Addison squeezed her eyes shut and covered her face with her hands to avoid Derek's pathetic expression.

"You were with Meredith," she repeated through her fingers.

"Addie, it's not what it sounds like. I just needed to get away…"

"You just needed to get away."

"It wasn't sex, Addison. I didn't go there for that. I didn't cheat. I just needed someone to talk to…for god's sake, Addison, look at me!"

He closed the gap between them in one stride and snatched her hands away from her face. Within a split second she had raised her palm and slapped him, hard. Derek's hand flew to massage his cheek before he grabbed both of his wife's wrists and pinned her against the wall, his face mere millimetres from hers.

"You do not get to jump to conclusions. You do not get to hit me. I'm sick of being the bad guy in this relationship." Addison's eyes had shifted around the room before slamming shut. "Dammit, Addison, look at me!"

With tears rolling down her cheeks she looked him square in the eyes and hissed "I don't want to look at you. It makes me feel sick. Physically sick."

"It was just talking! I know I should have called, but it was talking! No kissing, no sex, no…nothing!" His voice had been getting increasingly louder but now he quietened to a whisper. "I just needed someone to talk to, Addie."

He felt her wrists tremble in his grip as sobs shook her body.

"Why couldn't you talk to me?" she whimpered.

Feeling guiltier than he had in months, Derek let go of Addison's wrists and leaned against the wall, letting her slump down to his feet. He hovered one of his hands above her head, wanting to stroke her hair, just wanting to touch her, but he stopped himself. The bitter realisation that confiding in Meredith was probably worse, in Addison's eyes, than any number of fumbling, drunken, adulterous kisses washed over him as he slammed a fist against the wall and left the room.

Wanting simply to shut out his wife's crying and to look at things with a fresh perspective in the morning, Derek sat on the edge of the bed and took off his wristwatch.

"What are you doing?"

Derek turned to see Addison in the doorway. She frantically wiped at her damp cheeks, trying to maintain some sense of control.

"I'm going to bed, Addie. Tomorrow we can sort this out but now," he sighed, "We aren't going to get anywhere tonight."

"Get out."

"What?"

"You're not staying here." Addison walked calmly over to the closet and pulled out some of Derek's clothes. She bundled them under one arm, grabbed a pair of his shoes, and held them out.

"Go. I'll put the rest of your things out on the porch tomorrow. You can pick them up." She was surprised at how steady her voice was and at how little her hands seemed to shake as she held out her husband's clothes, waiting patiently for him to take them.

Realising he was defeated, Derek walked slowly over to his wife and grabbed at the clothes she was shoving against his chest. Addison dashed after him as he headed down the stairs to the front door, determined to watch him leave. As he turned around on the doorstep to say something she slammed the door in his face and waited until she heard his footsteps on the gravel. Looking down, she half-sobbed, half-scoffed as she realised that she was wearing his shirt. In a flurry of material and elbows she took it off, opened the door and hurled it onto the driveway.

"And you can take your damned shirt!" she yelled.

Derek walked over to it and picked it up, hugging it against his chest. He knew how much she loved that shirt.