Addison sat at the long kitchen bench with a textbook and lukewarm cup of coffee. Her eyes burned from too many late nights.
Her body was tense—coiled tight like a wire. It always was, lately.
It'd been a couple of years since Archer left for med school, and the silence he'd left behind was suffocating.
Without him, there was no one to whisper jokes to Addison behind the Captain's back, no one to roll eyes with during Bizzy's daily commentary on her posture, her outfits, her face.
No one to remind her, even once in a while, that she was good enough.
Addison missed him. Constantly. Painfully.
The Captain was gone too, in his own way—more interested in other lives, other women. His visits home were unpredictable, and lately, brief.
So now it was just her and Bizzy.
"You're slouching again," came her mother's voice, sharp and automatic as she entered the kitchen. "And your hair's a mess. Honestly, Addison. If you don't start presenting yourself like a young woman, no one will take you seriously in medicine."
Addison straightened her spine with an exaggerated flourish and lifted her coffee. She glanced over with a wry smile.
"How about now? A vision of elegance?"
Bizzy didn't laugh. She rarely found Addison funny. But the jokes weren't for Bizzy. They were for Addison—small flashes of armor in a house that didn't allow softness.
"You'll be surrounded by the best," Bizzy sighed, her heels tapping briskly across the tiles. "You don't get to coast anymore. You're not your brother."
Addison didn't reply. But she didn't flinch, either.
Bizzy moved with purpose, grabbing a glass from the cabinet, the air around her sharp with perfume and scrutiny. She didn't sit.
"You'll need to do something with that hair before tomorrow. And wear something that says you belong. That interview outfit made you look like a high school debater, not a future surgeon. Honestly, if it weren't for your scores…"
Addison's fingers tightened on her pen.
She knew she had the scores. She knew she'd earned her place. But deep down, buried beneath her sarcasm and steel, there was that old voice, whispering: If you're not perfect, you're nothing. If you're not brilliant, you don't deserve to be here. Or anywhere.
"I got in," Addison said, not looking up.
"And now you have to stay in," Bizzy snapped. "Do you know how many girls fall apart their first year? Just don't embarrass yourself. Or me."
Addison turned a page in her textbook, voice dry. "Inspiring words. Thanks, Bizzy."
Smash.
The glass shattered against the wall beside her.
Addison flinched, breath catching as cold liquid splashed across her shoulder and face. Her coffee sloshed. Her heart jumped.
There was a beat—just one, tight and buzzing.
Then, Bizzy was right there, leaning in.
"I don't know what kind of attitude you think you'll get away with out there. But this—" she gestured, sharp and disgusted at the coffee, the book, the glasses, the girl—"This is not brilliance. This is arrogance. You want to be the best? Then act like it."
Addison stared back at Bizzy. Didn't move. Didn't speak. Her throat felt tight.
It's one of those days, she told herself.
The ones where no joke can save her. Where you don't make it worse. You just ride it out.
Sometimes Bizzy was tolerable. Sometimes she was just sharp. But lately, her turns had been quicker. Meaner.
Bizzy stood over Addison for a moment longer, then straightened, smoothing her blouse.
"You'll thank me one day." Bizzy was quieter now, "When you realise how much I have sacrificed for you."
Bizzy glanced at the mess, her gaze wavering a little, then back at Addison. "And make sure you tip Maria... Apologise for the inconvenience."
She turned and walked away, heels fading down the hallway.
Addison sat still, dripping, the sting of liquor on her skin and the echo of glass still ringing in her ears.
She swallowed, wishing so desperately that Archer was here.
When she was little, he used to carry her. Now, she wasn't little anymore. She needed to carry herself.
Addison blinked hard and stood. She wouldn't cry. She'd learned that lesson a long time ago. All she could do is move forward.
Hands still shaking, she brushed broken glass from her hair, and wiped her textbook dry.
One more sleep, she told herself.
Tomorrow, she would start medical school.
And she would be perfect.
The anatomy lab smelled like antiseptic and cold metal. Addison arrived early—of course she did—and stood by the first dissection table, notebook in hands, posture perfect. Her hair was lightly curled and her makeup dark. She looked composed. Intimidating, even.
She knew how to present herself, but inside, her stomach was twisting.
A couple students trickled in, soft voices beginning to fill the room.
