Addison Montgomery's apartment smelled like burned toast and Chanel No. 5.
The toast was a combination of poor timing and lack of life experience outside of high society. The perfume, overcompensation.
She stood in front of the mirror in a towel, eyeliner in hand, trying to make her reflection look like a woman who had absolutely not just dropped a textbook and shouted something unladylike at 7:45 a.m.
"You're fine," She told the mirror. "You're brilliant. You're in the Ivy League. And you definitely don't have jam in your hair."
She leaned closer.
There was, in fact, jam in her hair.
"Okay. Tactical retreat."
By the time Addison turned the corner into the anatomy corridor, she was all armor and angles.
Hair curled into glossy perfection. Lipstick a bold, calculated red. Heels clicking with each step like punctuation marks in a sentence she'd written in all caps. Glasses tipped low on her nose and the kind of strut that warned people not to waste her time.
Addison alone in her apartment was jam in the hair and mismatched socks.
Addison in public? A goddamn brand.
Her fingers dug into her notebook ever so slightly as she approached the lab, like maybe that would hold her together. It had been a strange kind of night—the kind that crept into morning. The kind that made everything feel softer and sharper at once, as the same conversation from yesterday played over in her head. She'd let Derek in. Almost cried in front of him. And worse: he'd been kind about it.
The air was colder than she expected. Or maybe she just felt exposed.
"Coffee for good juju."
Mark appeared at her side like he always did, grin first, holding out a paper cup with "Red" written across the side in his messy scrawl.
She blinked. "You didn't have to—"
"I did. You're our lucky charm. Can't mess with lab-day karma."
Addison took the cup with a small, grateful nod. "Thanks."
He didn't act different. Not even a little. Same cocky charm, same easy brightness. She liked that. That nothing had shifted.
But when Derek joined, quieter, with a little smile he barely gave to anyone else, her chest tugged in a different direction. Something private passed between them. Not words—just a glance. Like yesterday hadn't been small.
She smiled back, soft and involuntary.
They walked into the cadaver lab together, Addison in the middle, flanked by chaos and calm. And in that quiet moment, something settled in her chest like a click into place.
Oh.
These are my friends.
The room was too cold, the kind of chill meant to keep things preserved, but it prickled along Addison's skin all the same. The scent of formaldehyde was sharp and unrelenting, clinging to the inside of her nose no matter how shallowly she breathed.
Dr. Richard Webber stood at the front of the lab, his hands folded behind his back, wearing the kind of authority that didn't need to raise its voice to be felt.
"In this room," he said, voice even but commanding, "you will meet your first patient. Your most silent teacher."
He paused, letting that settle.
"This is the beginning of your clinical journey. Treat them with respect. Learn everything you can."
He passed a small pile papers to a student up front, eyebrows raised with a quick nod which meant to pass them along. He turned back to the class.
"You will now be assigned into groups," he said, "You'll be with these five people for the next twelve weeks. These will be your colleagues, your lifelines, and possibly the ones who save your academic careers more than once."
A buzz rippled through the room as papers began circulating with the group assignments.
Addison opened hers quickly, scanning the names:
Group 4:
Addison Montgomery
Mark Sloan
Derek Shepherd
Sam Bennett
Naomi McDonald
Mark leaned over, grinning like a cat who'd found an entire bowl of cream. "Yes! They didn't split up the dream team."
Derek grinned. "Looks like we're stuck with each other."
Addison's stomach flipped.
Sam Bennett and Naomi McDonald.
Two new names. Two unknowns. Two intrusions.
She didn't want new people. She didn't want to share.
Girls, especially, made her skin itch.
Girls were perfume and whispers and parties her mother threw with a forced smile. They were underhanded compliments and critiques disguised as charm. Vipers in pearls.
She stared at the paper, as if re-reading could undo it.
Naomi. That was definitely a girl.
And Sam? Sam could be a girl too... Or a boy. Frustratingly gender-neutral name - Like Addison. She hated that.
The room buzzed with students finding their groups and speculating about assignments, but Addison didn't move.
Her best friends growing up were boys. Archer, of course. Skippy Gold, who watched Star Wars with her and told her she was a smart. And now—Derek and Mark.
Predictable in their own ways. Safe. And hers.
Addison's stomach tightened with a sudden, sharp fear: What if the boys liked them more? What if they didn't need her anymore?
Derek glanced sideways as Addison folded the paper and slipped it under her coffee cup with a little too much care.
"You okay?"
She didn't answer right away.
"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"
Derek didn't buy it, but he didn't push.
Before he could say anything more, Mark's voice cut through the room like a firecracker.
"Ladies and gentleman, fellow nerds! Allow me to introduce the rest of the dream team."
Derek turned just in time to see Mark swaggering down the aisle, two people trailing behind him and clearly trying not to look too amused by his showmanship.
He stopped at their row and gestured dramatically.
"This," he said, clapping a hand on the shoulder of a tall, composed man in a leather jacket and calm expression, "is Sam Bennett—basketball prodigy, track star, and future reason you all survive your first crash cart rotation."
Sam's smile was a genuine, if not a little nervous. "I don't know this man."
"And this," Mark continued, turning to the woman beside Sam, "is Naomi McDonald. Genius, most likely to stab someone with a speculum before finals week, and—fun fact—knows more about hormones than most gods."
