowly shook her head.
No.
She didn’t want him to leave.
And admitting that, even silently, felt absurdly intimate. Far more intimate than ending up naked on top of him. Because staying was something else. Wanting him there afterward, still holding her, still looking at her like that… that was what felt terrifying.
Derek watched her for a moment like he’d just heard exactly the answer he’d been expecting. He brushed his thumb over her cheek.
"Then it’s probably a good thing we start practicing being roomies," he said calmly. "You know… to prepare for the future."
Addison let out a short laugh. "The future?"
"For when you marry me."
She stared at him for a second.
"You think I’m going to marry you just because we had sex?"
Well… the problem was that part of her was already seriously considering the proposal. Which was alarming in several different ways, considering she didn’t even know his last name and was already wondering whether it sounded good with hers. Whether it would make a good combination to pass down to their kids… wait, kids? Since when was she thinking about kids?!
Derek smiled faintly, still stroking her back.
"I don’t think so," he said. "I know so."
"How?"
He shrugged slightly against the couch, looking at her like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"I just know."
Addison slowly ran her fingers over his chest without answering. Absentmindedly tracing the line between his collarbones, the curve of his sternum, playing with the little bit of hair there. It was a distracted gesture… and maybe a pretty intimate one. Affectionate. And she was smiling with the kind of unconscious smile that appeared whenever she wasn’t paying attention to her own expressions.
Derek was watching her.
"Would you say yes…?" he asked.
Addison opened her mouth to answer—
And then the door exploded inward.
There was a sudden, heavy crash of wood against drywall, the doorknob slammed into the wall, and then a huge figure stumbled through the doorway, laughing at his own misstep before fully making it inside.
Addison let out a startled scream. Derek jerked upright immediately, twisting his body in front of her even though they were equally naked and the gesture was more instinct than actual solution.
"Well, well, well!" Mark exclaimed from the doorway, laughing loudly and without an ounce of shame as he leaned against the frame to keep his balance. "I don’t know if I’m too drunk or if this key has always been this hard to use, man. Took me like…" He lifted his fingers, trying to count. "Three tries? Four? Anyway. A lot."
He blinked toward the couch. Toward them.
"Oh." He paused for a long moment. "Oh."
Then he burst out laughing again. Louder this time.
"When did you bring company home, Derek? And here I was thinking you were asleep. Huh? Congrats."
"Mark." Derek’s voice came out low and tightly controlled, which was the complete opposite of how he actually sounded inside.
"Yeah, yeah, I’m leaving, I’m leaving!" Mark lifted both hands in surrender, still laughing as he swayed slightly backward. "I just need…" He squinted around the apartment. "Water. Water and maybe to sit down for five minutes because the hallway’s moving a little."
"Out."
"Okay, okay, I’m going." Another glance at the couch. Another laugh. "Hi, by the way. I’m Mark," he told Addison with a huge, utterly shameless grin.
Half-hidden behind Derek’s shoulder, she looked at him with an expression that could’ve killed him on the spot.
"Close the door," she said. Ironic, considering opening that same door had been the thing she’d wanted most earlier.
Mark obeyed. Though it took him a few seconds longer than necessary. The sound of his footsteps faded down the hallway, still mixed with lingering laughter.
A long silence followed.
Very long.
Derek let out a slow breath. He dragged a hand through his messy hair, then turned toward Addison, who was still completely frozen, staring at the door with an expression hovering somewhere between horror and humiliation.
"You okay?" he asked.
She looked at him seriously for one second.
Then she covered her face with both hands and let out a muffled, disbelieving laugh.
"How the hell did he get it open?" she said through her fingers.
Derek shook his head, glancing toward the lock that had kept them trapped there for hours.
"No idea."
"The key was broken."
"I know."
"It was stuck inside the lock."
"I know."
Addison lowered her hands and stared at him. "That makes absolutely no sense."
Derek lifted one shoulder. "Mark’s just like that."
"Like what?"
"He’s… Mark."
There was no explanation. There never was with Mark… just like there wasn’t one for them. For the way Addison was still leaning against him without any rush to move. For the way he still had an arm wrapped around her, like it was the most natural thing in the world to hold someone like that after knowing them for only a few hours.
Some things simply existed, without logic to justify them or an origin to explain them.
Mark opened doors that shouldn’t open. And sometimes, in a tiny fifth-floor apartment in Washington Heights, two complete strangers ended up feeling like they’d spent their entire lives waiting for each other.
Because somehow, that was how soulmates found each other.