A boy with floppy hair and a golden retriever grin bounced in first, slinging a messenger bag off his shoulder like he'd just walked into a party. He was tall, blonde, and clearly very used to being the most charming person in any room.
He was already teasing someone as he passed, bumping shoulders, cracking a joke that made someone snort behind Addison.
Then he noticed her.
He veered off course and stopped at her table, leaning casually against the metal edge with a grin that could've been rehearsed.
"Mark Sloan," he announced cheerfully. "Future plastic surgeon to the stars. Just getting that on record."
He waited, then when she didnt reply he took a sip of takeaway coffee, looking her up and down.
"Got a name?" He prompted again.
Addison didn't look up from her gloves. "Focused," she said dryly.
Mark laughed. "That your name, or just your vibe?"
She glanced at him.
"Well, Focused," He said in a lower voice, clearly undeterred, "If you need help identifying anything anatomical—"
"If I wanted to spend my morning entertaining flirty, arrogant men, I could've stayed home in Connecticut."
Mark blinked, then barked a laugh, genuinely delighted. "Okay. Ouch. But okay."
He moved on with an amused shake of his head, still grinning.
She exhaled slowly. This was med school, not a gala. She wasn't here to charm anyone.
There was a moment of silence.
Addison flipped through her notes.
Then, a quieter presence stepped up beside her table.
He didn't say anything right away. Just stepped into position across from her, with a kind of quiet, self-contained calm.
Where golden retriever guy had lit up the room, this one barely made a ripple. But when he looked at Addison, really looked at her, it made her feel… noticed.
Not in the way men noticed her at charity events. Not in the way her father's colleagues had told her she was "impressive for her age" while giving her that too-long smile.
This was different. His gaze wasn't lingering—it was curious. Gentle. Like he saw something and wasn't sure why it mattered to him yet, only that it did.
"You early too?" He asked, softly.
His voice was calm and warm. Patient.
Addison nodded. "Habit."
He gave a smile. "I like the quiet, too. Before the chaos begins."
She didn't know what to say to that, but her lips twitched faintly.
Then Mark sauntered up, tossing his gloves onto the table with a dramatic sigh. "Of course you two are paired together. The two most serious people in the room. We're all doomed."
Mark handed over a coffee, serious expression now. "For the juju."
The man gave a soft laugh and thanked him. Turned to Addison, almost as if he wanted to explain.
"Careful, Derek." Mark warned, "She already took me down with one sentence."
Addison raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You recovered quickly."
The door swung open, and the room snapped to attention.
The instructor strode in, white coat billowing slightly, clipboard tucked under one arm. He had that unmistakable presence—seasoned, steady, and somehow still hopeful.
"Good morning," he said, voice rich and firm. "I'm Dr. Richard Webber. If you're standing here, it means you made it into one of the most competitive programs in the country. Congratulations—take a moment to be proud of that."
The room was silent. A few students straightened their spines.
"But don't get too comfortable," he added, his eyes sweeping the room. "From today, you're not just students. You're surgeons. You'll be working with real bodies, real people who donated their remains so you could learn. That deserves your respect. That demands your focus."
Addison felt her stomach pull tighter. This was it.
Dr. Webber gestured toward the tables. "You'll work in groups. You'll be tired. You'll get frustrated. You might even think you can't do it. But I expect every one of you to show up, put in the work, and prove that you belong here."
Addison's shoulders grew tense.
"Gloves on," Dr. Webber said, turning toward the board. "Let's begin."
Addison slipped into her role— She was fast, precise, unshakable. The others noticed. Mark leaned over at one point and whispered something like, "Remind me not to piss her off," and grinned when she didn't look up.
But Derek just watched her work with quiet fascination.
Not intimidated. Not trying to impress her. Just… curious.
Flashback
The house was dim and quiet, the way it only got after Bizzy had too much wine and the staff had disappeared. The air was sharp with the scent of spilled sauvignon.
In the corner, Bizzy slumped into a velvet chair, her eyes glassy and wet, silk robe slipping off one shoulder. A crystal tumbler hung from her fingers, nearly empty.
"I don't understand how everything turned out this way," Bizzy muttered into the silence, not really talking to Addison. "I gave my life to this house. To this- this life. And what do I have to show for it? A daughter who—" She stopped herself, tipping the rest of the drink into her mouth, her jaw tightening as she swallowed.