Naomi laughed, giving Mark's shoulder a playful tap. "Easy now - Dont give away all my secrets."
Derek chuckled under his breath, while Addison didn't. Her smile was tight, controlled.
Mark turned to Sam and Naomi, with a grand sweep of his arm toward Derek.
"And this brooding bundle of silence is Derek Shepherd. Mysterious. Sleeps in button-downs. Most likely to save your life and then apologize for the inconvenience."
Derek gave a long-suffering sigh, but his smile betrayed him. "Thanks, Mark."
"And—" Mark turned with flair, "Addison Montgomery. Overachiever, terrifying in heels. Looks like she owns a yacht and probably does. Most likely to win a Nobel Prize and make you feel bad about your GPA while doing it."
Addison blinked. "You rehearse that, or does it just flow out naturally?"
Mark grinned. "Both."
Naomi leaned in with a teasing glint in her eyes.
"Addison. I can't believe I'm in your group." Naomi laughed. "We've all heard about you. Top of the class. Never sleeps. Might be a robot."
Addison gave her a flat look.
"Total compliment," Naomi added quickly. "Like a robot in heels. Who probably grades the professor's work for fun."
Addison's lips twitched. "I only grade on Tuesdays."
There was a beat—then Naomi burst out laughing, and Sam followed, surprised and delighted. The same kind of laughter Derek had let slip when Addison first cracked through his expectations of her.
Up ahead, the groups began moving toward the cadaver stations. Mark, Sam, and Naomi walked ahead, coffees in hand and already trading jokes.
Naomi glanced over her shoulder, amused. "You weren't kidding about the dream team."
"Right?" Mark agreed.
Sam gave a mock-serious nod. "I'm mildly terrified. You're all very shiny. I'm just honored to have made the cut."
"My friends," Mark lifted his coffee like a toast, clinking into their cups. "Welcome to the anatomical Avengers."
Addison hung back, watching them. Derek looked at her, a flicker of something softer behind his gaze. He caught the quick tension in her shoulders. She wasn't rattled. She was steeling.
"Hey," he said quietly, only for her. "We've got you."
She didn't answer right away. Then, finally, her gaze flicked to his.
"Yeah," she said. "I know."
She didn't. Not really.
But she wanted to.
"Let's call him Jasper," Derek said, crouched near the table, his voice soft with a kind of quiet reverence. "Seems like a Jasper, don't you think?"
Naomi tilted her head thoughtfully. "Yeah. Jasper sounds dignified. Like he read the paper every morning and took his coffee black."
Sam nodded solemnly. "Definitely a crossword guy. Sundays only."
Mark raised an eyebrow. "What, no love for Cadaver Dan? That guy sounds like he's seen some things."
The others didnt give in, so Mark grinned. "Jasper it is. May he guide us to passing grades."
They all looked toward Addison. She was already gloved up, adjusting the position of the scalpel with clinical precision. Her eyes didn't leave the body.
"What do you think?" Derek asked, gently.
Addison paused. Her smile came a second too late. She didn't know how to do this. Not when she wasn't in control. Not when she couldn't be the best and be liked. It never worked that way.
"Jasper's fine."
She bent back over her work, pretending she didn't feel like the odd one out, pretending she didnt hear Mark laugh and make a robot joke.
She wasnt used to it —this gentle thing, this team thing.
So instead, she focused on what she could knew: clean incisions. Steady hands. Precision.
Dr. Webber's footsteps approached, and the group straightened instinctively. He stopped at their table, arms folded as he surveyed them.
"Group Four," he said. "Show me what you've got."
Addison stepped forward immediately, confident but not cocky—yet. "We've identified the pectoralis major, minor, and are tracing the cephalic vein to its junction."
Webber gave a slow nod, eyes flicking over the table. "And the significance of that junction?"
"The deltopectoral triangle allows for easy access during central line placement," Addison spoke up again. "It's also a common site for catheter misplacement, depending on how the guidewire behaves."
Webber's lips quirked. "Well, Jasper's in capable hands."
His gaze lingered on Addison for a beat longer, something like curiosity in it.
"Montgomery—keep that edge. But remember, medicine isn't a solo sport."
That made her freeze, but on the exterior she remained calm. Her stomach twisted, just slightly.
"Yes, sir."
She stepped back. Let Naomi have the next question. Let Sam touch the scalpel. She… eased up. Just enough.
By the time they were done, the group was laughing about something that had happened in a different lab. Mark was telling a story with full body reenactment. Derek was shaking his head. Sam wheezed from laughing too hard, then pulled out an inhaler, breathing it in. Naomi rolled her eyes fondly.
And Addison stood by her tray, watching them.
She felt it before she could name it: that old fear. The tight squeeze of it in her chest. They don't need you. They're better off without you. You were too loud. Too sharp. Too much.
But then—
"Addison!" Naomi called out.
She turned, startled.
"We're heading to the bar. Come on."
Addison blinked. "I have to study—"
"Oh, shut up," Naomi said with a grin. "You can study tomorrow. Tonight, you're coming out."
"You heard her, Red. Come out with us," Mark called, throwing an arm around Sam and Derek like a golden retriever in human form. "You owe us after that surgical flex. We're drowning in your academic wake."
"Don't say wake," Sam muttered.
Addison blinked. "You… want me to come?"
