Chapter 4. The curve of you was curved on me

"We can take another break if you want." Addison can feel a spike of tension in her jaw when Derek looks over at her. The guest room is complete. "We haven't opened Savvy's pretzels yet." She attempts to grin at her own suggestion. "Or we can box up some of the stuff we want shipped before we—"

"It's okay," he interrupts. "I can go in there. I know what I said earlier, but…it's okay. You don't have to stall on my account."

By in there, Derek of course means the primary bedroom. There are clothes that never came to Seattle, both in the dresser and in the walk-in closet, and there are shoes in the closet as well. There are landscape photos on the wall between two street-facing windows, a few more framed photos to the left of the flat screen, and more personal ones—ones of them and ones of those who used to count as shared loved ones—on the dresser. There is the armoire, which was more for show than storage, but Addison knows there is a seldom-used gift wrap organizer propped inside it, below the hanging rod, and then tilting in the opposite direction is the case that holds Derek's guitar, which was reached for even less than the wrapping paper and to/from tags.

(She cannot remember the last time he played it.)

There is the groove-doored console table supporting the TV. And the TV itself. There are matching lamps and matching nightstands. Derek's nightstand still features two books and an incomplete crossword puzzle that Addison could not bring herself to touch after he left.

(Cheater, she would good-humoredly accuse when he opened his laptop to figure out a clue. Who knew that such a word would eventually apply to her, too.)

There is also a small fish figurine on his nightstand that she has hated since day one, but sometimes you have to choose to accept that what your spouse likes in décor will not always be what you like. There is the chaise they would cuddle in, back when that was something they did. There is the wicker basket near the chaise stuffed with throw blankets. There is the square wall mirror; Derek would look in this mirror every time he needed to slip a tie on.

(Except for the occasions when Addison did his tie for him, not because he couldn't, but because she liked doing it.)

(She did not realize how many tiny moments of intimacy and together-ness she would have to part with when their relationship ended. When you've been together for a long time, you don't always see certain things as being intimate—they are things that just are. The passing of a mug of cocoa. Folding laundry together. Helping to fasten or unfasten a necklace, or zip a dress up or down. Go ahead at the last bite of a shared dessert. Unpacking groceries together. The tying of a scrub cap. Taking turns selecting the music for a drive. Not needing to ask him what he wanted when she called to order takeout, because she already knew what he wanted. The way they easily split the Times apart when it arrived on their doorstep, each favoring certain sections. One of them buying something—something for the both of them—that they were about to run out of.)

"I can handle it," Derek presses on. "I'm a big boy. And plus…it can't only be you. I need to go in there, too."

Addison understands this. There are items in the bedroom that are solely his. And while the joint belongings—the furniture, namely—are not ones they need to think twice about donating, something about seeing everything, about confirming this, feels right for them both to do. There is also the furniture Addison is trying not to think about, because what could be more intimate than thinking about their sleigh bed. That will be donated, naturally. Same with the bedding and the mattress. The bedding can easily be given away—if Beth wants it—because it was never really theirs to begin with.

(It is new. It is not the bedding from that night, which was rain-soaked and ruined, but a replacement she purchased after Derek left. Any subsequent times she slept in this house were in the guest room, but it did not seem right to leave the bed in their former bedroom devoid of a comforter and sheets.)

"Wait." Addison holds a hand up when something occurs to her. She can tell—in the way that you can anticipate a loved one's reaction before they actually react—that Derek is about to get annoyed at the delay, but she hastily clarifies by reporting, "It's not a pretzel-stall—we forgot about the safe."

"Oh, yeah. You're right." He peeks sideways at the dresser, which is concealing the safe built into the wall. It was there when they moved in. And, though practical to have, they both immediately commented on how ugly it looked, hence their decision to slide the dresser in front of it. "Is there anything left in there?"

Addison has to swallow an angst-choked breath before she can answer. The last time the safe was opened was because Weiss contacted her to say—God, he sounded so uncomfortable—that Derek asked if he could pick up a few things and mail them to him.