Addison didn't respond. She was good at not responding. Instead, she was quietly knelt, picking up the shards of a wineglass shattered against the wall.
Bizzy's voice cracked through the quiet. "Stop that! Why are you cleaning, like some busboy? Leave it. You don't even know how pathetic you look, do you?" She watched, then sharper, "I said leave it, Addison!"
"What, and abandon my busboy dreams?" Addison kept her tone light as she stood. She came over, handed Bizzy a glass of water. "Here, have some water. Pretend it's Vodka."
"Don't talk to me like you're my mother," Bizzy snapped. She stood abruptly—stumbled—then crossed the room in unsteady steps. "You think you're so calm, so put-together. You're not. You're just like me. Don't pretend you're not."
Addison straightened slowly. "Bizzy. I'm just trying to help... Have the water, you'll feel better."
It was evidently the wrong thing to say.
"I don't need water, and I don't need your help!"
With a sudden toss of the glass, Addison was soaked, cup smacking her face, a solid hit but thankfully the glass didnt shatter.
Addison recoiled, hand to her cheek, shaken. Wide eyes watching her mother.
A long silence followed. Bizzy stared at her, swaying. "Oh, grow up," she muttered bitterly, as if embarrassed by her own hand. "Don't be so dramatic. It's just water."
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Susan appeared—Bizzy's longtime assistant, calm and composed as always. Her eyes flicked to Addison, then to the scattered wine glass and soaked carpet.
"Bizzy," Susan said gently, "You have that early call with the vineyard board tomorrow. Why don't we get you upstairs?"
Bizzy's face crumpled when she saw her. "Susan," she breathed, almost childlike, as if only just realizing she needed someone.
Susan wrapped a supportive arm around her and led her out without another word. As they passed, she gave Addison a small, almost invisible glance. Apologetic. Soft.
"You're alright," she said quietly, just for Addison. "You always are."
Then they were gone.
It was late when Addison ducked into the library. She preferred it that way—after most students had cleared out, when the air smelled like paper and dust and quiet. She liked the structure of it. Rows and rows of stillness. A place where everything stayed where it was supposed to.
It was an opportunity to be alone. Well, mostly.
In the back corner as he often was, tucked into a window seat with a cup of coffee and a stack of notes, was Derek.
He looked up when she entered. Didn't smile —just nodded, warm and easy. Like seeing her again made sense.
She considered walking past. She really did. But her feet didn't listen.
"You always study this late?" she asked.
Derek shrugged. "I like the quiet. Plus, I don't sleep much during exam weeks. Too many lectures echoing in my head.
Addison huffed a quiet laugh. "Tell me about it."
He looked at her, head tilted just slightly. "You're top of the class, right?"
"I study a lot," she said carefully. She didn't like what came with that kind of attention.
"Still," he said, "I've seen you in the lab. You're… impressive."
Her face didn't move. Her chest did.
"Thanks," she said, guarded. "That's nice."
Derek didn't press. Just turned back to his notes, pen tapping rhythmically against the margin. Addison turned to the bookshelf, eyes scanning.
After a few minutes, he spoke again—quiet, like he wasn't trying to fill the space but keep her company in it.
"You always look like you're carrying something heavy."
Addison froze.
He didn't look at her when he said it, which made it worse somehow. Like he wasn't fishing. Just… observing.
Then,
"It's the textbooks." Addison deadpanned, eyes still on the shelves. "Med school's a full-body workout."
There was a pause. Then Derek let out a quiet laugh—surprised, maybe.
She glanced over to see him smiling, like he hadn't expected her to be funny.
Addison stood, collecting the books come for, and left.
He didn't stop her. Just watched her go, the soft smile still lingering on his face.
Flashback
Addison's hair was still wet as she entered her bedroom, closing and locking the door behind her. She curled up into her bed, letting out the breath she didnt realise she'd been holding.
Her face hurt, a red mark forming under her eye already from where the glass had hit her.
She took the phone from her bedside table, cradling the receiver to her cheek, closing her eyes and taking in the continuous and familiar drone of dial tone.
Finally, she brought over the dialpad. Her finger hovered. Then tapped.
Ringing…
"Hey, Addie—can I call you back?"
Addison breathed in relief at the sound of her brother's voice.