Naomi gave her a puzzled smile. "Yeah? You're one of us, didn't you get the memo?"
It was a joke, but it hit her hard in the chest. She said yes before she could change her mind.
The bar was chaos. Loud music, sticky floors, low ceilings, and a drinks menu written in permanent marker. It was unlike anything Addison had ever been allowed to be part of.
Naomi passed her a hoodie—her own, oversized and worn—and Addison changed in the bathroom, pulling it over her pressed blouse and feeling immediately transformed. Unbuttoned. Unguarded.
They got shots. They got more shots. Sam ordered nachos and pretended to be scandalized by the fake cheese. Mark flirted shamelessly with a girl at the bar.
Addison sat there, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, the cold rim of a glass kissing her lips, and thought:
This is what freedom feels like. This is what it's like to not be a Montgomery.
She'd never been good at moderation. And tequila made her talk.
"My mother once told me," she announced suddenly, slouching into Derek's side like they'd been best friends for years, "that I walk like someone who doesn't know she's being watched. Which is wild, because I always know."
The group laughed, assuming it was a joke. Mark raised his glass. "To oblivious strutting!"
Addison laughed too, sloshing half her drink down her top. She took a sip, then coughed, sputtered. "Is this… carbonated?"
Naomi laughed. "You have had beer before, right?"
"I've had wine," Addison said, like that was enough context.
"Oh God," Naomi said, grinning. "She's like a Jane Austen character."
Derek leaned his elbows on the table, watching her. "You've seriously never had beer?"
"Or nachos," Sam added, reverently, as he pushed the cheesy mountain toward her.
Addison peered at it. "They look like something a six-year-old invented while unsupervised."
"That's exactly what they are," Mark said. "Eat one. For science."
She picked up a chip cautiously, the cheese stringing like taffy. She tried it. Chewed. Blinked.
"…That's actually great."
Derek pointed at the jukebox. "Please tell me you've at least picked a song off one of those before."
Addison turned, drink in hand, the condensation sliding down her wrist as she gestured lazily toward the jukebox.
"They said if I touched one of those I'd get ringworm and make the papers."
Naomi nearly snorted her drink. "Wait—what?"
"Mm," Addison nodded, "It's basically a petri dish, or so I've heard." She took another sip of beer, as if she'd forgotten she didn't like it, then sputtered again.
Derek laughed, before getting up. He held a hand out for Addison. She stared at it, then took it.
"Come on." He grinned in encouragement. "Its fun. I'll show you how."
Addison laughed. Too loud. Too long. Her face felt warm and she didn't care. No one cared.
The music thumped low and lazy through the bar, and the sticky little dance floor had no business being this fun. It was cramped and badly lit, and yet—here she was, letting Derek spin her by the hand like they were at some charmingly awful wedding reception.
Derek had one hand on her waist, guiding, but not correcting. Playful. Patient. The others danced against them, Naomi laughing so hard she nearly spilled her drink.
Addison had never once danced without being watched.
But here, no one was telling her how to move. No one was telling her she was too much. And the freedom that came with that was more intoxicating than the alcohol.
She let Derek twirl her again—too fast this time, stumbling into his chest, breathless with laughter.
"You're getting it," he laughed too.
Her eyes shone, cheeks flushed. "I've never done this."
"What, danced?"
"No." She shook her head, "Been… like this. Messy. With people. Having fun."
Derek just smiled. "Well," he said, "you're a natural."
She stared back at him, mouth a little open, arms around his shoulders.
Then, Mark cut in with an exaggerated bow. "May I have this dance, Your Highness?"
She turned quickly, rolled her eyes, but didnt pull away when he took her hand. "Only if you stop calling me that."
Derek glanced at Mark, a forced smile as he watched them go.
They danced like idiots—Mark exaggerated every move, doing body rolls and hip thrusts while Addison doubled over laughing. He spun her dramatically and dipped her halfway, then looked genuinely surprised when she didn't resist.
"You're really going with it, huh?"
"I'm drunk," she said.
"I like drunk you."
"She's not bad," she agreed, swaying a little as she pulled away, catching sight of Naomi and Sam.
They danced badly, laughing the whole time.
Addison returned to their table with a hand over her chest, catching her breath. "Okay," she panted. "Okay, I want a cocktail."
"Addie," Naomi laughed, "look around you. This place has two kinds of drinks: warm beer and warm beer in a plastic cup."
Addison paused, her expression softening because she'd called her Addie.
"I'd love to see you try to order a martini here, Red." Mark coaxed.
"Don't push her." Derek's tone was light, but there was a protective undertone.
Addison's expression shifted into one of drunken determination.
"Wait here." She told them.
She sauntered—well, swayed—her way to the bar with a kind of drunken elegance, heels clacking. The group watched in amused disbelief from their table.
The bartender, a tired man with a thousand-yard stare, barely looked up as she approached.
Addison leaned over the counter with the air of someone about to file a formal complaint. "Hi there. I'd like to make a few cocktails. For personal use. Educational purposes."
The bartender stared at her.
"No," he said flatly.
Addison nodded thoughtfully, as if this were all part of the dance. "I can respect that."
Then she slid over a wad of cash like she was tipping a concierge at a five-star hotel.
A pause.
A resigned sigh.
"Ten minutes," he muttered, moving aside.