"It might just be my stuff. I don't know if there's anything left of yours"—she pauses then, enough to allow Derek to consider his long-ago request. Birth certificate, passport, social security card, vehicle title…these are some of the materials you need when you have no plans to come back to where you used to live. "But it's a good idea for you to check anyway. And then I can take out anything that's mine."

"Yeah." Derek nods. "There's probably still cash in there. Maybe some investment paperwork and invoices. And there's the—what necklace is it of yours? With all the diamonds?"

"The Bvlgari."

It is much too expensive a piece for Addison to have ever felt okay about displaying on one of her jewelry stands. She cannot remember why her mother gave her this necklace in the first place. It is gorgeous, with a large emerald stone inside a fan-shaped motif accented with diamonds, but it is not the Bvlgari one of Bizzy's that she actually wants—not that Addison would ever say this aloud. Especially to Derek. If he were to have repeated such information while they were married…well. Carolyn would have had a field day with a remark like that.

"I can take your stuff downstairs." Addison waits for a dismissal of this idea, for Derek to state he doesn't mind doing that, which simply means how important the popsicle stick house is, so he would prefer to be the one to transport it to the living room. He does not say anything though. "And maybe you can open the safe while I do that…?"

Derek smiles when he says, "I was always better at that than you." This is true. Addison had always been perfectly adept at getting combination locks open, but for some reason, the lock on the safe gave her trouble.

"Well, it's only fair for there to be some things you're better at than me. It's a very short list though."

"Ha." Derek looks amused. There have been some instances of banter and lightheartedness this afternoon. It almost feels like who they used to be.

When she heads downstairs, feeling buoyed by their latest exchange, Addison remembers there is something else inside the safe, tucked near the back. She quickens her pace, hoping to be in the guest room again before Derek gets to it. Or, maybe he will set the envelope aside. He'll be able to tell by the bumpy texture that there is some jewelry of Addison's inside it—and that would not be of interest to him. The envelope holds a pair of mixed-cut cluster earrings, a ruby bracelet that belonged to Grandma Bradford, and the original diamond from Addison's engagement ring, all of which are mostly a cover for the fact that there is a slip of paper inside the envelope that dictates what Derek said when he proposed. It vaguely embarrasses Addison that she still has it.

She had wanted to commit to memory what Derek said that day beneath the wooden gazebo at Wagner Cove, so she had—even though it felt silly at the time, a little too cloying—written it down later, when she was alone. I think I loved you from the moment I met you. I looked into your eyes and I just knew. You're my whole life. Will you marry me, Addie?

Addison was half-laughing and half-crying when she told him, "Okay."

"I was hoping for a yes, you know." Derek had joined her in laughing after he slipped the ring on her finger. "'Okay' sounds so indifferent."

"I forgot the word. I got too excited!"

"My future wife forgot one of the most common words in the English language. This bodes well for us." He grabbed her under her ribcage then and spun her around. It went on and on and on, it felt like for Addison. They were both so damn happy.

"I know it's on the smaller side," Derek added when she brought her left hand closer to her face, studying the diamond with absolute wonderment. "I'll buy you a bigger, shinier one when my student loans are paid off"—he had insisted on handling those on his own, via a separate checking account, not the shared one that felt like it took too long to untangle post-divorce—"and I'm not making 'intern money.'"

"It's not small," Addison said, even though, objectively-speaking, it probably was. But that did not matter to her. Derek was what mattered. "This ring is perfect."

She did not protest when, ahead of their sixth wedding anniversary, he told her that he wanted to upgrade the diamond. She adored the one she had, but it seemed like Derek was coming from a prideful place, so she did not feel comfortable declining.

"This is better," he proclaimed when they were at a jewelry store off Lex, and Addison had shyly pointed out the diamond she liked most. "This is the one you deserve. Same wife, but much better diamond."