"I'm about to head to this simulation," Archer continued, "And if I screw this up, my partner's going to kill me."
Addison smiled automatically. "Yeah, of course. Sorry. Go."
"You okay?"
"Yeah," she lied. "Kill it."
Addison hung up before he could hear her voice crack.
She didn't cry.
Addison opened her anatomy textbook, and studied until her vision blurred. Until she couldn't remember the sound of her mother's voice, her father's indifference. Until her own body felt like a list of systems and nerves and bones—something she could control, something she could name.
She studied until her eyelids grew heavy and closed, her head dropping against the page as she slept.
She was going to be the best.
Not for them.
But because it was the only thing that made her feel like she mattered anymore.
The lecture theatre was buzzing, students filtering in with coffee and notebooks and the kind of energy that suggested no one had slept well.
Addison took her usual seat—third row, centre-left, optimal view of the projector, close enough to ask questions but not enough to draw attention.
She'd been reviewing notes while she waited, posture impeccable, eyes scanning the page like she was trying to absorb it into her bloodstream.
Suddenly, a takeaway cup appeared on the edge of her sidetable.
Mark dropped into the seat beside her like gravity had pulled him there. Completely at ease, legs stretched out, grinning.
"For the juju," He said, tapping the lid. "You look like you're about to melt that textbook with your brain."
Addison didn't look up right away. "Is this coffee laced with something?"
He feigned offense. "Only charm and good intentions."
She turned to him, one brow raised. "So… nothing useful, then."
Mark let out a delighted laugh. "Damn, Red. You always this nice, or am I just special?"
Derek slid into the seat on Mark's other side, quieter, more deliberate. He gave a polite nod as their eyes met. "He made us stop for coffee. Said you might need it."
"I said she looked intense," Mark cut in. "Like she was plotting our academic demise."
"I am," Addison said, without missing a beat. "It's going well."
Mark chuckled, the kind of laugh that filled a room.
She kept her eyes on her papers, trying to figure out what exactly Mark wanted from her. Attention? A reaction? Probably both.
He had the same easy charisma Archer used to wear like a jacket—bright, disarming. But under it, something else: something she couldn't quite name... Or maybe she could.
"If I sit here long enough, do I get smarter by osmosis… or hotter by association?"
Mark was poking for attention now, lazy almost, like he just wanted to see how far he could get.
"You always flirt with girls who don't like you?" Addison asked, eyes still on her papers.
Derek laughed quietly behind the rim of his own coffee, eyes flicking between them.
"Only the interesting ones," Mark recovered easily.
Addison found herself in the library again, chasing down a journal article for her neuro module. It was late. The shelves hummed with old dust and solitude.
She turned a corner and there he was again—Derek—curled into a chair with his hoodie, highlighter perched in one hand.
"You again," He said, but not unkindly.
Addison glanced over from the shelf. "You have a thing for late-night libraries?"
Derek smiled. "I have a thing for peace and quiet."
Addison turned back to the shelf, continuing her search until she found what she needed.
He spoke up again, "They say you're brilliant."
"What?"
"That's what people are saying. About you." Derek shrugged. "That you're top of the cohort. That you don't make mistakes."
Addison rolled her eyes. "Yeah. That's me. Robotic and joyless."
He tilted his head in surprise. "I don't think you're joyless."
That caught Addison off guard.
"I think you're careful." He continued. "There's a difference."
She stared at him. For a moment, something cracked at the edges.
"Sorry if that was too bold," Derek added, quick but soft. "I see things. Notice things - Details."
Addison looked down, fingers tightening around her notebook.
He didn't push. Just looked back at his own book, giving her space again.
And for the first time in a long time, Addison didn't feel the need to run from the silence.
Flashback
Addison sat on the edge of the tub, knees pulled up, a cloth pressed gently to her cheek. The swelling wasn't bad. The sting was worse than the injury.
She looked at herself in the mirror. One red eye. A blotch on her cheekbone. Her lips trembled—but she pressed them together until it passed.
Crying was pointless.
She ran a damp cloth under warm water, then cleaned the dried wine from her hands, her top, the mascara that had smudged just slightly. There was something sacred in the cleaning. A reclaiming.
The sound of a pager.
Captain. Home.
Despite everything, Addison felt a warm flicker of hope in her heart.