Addison grinned.
Back at the table, Mark nearly choked on his beer. "Did she just bribe the bartender?"
"I think she did," Naomi said, wide-eyed. "Was that a hundred?"
"Looked like it," Sam murmured.
Derek watched with an amused smile, chin resting on his hands.
Addison hopped onto the bar, legs swinging over, then down onto the others side. She collected up ingredients, doing a little spin with the bottle as she got it out, the way bartenders do.
A few minutes later, Addison returned with a tray of cocktails—colorful, balanced, and served with little twists of lemon she'd sliced herself. She handed them out like a proud hostess.
Naomi took a sip, eyebrows shooting up. "Wait, this is really good."
Addison shrugged, pleased. "It should be. I've been mixing drinks for the Captain since I was eight."
Mark huffed a laugh. "Captain? You never mentioned growing up on a pirate ship."
Addison grinned, tipsy and warm. "No, that's my father. He insists we call him 'the Captain.' God forbid anyone remind him he's responsible for something."
There was a beat. The group laughed, though slightly unsure, a little off-balance now.
Naomi tilted her head. "But seriously, your dad made you mix his drinks as a kid?"
Addison shrugged, still smiling. "He did a lot of... entertaining guests." Even drunk as she was, Addison couldn't bring herself to mention the Captain's mistresses. "I was his party trick, you know - Something fun to bring out and show off. Put away again when they got bored."
Addison turned to her drink, oblivious to how their smiles faded just a little. There was a pause.
Sam cleared his throat. "What about your mom?"
Addison laughed, the sound sharp and light. "What, you mean Bizzy?"
The group exchanged glances at the name alone. Addison didn't notice.
"If Bizzy knew I was here, she'd probably revoke my inheritance." Addison said, still laughing. "My mother said cheese that gooey was for sports bars and people who wear foam fingers."
Mark made a wounded sound. "That's slander."
"Well." She shrugged. "She also said carbonated drinks would rot your teeth and make you infertile. She said a lot of crap."
"Oh my God," Naomi laughed. "Your mom sounds like a Bond villain."
"That's her." Addison laughed too. She raised her glass in salute. "Bizzy Montgomery: license to kill... my self-esteem."
Addison downed the drink and smacked it down, before anyone had the chance to join.
"You know, Bizzy's big advice before I left for med school was? Remember, you are a Montgomery - Don't embarass us. And for God's sake, wear something with a waist.'"
Addison laughed, pouring another drink. The others laughed too but it was thin, like they werent sure of they should be laughing. They seemed concerned, exchanging quick glances.
"She used to tell people I never cried as a baby." Addison continued, "Said it with pride, like I came out house-trained..." She laughed, "The truth is, I stopped crying when I realized it didn't change anything."
Mark's smile faded. Naomi glanced at Sam, who had scratched the label from his beer bottle, worried eyes on Addison.
The air had shifted.
Addison blinked, realizing she'd said too much—and that they'd all heard it.
Then: a soft clink. Derek tapped his glass gently against hers.
"To surviving," Derek said, his voice soft.
She looked up, startled. But his eyes weren't full of pity. Just understanding. Admiration, even.
Addison smiled, a little shaky. "To surviving," she echoed, and clinked.
"To surviving." Mark agreed with a solemn nod. Sam and Naomi joined, everyone clinking glasses together.
They didn't need another round of tequilas, but here they were.
Addison's laughter felt strange in her chest, like it didn't quite belong—and yet she couldn't stop. It bubbled up and out until her ribs ached. She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, leaning into Naomi as she tried to steady herself, but the more she wiped, the more the tears came—uninvited, messy, and real.
Naomi laughed a little, arm wrapped around Addison's shoulders, gently squeezing. "Okay, okay, breathe, you're getting snot on my sleeve."
"I'm trying, I-" Addison coughed. She held up her finger, attempting to stop. Sam patted her back untill she caught her breath, then laughed again, watery and breathless. "Why is tequila like this?" She announced, blinking up at the group with bleary eyes. "Why does it do this to people? I don't even know why I'm crying! This is so stupid."
Sam reached across the table, sliding a stack of napkins toward her like a peace offering. "It's not stupid. It's tequila. Tequila is basically therapy in shot form."
Addison grabbed a napkin and blew her nose dramatically. "Expensive therapy with worse side effects.
She blinked at them, her face blotchy and red, then shrugged and added, deadpan: "I'm fine. I'm just leaking."
Mark stared at her for a second—then burst out laughing.
Naomi choked on her drink. Sam grinned. Derek chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. There was a moment of pure, absurd warmth—Addison, teary-eyed and ridiculous, and the group just losing it around her like it was the funniest thing they'd heard all night.
As the laughter faded, Addison slumped back into her chair, tipping her head up like she was trying to keep the ceiling from spinning.
Derek leaned back in his chair too beside her, casually mirroring her, watching with an amused but tender expression.
Addison stared back at Derek. Her eyelids were heavy, lips parted, front teeth peeked out a little like a rabbit's.
Derek smiled, because there was something helplessly endearing about her.
"You're pretty," Addison slurred at him, her voice soft, almost childlike in its sincerity.
Mark cackled. "Okay. Now she's drunk. Officially."
Derek's smile widened, but it stayed warm. "You're pretty too, Addison."