Addison cheerily nudged her shoulder into his. "And you're still going to be the same husband, right?"

"Definitely."

Yeah. Same husband. Famous last words.

Maybe Addison didn't need to write down what he said when he proposed. Thirteen years later, and she still knows the words. Subcortical and cortical structures are embedded in the brain. Explicit, implicit, episodic, semantic, procedural, short-term, long-term. Neuroanatomy was by far her least favorite course in med school, but she still retained a respectable amount of information.

The practice behind anything in the brain is nuanced and complex, but she thinks the simplest explanation for memories is that some of them stick around because you actively decide that you want to always remember the beauty of a particular moment.


There is a philosophical debate she has heard before about death and loss. The question is, does your life end when you die, or does it actually end when no one else is left who would remember you? It is science versus sentimentalism, really. It could be both things, but Addison can see where the demarcation is.

And, though she cannot explain how, sometimes this is what divorce feels like.


The word Addison is searching for has escaped her. It is a long one. Something German. First letter is an R. It is not the sort of word you would actually use in everyday conversation, but merely a word that is "interesting" to know. Amy taught it to her. The word is supposed to depict the feeling of when you arrive home after a long trip, and all of a sudden your connection to the blissful time away is no longer there. It is like the trip did not happen at all.

Addison did not go anywhere. Not really. But it feels like she did, because when she reenters the guest room, something is different. It's not a physical difference, although there is one now that the dresser has been pulled away from the wall, enough so that the safe is visible. It's not that though. The air is different, somehow. She cannot see Derek's face; he is staring out the window. He hasn't opened the safe yet. Something isn't right. And then, when he wheels around to face her, Addison discovers any goodwill that had collected between them—a brief, almost promising connection—is gone.

"Oh," she says simply when Derek raises his hand, which allows her gaze to track over the object he is holding out for her to see. A Bulova watch. Stainless steel, black glass insert, rotating bezel, calendar feature. It is the kind of accessory Derek would describe—but he looks far too angry to talk right now—as too showy.

This watch belongs to Mark.

Addison is quickly able to process why the watch is here. All those framed pictures lining the dresser that she and Derek had looked at…the watch must have been behind one of the backer boards. She can recall when Mark took it off; he had sworn before, because he whacked his wrist into the back of the dresser when he yanked aggressively on the swing handle of the safe, as though that was going to be the solution, instead of trying another combination. If Derek gave a shit about this stuff, why doesn't he just come here himself? Some husband, Mark groused as he removed the Bulova and set it on the dresser.

And then he must have forgotten it when he departed, and he either didn't care about it enough to mention it later, after Addison returned to his apartment, still teary-eyed, or he just decided to make peace with wearing another one of his watches.

What cannot be cured, must be endured.

"This." Derek speaks again before Addison can fumble for a response. He tosses the watch onto the guest bed. "This is why I didn't want to come up here. Or come here at all."

"He must have accidentally left it when he came over to—"

"I was in the front row for your performance, remember? I can do without the details of what Mark was doing up here." He practically growls the last part.

"It's not what you think." Addison wonders how much Derek will let her explain. She wonders if it will even be useful to explain, because it is not like anything she says will alter his opinion of her. "I couldn't remember the combination." Because Derek was better at getting the safe open—a fact they acknowledged earlier, and also often throughout their marriage—he inadvertently became the only one who honestly needed to know the eight digits. "Weiss called me last summer and said you wanted a few things. So, I came back to the brownstone"—she sees Derek wince at this, because came back makes it obvious where she was coming from—"to get what you were asking for. But I couldn't remember the combination. I thought I had saved it on my laptop, or on that piece of paper in the kitchen drawer where we wrote down some of our passwords, but I couldn't find it anywhere. And I didn't want to call you and bother you—not that you would have returned my calls; you never did—and I didn't want to bother Weiss either, because I already felt bad enough about him having to be the messenger. I tried your birthday, and my birthday, and then I tried our anniversary"—this time, they both wince—"but it wasn't those." She tried his dad's birthday, too. And his mom's. And the date she and Derek first met, even though that felt far too maudlin to have chosen, even back when they were on excellent terms. "So I…I called Mark." Addison leaves out the part about how she was sobbing hysterically over the phone when she asked him to come over. "I thought he might have some ideas."