He passed the bathroom door just as Addison stepped out. Didn't pause. Didn't look up from the sleeve he was buttoning. He smelled like cologne, the kind he didn't wear for Bizzy.
"Addie," he mumbled. "Have you seen my cufflinks?"
"In your office."
"Thanks, Kitten."
Addison opened her mouth to speak, but he was gone again.
Addison stood in the middle of the practice suite, her white coat pristine, clipboard in hand. They were split into pairs for the day, rotating through mock patient assessments.
Mark appeared beside her, dropping his stethoscope onto the table with theatrical flair. "Partnered again," he said. "Fate really wants to see if we can get through a session without me making you roll your eyes."
"Well. You've already failed," Addison said, dry but teasing.
"Yet you smile." Mark winked. "That's progress."
He leaned in slightly as they reviewed the patient scenario together—close enough that Addison could smell his cologne, something expensive, familiar. She shifted back an inch. He didn't notice.
"I'll be the resident," he declared. "You be the attending who corrects me mid-exam."
"I'm not playing roles," she said. "Let's just do it."
Mark grinned but relented, picking up the chart. His performance was passable—he knew the details, led with relative ease and confidence —but stumbled on the cardiac findings. Addison stepped in smoothly, correcting him with quiet precision. He laughed it off.
"See? I need you," Mark said. "You keep me from flunking out and looking stupid."
She raised a brow, glancing over her glasses. "Hm. Maybe don't rely on me for that."
Mark grinned again, but this time it didn't quite reach his eyes. Something flickered behind it—Frustration? Shame? Fear? She couldn't quite tell.
"Well. At least my lab partner's hot." Mark shrugged it off, as if attempting to compensate. "Tell you what—you ace this class, I'll buy you dinner."
"No thanks."
But he was in her space again. Not in an aggressive way, just careless, oblivious, like he was used to people usually letting him in.
"Jeez, Red... I'm starting to think you're immune to the Sloan Charm."
"Is that what they're calling it?" Addison gave him a quick smile - rehearsed, more a defense mechanism than anything.
Derek was across the room, partnered with someone else. He caught Addison's eye briefly as she looked over. His face was unreadable—but his gaze lingered.
Addison was exhausted after class, body tight like a wire after navigating the lab, and, at the same time, keep the Sloan Charm at bay.
Addison grabbed a coffee before heading home. She'd stayed late to finish a lab write-up, the halls mostly empty now. The cafeteria was dim and half-closed, but a few tables still held stragglers.
Derek sat at one, notebook open, tea steaming quietly beside him.
She hesitated—then walked over.
He looked up and offered a gentle smile. "Hey."
"Hey," She said, unsure why she was there.
"You've got your juju." He noticed, a small nod toward her coffee cup.
"Yeah." Addison glanced down at the cup in her hands, too tired to say anything clever. She looked back up, wondering if the answer had been enough.
It seemed to be - his smile was still there.
"You look like you need caffeine or sleep. Possibly both."
"Correct on both counts." She sat down across from him without thinking.
He didn't fill the space with words. Just sipped his tea, eyes kind.
"Mark can be… a lot," he said eventually, like he'd been thinking it but didn't want to assume.
Addison exhaled, amused. "That's one word for it."
"You don't have to smile when you're uncomfortable," Derek said, quiet. Not judging. Just offering.
The words hit harder than expected, and her laugh was automatic.
"Tell that to my WASP muscle memory. Politeness is expected, before we can even spell it."
He nodded slowly, like that told him something.
"It's fine." Addison waved a hand, "I'm trained to smile through dinner parties with politicians and investment bankers. That was nothing."
Something in her tone gave her away. Just for a second.
Derek's eyes stayed steady.
"Doesn't mean you should have to."
That surprised her.
"Sorry." He added, noticing her change in expression. "Let me know if I'm crossing a line."
"No, it's- I just—" She stopped. Shook her head. "You don't even know me."
"I don't," he agreed. "But I'd like to."
Something in her chest stuttered. Something about talking to Derek always felt... Strange.
Simple. Gentle. Not a performance.
Addison didn't feel like she had to try. Didn't have to be anything.
Not brilliant. Not composed. Not pleasant. Not perfect.
Just… there.