"Really?" Her voice was softer now, the corners of her mouth twitching with hope.
He nodded, eyes steady on hers. "Really."
Her smile flickered—there and gone—and she didn't look away from him. Not for a beat. Not for two.
Then her eyes welled up again, and she swiped at her face quickly, as if mad at herself for letting it happen. "Ugh, what's wrong with me?"
Naomi reached across and took her hand. "Nothing. You're just… feeling stuff. That's legal now, you know."
Addison's shoulders shook, tangled with a fresh sob, then she wiped her face. "Oh god... I'm a mess."
"Yeah," Mark said, finishing the last of his drink. "But you're our mess."
They all stood as Derek moved to help her up, wrapping an arm around her gently, no rush, no judgment.
"Alright," Derek said, his voice low. "Let's get you home, okay?"
Addison leaned into him more than she meant to, the comfort of his body a little too grounding. She nodded against his chest. "Thank you."
Derek just held her, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Anytime."
Addison didn't remember the journey home, just that it happened. And now they were here, at her apartment.
Naomi swooped over, grabbing Addison's keys and unlocking the door. "Come on, tequila gremlin."
Addison turned toward them, wobbling slightly, pointing back toward the door with both index fingers like finger guns.
"Come in for coffee?" she offered, hopeful and loopy.
Mark grinned. "Tempting."
"But we should get going," Derek added gently.
Addison blinked, processing, then nodded quickly—almost too quickly. "Right. Yes. Great."
She turned back to the door, fumbling with the handle as she opened it. "That's actually… perfect. Because I don't know how to make coffee."
She paused, then turned back toward them, frowning thoughtfully.
"I don't even think I own coffee beans."
Sam handed her a bottle of water with both hands. "Drink this. And please don't die."
Addison leaned in her doorway, hoodie too big, smile too real, heart too full. She wasn't graceful. She wasn't elegant. She wasn't controlled.
And no one minded.
They laughed, and waved and left.
Derek lingered, his smile quiet, warm.
"See you tomorrow?" he asked.
Addison nodded, head against the doorframe. "Yeah." She pointed at him. "You will."
Derek nodded, pleased. He caught her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze, then turned to leave.
"Goodnight." She called after him.
Derek looked over his shoulder, smiling. "Goodnight, Addie."
Addison woke with a headache, puffy eyes, and the sharp, cold realization that she'd made a fool of herself.
The dive bar. The dancing. The crying.
Oh god, the crying.
And Derek. She remembered looking at him like a drunk cartoon rabbit, bleeding heart spilling out of her mouth.
They would never want to see her again. Why would they?
She got dressed in silence, curled her hair, scrubbed her face, added makeup. By the time she got to class, she had her armor on.
She didn't look at them.
She sat near the front. Answered questions with precision. Avoided eye contact. Pretended she couldn't feel the heat of their laughter behind her, tried to believe it wasn't about her.
Then—
"Addie," Derek called out as they were packing up, casually, as if nothing happened. "You coming to lunch?"
She blinked. "Sorry?"
"You didn't think we'd let you crawl back into your tower after that performance, did you?" Mark grinned. "It was epic."
She opened her mouth. Closed it. "I was… embarrassing."
"You were fun," Naomi said warmly. "We loved it."
Loved.
She blinked again.
You love me? she almost said.
But she didn't.
Addison just nodded, let them pull her along, their chatter filling the air like sunlight through a window she didn't know had been opened. At the table, Sam ordered nachos and teased her again for never trying them before last night. She narrowed her eyes playfully at him, taking a chip.
Something warm settled in her chest. She could feel it.
They loved her.
"Forceps," Naomi said, hand outstretched without looking up.
Addison passed them over. "Here."
"Thanks. Okay, I've got fascia—Mark, you're next."
Mark leaned in, brow furrowed, surprisingly focused. "Scalpel. And someone steady the arm."
"Here." Addison handed the scalpel.
Derek braced the shoulder while Sam adjusted the light. "You're good, go ahead."
Mark made the incision cleanly. "Look at that technique. I could've been a hand model."
"Steady, Michelangelo," Derek said, amused but impressed. "Let's not get cocky before we finish the brachial plexus."
"She's right," Sam added. "You know how Webber feels about early celebration. It's like we're jinxing the dissection."
"I don't believe in jinxes," Naomi said.
"Because you're not the one who always gets the scut work," Sam glanced over at her with a wry smile.
Mark adjusted his grip, ready to make the next incision
"Careful," Addison said smoothly, eyes on his hand. "You nick Jasper's cephalic vein and he'll bleed like a bad date."
Mark froze, then glanced up with a grin. "What kind of dates are you going on?"
"The kind that end in arterial spray," Addison replied, deadpan, before handing him a retractor.
Naomi snorted.
They were so deep into their rhythm—trading instruments, anticipating movements, quietly confirming anatomical structures—that they didn't notice Dr. Webber at first.
He stopped beside their table, arms folded, nodding with quiet approval. "Now that," he said, "is what collaboration looks like."
They all straightened a little.
"I expect big things from this group," he added, more pointedly to Addison, though his tone was warm. "Nice to see you've joined the team, Montgomery."
Addison met his gaze and gave a small, earnest nod. "Thank you, sir."
Webber moved on, and as he did, Mark whispered, "Did we just get Webber's stamp of approval?"