"And he figured it out?"

"Yeah. He tried some combinations and eventually he got it. It was the date—well, you know this, obviously—that Roger Maris broke Babe Ruth's record. Mark…he remembered your dad telling you guys when you were kids that he was at that game, and that it was one of his best memories. I never would have guessed that." Addison hesitates, and then adds, "Mark took off his watch when he was trying to get the safe open, so that's how it ended up where it did."

She can see for a moment—just a moment—that Derek looks visibly touched that Mark was able to deduce the combination. A combination that meant a lot to him, which, on some level, meant that it meant a lot to Mark, too. But then anger and resentment surface again when Derek remembers everything else during that time period about his then-best friend and his then-wife. His voice is cold, and low, when he says, "A regular prince among men, Mark is. I'm sure you found a way to pay him back."

Addison chooses not to dignify such a statement. Gone is the man who showed a thin semblance of gratitude for everything she has done to clear out this house so far. Plus, it's not like a confirmation or denial will actually help. What cannot be cured, must be endured.

(She did pay Mark back, though this is not the phrasing she would have opted for. It was one of their more gentle, considerate times. Mark couldn't stand when she cried. And when they had sex that afternoon, on the floor of this room, it was one of those times where Addison stupidly—stupidly—thought they could make it work.)

"You're acting like we left the watch here on purpose," she says instead.

"How do I know you didn't?" Derek scoffs. "He would have loved for me to have found it."

"No, he wouldn't have. Be reasonable. You're—"

"I can't believe you right now. I seriously can't. You tell me I need to come here, so I do. You tell me we have to do this together, so I agree to that. This whole thing is exhausting. Just exhausting. There's this line in The Sun Also Rises"—Addison rolls her eyes, because as she informed Derek once, your favorite author's talent lies in displaying consistent misogyny—"about not being able to get away from yourself when you move from one place to another. It should have been about not being able to get away from the people in the former place. I'm just trying to get this done. This isn't supposed to be—"

"Oh my God, Derek. You're being exhausting. You're trying to 'get this done?' Then, okay, think about the amount of time you're wasting." Addison makes a whip-swift gesture with her hand, wanting to indicate the breadth of Derek's response, the breadth of his frustration. And the ridiculous dramatics of it all, really. "You're going borderline-soliloquy at this point." Her voice is louder now. "If you want to pick up the pace again, stop picking up so many words and let's go to the next room." Never mind that the only room left is their bedroom, which will not diffuse Derek's feelings in the slightest. "Honestly, just call me a 'slut' or a 'whore' and be done with it."

His head raises so faintly that Addison barely catches it. There is movement at the right corner of his mouth. A smirk, maybe? And then—

"Why not both."

Addison draws in a sharp breath, and then wipes away the remaining distance that separates them. She baited Derek with that last remark. She did. But she is still absolutely shocked—and hurt—that he went there.

"Fuck you, Derek," she says. "Fuck you." She repeats it for good measure as he matches her leading steps with one of his own. He is breathing heavily enough that Addison can feel the tickling flit of each exhalation on the groove below her nose. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you."

(There is not a Bizzy-driven proverbial phrase in her head right now, but there is another one she is considering: an attack is the best form of defense.)

"No, you know what? Fuck you, Addison."

He is staring at her lips. And then suddenly his mouth is on her lips.

The fact that Derek initiated this—and that he is showing no signs of stopping at present—is important to Addison, because in some perverse way, this means the defense behind her pre-emptive strike worked and she wins. She wins.