Flashback
The gala was all gold chandeliers and clinking glasses, the hum of laughter wrapped in the scent of champagne and expensive perfume. Addison stood near the marble banister with a flute of sparkling apple juice, her hair curled and pinned, her dress sleek and classic—black satin, high neckline. Mother's dream.
"Addie." The Captain held out a hand for her.
She held back the excited flurry in her heart and remained composed, slowly heading over to him.
She knew the assignment. But still. These events were the rare moments where he still noticed her.
Addison walked beside her father, the Captain's hand resting on her shoulder like she belonged to him. Like she was something to be proud of. Addison couldnt help but feel herself glow.
The Captain introduced her to a circle of surgeons and donors like she was a new car he was considering purchasing.
"This is my youngest, Addison." He announced. "Top of her class, just like her brother. Makes a darn good martini, too—don't tell her mother I said that."
They all laughed. Addison smiled.
It felt good—warm, rare. Being looked at like she mattered.
"You should hear her talk about cardiac development—sounds like she's already in med school."
Addison smiled, poised, ready. They asked questions and she began discussing findings she'd been researching. This part was easy, because she didnt need to pretend - she was genuinely invested in the science behind it.
Most were impressed, wanting to hear more. Though there were always a few that were more interested in looking at her than hearing her. One of them told her she had "eyes like trouble." Another clinked his glass to hers and asked if she had a boyfriend yet. She laughed—light, polite—then subtly stepped back when he leaned in too close.
The Captain gave her shoulder a little squeeze, lightly pushing her forward again in encouragement. "Go on, Kitten. Tell them what you said about the mitral valve the other night. The thing with the regurgitation."
Addison took a breath, stood a little taller. Then, she continued talking about medicine, back on topic.
The Captain turned—saw the brunette in the red dress by the bar—and his hand fell from Addison's shoulder. "Be right back," he murmured. "Don't go anywhere."
She watched him walk away.
Still, she stayed right where he left her. Tried not to let the disappointment show. Maybe he'd come back. Maybe he just needed a minute. She watched as the Captain approached the woman, heard the laughter, and Addison's heart sank.
Maybe not.
"Can I get you something stronger?" One of the men asked, hand gently leading her away from the others. She turned, startled. He was older. Polished. His tie loosened just enough to suggest comfort, confidence.
"I'm fine, thank you," Addison said, her smile practiced, polite as they walked.
"You sure?" he said. "You're a little young to be standing all alone. Shouldn't someone be keeping you company?"
"My father was just—" she looked back toward the bar, but the Captain was gone.
The man followed her gaze. "Ah," he said. "Busy man, Montgomery. I've known him a long time."
She nodded, hoping that was the end of it.
He didn't leave.
"You really his daughter?" he asked, leaning in a little. "You look like someone snuck you in from a prep school dance."
Her laugh was soft, unsure. "I'm sixteen."
"Sweet sixteen," he said, with a wink.
Addison shifted her weight. Her glass felt heavy in her hand. "Excuse me," she said. "I think I'm supposed to find the Dean's wife."
She turned—
And nearly collided with Bizzy.
Her mother's hand curled gently around her upper arm. "There you are."
Addison's chest loosened. For a second—just a second—she felt safe.
Bizzy guided her away from the man with grace and efficiency, her voice low and smooth. "I think we've had enough small talk for one evening, don't you?"
Addison nodded. "Thank you," she whispered. Her voice cracked a little, she didn't mean it to. "I didn't know what to say—he was—"
Bizzy stopped walking.
Her grip didn't tighten. Her tone didn't rise.
But her eyes… changed.
"Addison," she said coolly, "do you have any idea how that looked?"
"What?"
"You don't stare at someone like that in front of a room full of board members. Do you know how many of them have daughters your age? If you act like you're out of your depth, they'll believe it."
Addison blinked, stunned. "He was making me uncomfortable. I wasn't—"
"I don't care how it felt. You smile. You laugh. You charm." Bizzy's voice dropped, laced with steel. "That is what we are here to do."
Addison's mouth opened. Then shut. Her face was burning. She'd misunderstood. Again.
Bizzy took a sip of champagne, as if none of it mattered. "If you can't handle a bit of conversation, then don't come next time."
Addison nodded slowly.
Addison sat in the library, her notes laid out in precise rows, colored tabs blooming like a garden across the pages. She always sat at the same table, tucked near the windows, where the late-afternoon light softened everything it touched. But today, she wasn't alone.