Derek smirked. "Try not to let it go to your head."
Addison didn't say anything right away, but she smiled to herself, eyes back on the dissection. It was strange and new, this feeling - Like she didn't have something to prove. Just something to contribute.
They peeled off their gloves, the snap of latex echoing in the suddenly quiet lab. The others had already filtered out—Derek with Sam, Mark not far behind. He paused at the doorway, bellowing a warning, "Table's at 7, ladies. Any latecomer's pizzas will automatically be up for grabs."
"You better not." Naomi laughed, but he was gone.
She neatly coiled her stethoscope, waiting for Addison to finish her follow-up notes.
Addison glanced up over her glasses, wondering if she should tell Naomi not to wait for her.
"Take your time." Naomi smiled. "The boys take forever anyway."
Addison gave her a quick smile, continuing to work.
"You know, Addie... You don't act like a first-year." Naomi said, tidying their table. "You feel like someone who already knows where she's going."
Addison shrugged one shoulder. "Cardiothoracic. Always has been."
Naomi looked up, brows raised with a laugh. "Of course you want to be a cardio god."
Addison laughed too, almost despite herself. "Why? Is it obvious?"
"Only completely," Naomi teased. "You've got the posture of someone who thinks scalpel precision is a personality trait."
Addison grinned, closing her book. "That's… disturbingly accurate."
They began walking together down the hall, the clack of their shoes rhythmic against the tile. It surprised Addison—how easy it felt.
Growing up, girlhood had meant tea sets, dance recitals, and competitive charity galas. Addison had always preferred frogs in jars, science kits, and racing Archer's bike down the vineyard rows. Boys had been easier. Simpler. Girls made her feel like an alien.
But Naomi felt different.
Naomi loved medicine. They spoke the same language—of tissue, timing, and drive honed sharp as a scalpel.
"What about you?" Addison asked. "What's your god-tier specialty?"
"Fertility," Naomi answered without hesitation. "I want to help women have babies."
Addison blinked. "Seriously?"
Naomi smiled. "There's something about it—bringing life into the world. Helping people create something they've been dreaming of for years."
Addison hesitated, then confessed, "When I was a kid, I used to sit in the gallery at the Captain's hospital. I loved all the surgeries… but the deliveries—those felt different. Like something beautiful was happening."
Naomi tilted her head. "So why cardio?"
Addison's voice turned matter-of-fact. "Because I'm supposed to. Archer's doing neuro, so I do cardio. That's the rule. You can't be the wrong kind of doctor in my family."
Naomi snorted. "The wrong kind?"
"OB's too soft. Peds is underachieving. Derm is for people who failed something important. But cardio?" She shrugged theatrically. "That's the legacy."
Naomi laughed. "That's also pretentious as hell."
Addison cracked up. "I know, right?"
They reached the elevator. Naomi leaned against the wall beside her.
"Well, legacy or not—you've got the brain and the hands for it."
"Thanks," Addison said, then hesitated, surprised by how much it meant.
Naomi hesitated too, then added, "But, Addie—it's your life. You get to decide who you want to be. Not your family."
Addison looked at her, something soft and unguarded flickering in her eyes. Naomi felt strangely familiar—like someone she hadn't known she was missing.
The next afternoon, Addison and Derek were washing up at the sink, the smell of formaldehyde still clinging to their scrubs. Addison tugged her cap off, hair a mess from hours bent over the cadaver table.
Derek glanced over. "Hey," he said casually, drying his hands. "You... wanna come by my place tonight?"
Addison blinked. "Your place?"
"Yeah."
"Just me?"
"Yeah," Derek said again, rubbing the back of his neck. "Unless you think that's weird."
"No!" she said quickly, too quickly. "I mean—no, it's not weird. It's… nice."
Derek pulled a folded slip of paper from his pocket. "Here," he said, handing it to her. "It's not far from here. The buzzer sticks, so you kind of have to elbow it."
She took the note carefully, like it was something precious.
"See you then." Derek smiled, his eyes warm. "Just pizza and bad movies. No scalpels allowed."
Addison laughed, her heart doing a stupid little flip in her chest.
As he walked off, Addison stood frozen for a beat, staring at her own reflection in the scratched-up mirror. Her cheeks were pink.
She looked down at the note in her hands.
Then she exhaled.
Addison checked her reflection in the mirror for the third time—hair neat, sweater ironed, the necklace Archer gave her sitting just right at her collarbone. She still wasn't sure if this was a date-date, but Derek had said, "Just us," and smiled in that way he did when he was trying not to look too hopeful.
They pulled up. Addison stared up at the building like it might collapse on her.
"You sure it's this one?" The cab driver asked.
It was three storeys of chipped red brick and rust-stained rails, with someone's laundry flapping on the second-floor balcony. A bike was locked to the stairwell with two different chains—neither of which looked especially effective—and there was the faint smell of piney, slightly skunky grass.
"That's me." Addison said, handing him a tip.
Addison stood outside his apartment door, arms stiff at her sides, trying not to fidget with the hem of her coat. The hallway smelled faintly of someone else's dinner—cheap takeout and something fried—and the light above her buzzed with a dull flicker. It wasn't bad. It was just… normal?
Which made her feel suddenly, wildly out of place.