And then her hands slide up to frame Derek's face. It feels too nice to gloat about her whatever-this-is victory. For all the fury-laced words they just hurled at each other, for all that outright disdain…the pace is more leisurely than she would have expected. Again, no complaints. His hands are everywhere hers are not; her body is practically humming with pleasure as he touches her.

Derek coaxes her Yale shirt over her head next, and then takes his time raking his eyes along her chest. Addison assumes that whatever is going on with Meredith…it has probably been a while since her ex-husband has been with a woman.

(Well. If Meredith even counts as a woman. That uncharitable thought occurs to her.)

He negotiates a leg between her parted ones, which brings Addison's calves in contact with the footboard slat, and then she sort of half falls and half sinks onto the mattress. There is a bit of awkward shuffling as they move higher up the paisley-patterned sheets, closer to the pillows, and the end result is Addison flat on her back, and him on top of her, crowding her space while they trade lengthy, tongue-brandishing kisses. It still feels good. Derek stays propped on one elbow, keeping the bulk of his weight off her, while his other hand squeezes at the lace of her bra—and how glad Addison is that she wore one of her better, more flattering ones, even though this is the very, very last thing she thought would happen today.

(Maybe it is the last thing he thought would happen, too.)

If it has been a while for Derek, it has been even longer for her. And this is obvious when his questing hand abandons her breasts in favor of drifting down her legs to cup her through not-much-of-a-barrier yoga pants.

"Wow."

Addison glowers at him. "Don't flatter yourself."

"I think I will, actually." He latches onto one of her hands, and folds it under his, holding it there and letting her feel the warmth of her desire, of her fast response. A spark of anger is building in Derek again. She has always known how to push his buttons—hell, in her more passive-aggressive moments, Addison almost relished pushing his buttons. "Feel that?" He adds. "You're soaked and we've barely started."

(It's a crass thing to say. Not that crass, all things considered, but crasser than Derek usually is. Or was.)

(Back when he liked having sex with her.)

They have barely started; it's true. Started is encouraging though, enough so that Addison can almost will away the blush skirting her cheeks after he said what he said. She does not want to stop. She wants more. Much, much more.

Derek rises just enough to shuck off his shirt. And then several of his long fingers return to where they were, performing just the faintest back and forth sweep over damp nylon. "Yeah." He looks smug when Addison bucks her hips. "That's what I thought."

"Shut up."

"How about you shut up."

He brushes his mouth to hers, and she allows the kiss to go on for a while. A long while. It is again slower than Addison anticipated—and being kissed by him, in this drawn-out and almost tranquil way…it used to, as cliché as it sounds, take her breath away. She has missed this.

But, she is trying to be a better person. Sincerely trying. She arches her neck so that their lips tease apart.

"The break you and Meredith are on…" Addison begins. Her hand is resting on Derek's bare chest, heel flush against his skin to prevent him from stooping down to kiss her. And to prevent him from ignoring her, in a non-physical manner. "Is this a Ross and Rachel break, or a real break?"

She knows Derek will understand what she is getting at. It would have been easy with that Friends episode to wind up in a classic gender split—him for Ross, her for Rachel. But it was not like that. When they discussed it afterward, they both agreed there was not a correct answer. It was just a sad situation. One character thought one thing, and the other thought something else, when what they should have done was—and oh, does it hurt for Addison to reflect on this now—sat down and had an honest, intentional conversation about where things stood.

"Since when does faithfulness matter to you?" Derek is wedged against her, and Addison is no longer the only one who has had a physiological reaction—the friction he is creating by rubbing himself over her prompts him to exhale a long, low sigh. She can feel how hard he is, and it thrills her. Derek veers closer to kiss her neck, which means it is now her turn to sigh; he always knew exactly where to kiss her to leave her squirming.

(He did not answer her question.)

(The truth usually contains variants.)

"I could ask you the same exact thing," Addison snaps back.

This retort is enough to make Derek pull away. He is quiet as he studies her. Perhaps he does not feel it is worth replying. Or he is too busy paying attention to the center of Addison's parted thighs again. Her lashes flutter at the motion of his fingers. He dips his head to kiss her—more neck kisses, she hopes—but then he hesitates.