Derek sat across from her, not saying much. He hadn't asked to sit—just raised his brows in a silent question, and when she gave the smallest shrug, he'd taken it as a yes.
They studied in parallel: quiet, focused, the only sounds the flipping of pages and the scratch of pens. After a while, Derek spoke without looking up.
"You always rewrite your notes by hand?"
She glanced at him. "Yes."
"Even the diagrams?"
"Especially the diagrams."
He smiled faintly. "You trust your own work more than the textbooks."
"I do," she said, surprised by how true it felt. "At least I know where I've made my mistakes."
There was something easy about him. He didn't fill the silence —he let it breathe. When Addison reached for her water bottle and winced at the stretch of her shoulder, still sore from the lab earlier that day, Derek noticed.
"You okay?"
"Fine," she said, then hesitated. "Just bruised. The trauma dummy hit back."
"Rough session?" He chuckled softly. "Why didnt you say?"
Addison paused, considering. "I don't always realize when something hurts. Until later."
He didn't press. Just nodded.
Mark leaned against the vending machine with a charming smile, the way some people seemed born knowing how to do.
"You're hard to catch alone, Red."
Addison glanced his way, then back to the machine. "Maybe I like it that way."
"I'm sure you do," he grinned, "But that library card must be getting full. Might be time to check out some of the other places on campus... I've got a feeling you could use some fun."
"Is that what you're calling it now?"
He laughed. "Come on. You're wound up so tight. You ever even been on a date?"
Addison raised a brow. "Is this your idea of flirting?"
"Depends. Is it working?"
He was too close now, standing just in her space—not quite inappropriate, but familiar in a way that made her skin crawl. Because she knew this type of boy. The way he performed charm. The way he mistook boundaries for an invitation.
Her heart gave a low, warning pulse.
"Mark," she said, steady, calm. "You're in my space."
His smile faltered. "Oh. Damn. Sorry."
He stepped back, and she gave a polite, dismissive nod, turning away before he could recover his footing.
She didn't feel angry. Just… tired. It was the same flavor of tired she'd felt all her life, in rooms with polished furniture and expectations heavy enough to break bone.
She pushed the doors open, letting cool air blow at her hair as she headed outside.
Addison sat on the bench outside the lecture building, arms crossed tight over her chest.
She didn't feel shaken, exactly. But it was the feeling of something familiar brushing too close—like old wallpaper you thought you'd stripped, but found still clinging behind the furniture.
She didn't hear Derek until he was standing nearby.
"Hey."
She glanced up, expecting him to sit, but he didn't—not yet.
"You alright?" he asked, gentle.
She nodded. "Just needed air."
He followed her gaze toward the doors, where Mark had disappeared.
"You don't like him." Derek observed.
Addison hesitated. "I don't like the way people act when they think they can get away with something."
He didn't answer, just stood beside her for a moment longer.
"You can-" Addison waved a hand toward the seat beside her, unable to look at him for some reason.
He did—close enough to be present, far enough to let her breathe.
"It's just a stupid game." Addison's voice was tighter than before, head bowed into her hand. "He wants me because I don't want him. Because I'm just- I'm…"
She stopped, the words evaporating in her throat. She wasn't even sure what she'd been about to say.
Derek didn't fill the silence. When he spoke, it was quiet. "You're not what people think you are, Addison."
She turned to look at him, cautious. "What do people think I am?"
His eyes didn't flinch.
"Untouchable. Unfeeling. Like nothing ever gets to you."
"Oh." Her gaze dropped.
A beat passed.
"Do you think that?" Her voice was careful, but when she looked up, his eyes were warm.
"I think you care more than anyone. And I think you learned to bury it early."
She didn't answer, not at first. She wanted to say something clever, something to spin the moment into a joke. But something about Derek made it harder to lie.
"I used to think being brilliant was the only thing that mattered," Addison admitted. "That if I could be the best… it would keep me safe."
"Did it?"
"No. But it gave me something to hold on to." She swallowed.
He didn't pretend to understand. He just stayed there with her.
"You're not alone, you know," Derek said eventually, his voice calm, kind.
She looked at him, startled—not by the words, but by how much she wanted to believe them.
"You?" She was afraid to ask.
He nodded. "And Mark."
She groaned.