She glanced down at her outfit, then up at the scuffed door. It was clean enough, but there were scratches on the frame, a corner of the door slightly swollen from rain. The kind of wear that came from years of real life, not curated perfection.
Her stomach flipped.
What am I doing here?
She thought of the estate. Of the cold marble floors and manicured grounds and her mother's voice echoing down hallways. This place felt like the opposite of that. It was lived in. Comfortable. She didn't know how to belong to that kind of space.
Then the door opened.
Derek grinned at her, casual in a soft hoodie and jeans, socks on his feet like he'd just gotten home. "Hey," he said, eyes brightening when he saw her. "You look—wow."
She immediately flushed. "Overdressed," she muttered, glancing down.
"No," he said simply. "You look great. Come in."
His voice was easy, no pretense in it. He stepped aside and let her in.
She stepped inside and was immediately hit with the lived-in scent of college boy: laundry detergent, coffee, textbooks in every possible horizontal space.
She followed him inside. His apartment was warm, if a little chaotic. A tapestry hung crooked over the couch, clearly Mark's doing—bold, loud, vaguely psychedelic. There were comic books on the coffee table, framed but slightly bent photo of the two boys at the lake, and a lava lamp flickering red in the corner.
And mounted proudly on the living room wall: a giant, plastic singing bass.
"Is that—?" she pointed.
"Oh yeah," Derek said, grinning. "Big Mouth Billy Bass. Found it at a garage sale. He's our third roommate."
He walked over and hit the button. The fish sprang to life with a creaky mechanical wriggle, belting out 'Take Me to the River' in warbled tones as its mouth flapped out of sync.
Addison blinked. It was horrifying.
"Isn't it great?"
"I have so many questions."
"You'll get used to him," Derek promised. "Drink?"
"Please. Something strong enough to make me forget that fish."
He poured her a vodka soda in a mug that said National Parks, then settled onto the couch beside her. She perched a little too upright, trying to look relaxed and failing spectacularly.
Derek leaned back, turning to her, grinning as he saw Addison staring again at Billy Bass.
"So… you ever fish?"
"Only for compliments," she deadpanned.
He laughed, pleased. "I like going out early, before the sun's up. It's quiet. Peaceful. I've got this one spot near a lake with this mist that rolls in—like something out of a movie."
She smiled politely, nodding, while secretly thinking that sounds like a horrible way to spend a morning.
"We could go sometime," he offered, all sincerity.
Addison's eyes went wide, imagining herself sitting in the fog, holding a dead worm over open water.
"Sure."
"Sold." He grinned. "You can even have a turn steering the boat if you like-"
Addison's smile faltered for just a second, and Derek's voice faded in wake of memories.
The tiller in her hands. The wind. The creak of sails above her head. The sharp crack of the boom against her shoulder—
The snap of her body as she hit the railing, tumbling over—
The cold—
The screams no one heard.
Salt water in her mouth.
Her father laughing with his mistress, too far away.
Too late.
"I mean," Addison said quickly, shaking it off, "I used to sail all the time, as a kid. With the Captain. A lot of ocean time."
"That's amazing," Derek said, impressed.
She gave a small shrug. "Yeah. Well. That was until I drowned."
Derek blinked.
"I mean—not like died, I didn't die, obviously," she said quickly, hands flailing slightly. "Just—technically drowned. There was an accident. Hospital. Tubes. Near-death, the whole thing. So. No more sailing."
There was a moment where she was certain she had ruined everything.
But Derek just nodded, gentle and understanding. "Okay. Maybe no fishing then."
She let out a slow breath, touched by how easily he moved on. "Thanks. For not making that weird."
"Addison, we're sitting under a singing plastic bass. I don't think I get to judge weird."
She laughed, the tension easing out of her shoulders.
Derek got up to show her the rest of the apartment—tiny kitchen, tinier bathroom, and finally his bedroom
When he led her down the short hall, the energy shifted.
The bedroom was different—spare, quiet. Books lined the shelves, neat and organised. A small record player rested on the windowsill. Textbooks and sheet music were stacked neatly on the desk. The bed was unmade, but only barely, like someone had smoothed it with intention right before company.
"This is you," she said softly.
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. Sorry it's not much. Would you like to sit?"
She sat on the edge of the bed, posture straight. Her hands curled in her lap. She suddenly felt aware of everything—her skirt riding a little high on her thigh, the dip of the bed beneath her, the silence between them.
What would he expect?
She hadn't done this before. Not like this. Her parents had raised her to be composed, immaculate, pure—the kind of girl who didn't go to boys' bedrooms, much less sit on their beds with her heart fluttering in her throat.
She turned toward him, ready to explain. To say something awkward and clumsy and probably too much, something like I've never fooled around before, or Please don't expect anything.
But he surprised her.
He was sitting across from her now, perched on the edge of a low stool, guitar in hand, smiling like he didn't even notice the tension in her shoulders.
"I was gonna play you something," Derek said. "If that's alright."
Her mouth opened. Closed.
He adjusted the tuning peg with gentle fingers, then looked up again, a little bashful. "It's kind of dumb, but… it reminded me of you."
And then he started to play.
The song came soft and slow, with a tenderness that caught her off guard. Not showy. Not clever. Just honest — Just him, and a melody, and the sound of her breath catching in her throat.
She didn't move. Couldn't. The room faded around them—the red lava glow from the hall, the traffic sounds from outside, even her own fear.