(She is terrified this is over, that Derek is going to tell her this is a mistake.)

"You're still on the pill, right?"

"Oh." She is surprised by the question, though she is not sure why. "Yeah, I am." Not that it matters. "And everything's fine. I haven't"—she almost smiles, wanting to egg Derek on—"been sleeping with a bunch of other men, if there's another whore-related comment you're heading toward."

"Whatever, Addison."

The rest of their clothes are peeled off, and then Derek is lifting her hips, and pushing inside her with a rough thrust. He keeps his distance though. Addison is still on her back, and he is still on top, which gives him all the control, but he is kneeling, his legs wide apart to offer himself more power, more momentum. She does not mind letting Derek have whatever he wants to have in this instance though—each answering throb where their bodies are connected does not lend itself to a need for protest. It simply feels too good. And Addison likes how he is looking at her, how his eyes have barely left her breasts from the moment he reached behind her to take off her bra. His hands are circled around her thighs now, which leaves her legs no option but to dangle almost helplessly in the crooks of his elbows.

(She is enjoying this trapped-but-not-really position though. How Derek is holding her legs up—which is making her hips rise off the mattress, too—is flattering in the sense that it makes her feel weightless in his grasp. And what woman wouldn't want that?)

(But…she also kind of wishes he was closer to her.)

Derek's eyes have drooped past half-mast and are now fully shut. He hoists her left leg higher—he does not have to see her to know precisely how to touch her—guiding it over his shoulder. The change in angle has them both groaning. He almost looks happy, Addison thinks.

Maybe he has forgotten that he's supposed to hate her. And maybe he's forgotten that at one point—long before he was inside her, filling her so completely, so exquisitely—he told Addison he never wanted to see her again. He changed his mind a few days after that, with his whole friendly, peacefully coexisting thing. But, at the same time, he did not seem eager for her to remain in Seattle. Unless you've reconsidered moving back to New York? So, doesn't that still mean he doesn't want to see her anymore?

Something cold is now scraping alongside Addison's outer thigh, irritating one of her muscles. And whatever it is, it must be close enough for Derek to feel as well, because he pauses. Addison glances down. It's Mark's watch. Derek had tossed it on the bed earlier…which feels so long ago. It feels like that was a different day, honestly.

He swings a hand at the watch, knocking it off the guest bed and onto the floor. His response is so over-the-top that it nearly makes Addison laugh, but any laughter dies in the column of her throat when Derek looks at her. His eyes are darker. This is anything but a joke to him. Her hands are on the sheets, twisting a snatch of fabric between white-knuckled fists, trying to establish purchase ahead of his reaction.

(It is fitting that this is where they are having sex. They are guests in this house, the both of them.)

"What?" He snarls at her, maybe wanting to fight.

And, the thing is, Addison has a great what. A deliciously great one.

There is no reason to say it.

No reason whatsoever.

Except that anger—because Derek is not the only one who is angry, or the only one allowed to be angry—has made her more brazen. If he gets to be unkind, so does she.

"Mark is bigger than you."

(There are other factors to consider. Width versus length, for example. And how they use them. Definitely how they use them. Addison feels embarrassed for saying what she just said—so much for being giddy about her brazenness, then—and maybe even more embarrassed for reflecting on the differences. It's sexual apples and oranges or…something. She can't really think straight when Derek is buried this deeply inside her. Both men know what they're doing, okay? That's basically the point.)

(One of them was her husband though, and nothing can really beat that.)

(He's not her husband anymore.)

Derek comes to a halt. One of his hands slips against her, nearly falling off her leg. He is rattled by her observation. Addison is sure she can spot the word bitch forming on his lips, the approaching, quaking puff of air about to flee his mouth, but the accusation goes unspoken. He resumes thrusting. There is only the sound of skin on skin, the clouting slap of hips against hips.