He sang, and it felt like sunlight on her skin.
No one had ever done something like this for her before. Not for her.
Her heart ached with something unnamable. She smiled without realizing it.
And then, before she could overthink it—she leaned forward and kissed him.
It wasn't graceful. She bumped his guitar. Her nose got in the way.
But it was real.
Then she pulled back, eyes wide, heart racing.
"Oh," Addison breathed.
Derek looked just as surprised. And then—he smiled.
"Hi," he whispered.
"Hi," she said, breathless. "I think my brain just fell out of my head."
Derek beamed. "Same. We'll find yours if you help me find mine."
They both laughed.
She relaxed.
The air was warmer now, easier to breathe.
Derek gently set the guitar aside, eyes on Addison.
Their second kiss wasn't tentative—it was patient. He kissed her like someone who had all the time in the world.
His hand cradled her face, thumb soft along her cheekbone. The kind of touch that asked nothing and offered everything.
Addison hadn't known a kiss could feel like safety.
She inhaled shakily, fingers curled into the front of his shirt. Her chest ached, but not in the way it used to. This was something new. Foreign. It settled in her throat, warm and unfamiliar.
"You okay?" Derek asked, voice low and gentle.
She nodded—but tears slipped down her cheeks anyway, unbidden and soft. She didn't know why.
Derek didn't flinch when she cried.
Just stayed with her, thumb brushing gently beneath her eye. "That's okay," he whispered. "You're okay."
His kindness undid her. Not just the words, but the steadiness in them. The way he wasn't trying to fix her—just be with her through it.
She laughed softly, wiped at her cheeks. "I'm sorry. I'm such a mess."
"You're not," he said, voice still warm. "You're human."
That stunned her more than anything. How easily he could say it. Like it wasn't a flaw.
"Hey," he murmured, leaning in slow, kissing the tears from her cheeks. "It's okay... You're okay."
Her shoulders trembled with the effort of holding herself together. She felt Derek gently bring her close, her head against his chest, feeling his heartbeat.
She exhaled slowly, willing herself to make sense again.
"Sorry," she muttered, sitting back up, quickly wiping away the last of the tears. "I don't know why I'm always crying around you."
"I do," he said, and his voice was steady, not pitying—just steady. "You're safe now. Sometimes your body takes a second to catch up."
She let out a laugh, embarrassed. "God. You're so annoying when you say nice things."
"Thank you," he said solemnly, as if she'd just given him a compliment.
She looked at him, really looked, and felt something strange click into place.
Acceptance.
He saw her. All of her. And he didn't look away.
Addison looked at him, heart full and aching. Her hand reached out almost without her permission, curling into the fabric of his shirt. "Can I try again?"
Derek nodded, eyes warm. "You can do anything you want."
He let her lead at first, then his hand came up, threading into her hair, and he kissed her back—slow, reverent. Not hungry, not greedy. Just full of feeling. It bloomed between them like something inevitable.
Her breath caught. She felt like she was sinking and floating all at once.
They sat together on the couch, Addison leaning into Derek as they watched TV.
The door banged open just as Addison was helping herself to another handful of popcorn from the bowl on Derek's lap.
Mark strolled in, a hoodie half-zipped, hair damp like he'd just come from a run. "Yo," he called. "Smells like microwaved excellence in here."
"Popcorn," Derek didnt look up. "There's still some dinner in the oven too, if you want."
"Attaboy," Mark said, already striding into the kitchen.
A moment later, Mark emerged with two beers and a third tucked under his arm. He handed one to Derek, then offered the other to Addison with a casual flick of his wrist.
She raised a brow. "Still trying to make me like this stuff?"
Mark grinned. "Acquired taste, Red. Like anchovies. Or me."
Mark leaned back and kicked his feet up on the coffee table, flicked to the sports channel.
"Next up, I teach you how to yell at athletes you've never met."
Addison laughed, eyes on the screen.
The game kicked off—fast, loud, bodies blurring across the screen. Addison didn't know the teams, didn't need to. Derek leaned in now and then, murmuring the rules in her ear, his voice low and warm. His leg brushed against hers. Solid. Steady
Mark shouted at the screen with the exaggerated passion of someone who had no real stake in the outcome, just enthusiasm.
Addison sipped the beer. Still terrible.
She wrinkled her nose.
Mark noticed, raising his bottle toward her in mock solemnity. "Tastes like disappointment and debt, doesn't it?"
She snorted. "And regret."
"Now you're getting it."
The TV blared —fast and loud, players streaking across the screen. Addison tried to follow, not because it interested her, but because it was important to them. Her legs were tucked under her, socked feet resting against the edge of the couch, shoulder pressed against Derek's.
At some point Derek reached for the bowl of popcorn and just left his hand there, resting near hers. Not quite touching, but close enough.
She felt warm. A little overdressed in her jeans and soft sweater, but no one said anything. Mark shouted at the screen, dramatic and ridiculous, and Derek just laughed at him.
Addison leaned her head against Derek's shoulder ans he tilted slightly toward her, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She wasn't trying.
She wasn't performing. Not perfect. Not Montgomery.
Addison didn't feel like she had to earn her place in this room.
She was just a person, laughing at bad jokes, drinking cheap beer, surrounded by boys who made her feel safe.