But the verbal stalemate does not last long.

"And she's better"—there is a particularly strong pump from Derek—Addison almost yelps—before he concludes his thought—"with her mouth than you are."

(No need to clarify who she is.)

(It hurts right back. Of course it does. That was the goal.)

Is she though? Addison's inner question is more of a contemplative musing than a competitive-fueled one. Is she? No. Probably not. It is likely Meredith is just more eager to please; Addison was this way at one point, too. Youth does that to a person. So do the early parts of a relationship.

The bright and shiny parts, one might say.

(Bright and shiny does not last. Addison understands this better than most; her romance with Derek spanned sixteen years in total. Happiness should stick around—though it did not in their case—but rose-colored glasses eventually come off. And that is healthy. Bright and shiny is what the beginning looks like—and ogling the mistress, standing close to the mistress, sniffing the mistress's hair, is probably quite captivating—but a real relationship has to be something deeper, something more raw, in order to be sustainable. Addison wonders when her ex-husband will realize that. His second relationship—his second relationship of significance, that is—may not end up being very different from his first significant one, in the end.)

(Maybe he already has realized this. Maybe that's whatever this not-a-Ross-or-Rachel-thing is about.)

"Roll over."

That voice of Derek's—that particular voice she swears he only ever uses with her—is back. It is mean-sounding. But it only heightens the ache between Addison's thighs, and when he pulls out of her, she is desperate to comply.

The last time he turned her around—the same night they had sex in the shower—Addison hadn't liked it. Which was insane, because she normally would have loved it. She can still remember one of the bolder, less I'm from Connecticut conversations she had with Naomi when they were in med school (the martinis helped). Naomi admitted this particular position made her feel uncomfortable. Sam likes it, so I'm trying to get over it…but it just makes me feel self-conscious. Yeah, okay. Addison could definitely understand that, and she talked it through with Naomi, and it seemed like at the end of the night, her best friend felt better. And although Addison maybe had some of the markings—again, the self-described Connecticut thing—of someone who would not have favored her lover being behind her, of being so exposed, she never felt that way with Derek. He made the position feel intimate.

But that time in the trailer—the last time, or the last time before this last time—had left her feeling sad. It was as if Derek didn't want to look at her. It was as if he was fantasizing about being with someone else. He was—Addison is positive he was. The sex they had that night didn't feel like it was about her. And the act of fantasizing was probably easier for Derek to do if her…face wasn't in the way.

This though? When he slams back inside her and starts moving again? This is right at the line of where pain greets every-nerve-on-fire pleasure. He scoops an arm around her stomach, propelling Addison upward until her back is touching his chest. The rhythm is slower now—Derek can't drive his hips as enthusiastically when they are like this—but it still feels just as good. And then it feels even better for Addison when he drapes her hair over one shoulder, and takes his time nibbling his lips along the base of her neck, and the more delicate skin on either side. He is barely doing anything with the lower half of his body, so Addison does most of the work by grinding back against him. Derek is not lacking in contribution though; his hands are on her breasts, lightly massaging. He seems to have once again forgotten that he is supposed to hate her.

He makes an ahhh sound as he continues to play with her breasts, and something about how content he seems leaves Addison wanting to cry. She reaches behind her, angling to touch him wherever she can, and the skim of her fingertips on Derek's shoulder blade reawakens him. He adjusts himself, keeping one arm anchored around her, cradling rounded flesh—though it does not feel as gentle anymore when he pinches one of her nipples between his fingers—and his other hand trails past her stomach, grazing with intent.

"Fuck," Derek pants out. "Oh, fuck." His voice is quiet, no more than a mumble, but his lips are right beside the shell of Addison's ear, so it feels stadium-loud, kind of. "So good…fuck…"

He never cursed in Seattle. He rarely said anything in Seattle. It was just low-throated grunts, which felt more like an attempt to act like he was present. Addison believes they were both plagued with anxiety when they began having sex again—not that they wound up having it often—because they had each been with someone else, and how can you not be painfully aware of that fact in the before, the during, and the after. Mostly though, she knows Derek didn't enjoy himself. At least not in the way she knew that he could. Even that time in the shower—right before the time he didn't want to see her face—was a bit off. It was good, yes—and much better than the sex they had been having—but Addison knows what really good with Derek is like, and it wasn't that.

This is really good. If they had fucked like this in Seattle—she is only swearing in her head this time—if they had truly fucked and fucked and fucked with this kind of reckless, wanton abandon, maybe they would still be together.

Except, no. They wouldn't. Addison is thankful he can't see her face right now, even though she has learned to hide her sadness well. Derek is not moving inside her because he misses her, because he can't live without her, because he loves her. He is inside her because she made it clear she had no objections. Slut, whore, Satan, adulterous bitch, whatever—if he's on the rocks with Meredith and his ex-wife is present and spread-legged and willing, why not.

Addison is thinking about every awful thing she is—everything that Derek has made her feel like she is—when her muscles start to seize. She wants the fiery release he is steering her toward to be without much noise—why give him the satisfaction of knowing how good it feels for her to be stimulated like this? But Addison can't help it. There is no way to suppress all those oh's and mmm's. Not when Derek is rotating his hips in a way that has her thighs and calves quivering. Not when his fingers are moving so mercilessly. She is anything but muted as she unravels in his embrace.

When she relaxes again, sated, Derek nudges her forward. She flattens her palms into the mattress, and then sinks lower, taking an opportunity to catch her breath. Derek runs one of his hands appreciatively down the beaded length of her spine. He lingers on the soft, curved skin below her spine, rubbing and squeezing, and then his hands mold over her hips, clutching onto her as he moves with force. He's not done yet. And Addison doesn't technically have to be done either, and she assumes he is aware of that. Why else would one of Derek's hands occasionally reach around her waist to touch her just so? Each time it happens, he applies pressure with frenzied resolve. Addison's head is bent down, the crown of it resting on the mattress, which leaves the majority of her now-snarled hair flipped upside down as her body shudders in time with his.

(That was something Derek loved about her. She could recover quickly, and there was always so much more she had left.)

(Addison is almost surprised he has been able to retain this information though. It's been a long time since he's been this interested in her, and that includes their trying-to-make-it-work stint. But maybe she has forgotten some things as well. How long he can hold out, for instance.)

She raises herself up, and then wriggles a little, attempting to stay balanced as she drops a hand under her body. Derek notices though, and he shoves her hand out of the way. He used to be quite loving about this. Let me, he'd whisper, and he'd sweetly replace her hand with his, wanting to give her more pleasure.

But that isn't this. This is ego and this is authority. He wants it to be clear that each raspy, satisfied moan—each keening noise Addison is offering up—is his doing.

At least one of those skilled hands is where she needs it though. The sensation is so strong, so overwhelming, that Addison feels like she might pass out…but if she does, at least it will be for a spectacular reason. She glances at Derek over her shoulder, even though she told herself she wouldn't look back. But, this time, she discovers that he is looking at her, too. It just takes a few more thrusts and one absent flick of Derek's finger, and then she nearly screams as another staggering, explosive climax consumes her. And Derek is quick to follow. The clenching of her muscles has him groaning and pulsing—and maybe, just maybe, this time seeing Addison's face contributes to how he finishes. And, after he does, they collapse forward together, sweat-glossed and exhausted.

He pulls out of her so abruptly that Addison nearly cries out.

(But was she expecting anything less?)

Derek flops onto his back next, and she decides to do the same, easing off her belly with shaky, weakened limbs, and then settling her head on one of the pillows. She can feel what is left of him dripping between her legs. It's warmth and it's slickness and it's uncertainty all in one.

(Is it regret too, maybe?)

She looks over at Derek. He is still battling for breath when he tries to say, "That was…that was…"

"Yeah."

Then they are both quiet.