"He's a lot." Derek agreed. "But he's a good friend, under all the, well-"
"The Sloan Charm." Addison muttered, making Derek laugh.
"Yes." Derek watched her, amused.
There was a pause before she asked, "You seem to know eachother really well."
"Since we were kids." Derek smile faded, soft and a little sad now. "He practically lived at my house. His parents were… not around. Not the kind that noticed if you didn't come home for a week."
Addison turned to face him more. "He grew up with you?"
"Pretty much," Derek said. "He used to say my mom was the only one who ever remembered his birthday. She saw him. She always sees people."
He glanced sideways at her then, like he was trying to offer something beneath the story.
She was quiet for a moment. Then, "The flirting… is that just how he is?"
"It's how he connects," Derek said. "It's how he asks to be loved. He doesn't really know another way."
Addison nodded slowly. "I get that."
She didn't mean to say it aloud, but it slipped out—quiet and real.
Derek looked over at her, but he didn't prod.
"Big family?" Addison asked, quickly changing the subject.
"Very," he said, chuckling softly. "Four sisters. All loud. All smarter than me."
"God," Addison breathed. "What's that like?"
Derek shrugged. "Messy. Chaotic. Loving. A lot of hand-me-downs. And even more opinions."
She smiled a little, genuine.
"What about your dad?" she asked.
The smile lingered on Derek's lips, but it didn't reach his eyes anymore. It faded, careful.
"He died when I was fifteen," He said. "Robbery at the shop my family owned. I was there with my youngest sister. She was five."
Addison's breath caught.
"I was in the back room with Amy—my little sister. We saw everything."
He paused, swallowing. "I held her, kept her quiet."
Addison didn't speak right away. She looked at him fully, letting the silence hold what he'd just given her.
"That's… a heavy thing to carry," She finally said.
It mirrored what he'd said to her earlier, and something in Derek's eyes shifted—softened. Like he'd just been handed something he hadn't realized he needed.
Addison was quiet for a long beat. Then,
"I think that's why you're the way you are, Derek." She said. "You listen. You don't look away from people."
Derek blinked, like he didn't expect her to say something so kind, thoughtful.
"I mean it," she added. "That kind of loss… I imagine most people would harden from it. But you didn't. You stayed soft."
His expression warmed, he seemed to like that.
"He saved us," Derek continued. "My dad. Got in front of the man with the gun, so he wouldn't see us hiding... My mom says that was always who he was. Protective. Brave."
"They sound like great parents." The phrase sounded weird coming out of Addison's mouth. Foreign. But Derek seemed to like it.
"They are." Derek agreed, a breath of a smile. "Mum's a Navy nurse. Scary good at reading people. Still calls me every week to ask if I'm sleeping and eating properly."
Addison smiled, a little easier now.
"She'd like you," Derek said, glancing at her. "Eventually."
Her breath hitched, though whe wasnt sure why, exactly. She let out a slow breath, then a laugh, unsure what to do. Mothers didn't like Addison.
"She doesn't trust people right away." Derek continued. "She's sharp. Picks up on things fast."
"And what would she pick up on with me?" Addison asked, unsure if she wanted the answer.
He hesitated—but only for a moment. "That you care more than you let on."
She blinked.
"And that maybe," Derek added, voice a little softer, "you're tired of pretending you don't."
Her throat tightened. She didn't look away.
"I don't really know what to do when people are kind to me," she said, a quiet confession.
Derek nodded in understanding.
A long moment,
Then Derek spoke, his voice low and careful, like he didn't want to break whatever had settled between them.
"About Mark," he said gently.
She didn't flinch.
"I think he means well," Derek reassured her. "He's just… wired in a way that makes everything feel like a performance. Like he has to win the room or be forgotten."
Addison didn't respond at first. But when she did, it was measured.
"That's familiar," she admitted. "That fear. That need to be… unforgettable."
He glanced over at her again, but she was looking down at her hands.
"Mark reminds me of the life I've been trying to leave behind," Addison admitted, her voice soft but steady—like it cost her something to say it out loud. "I think that's why it got to me."
Derek didn't press or ask for more.
"But I'm fine now." She said, almost dismissive with her smile as she looked back at him.
Then, quietly,
"You don't have to perform here, Addison."
She hesitated, caught off guard.
He held her gaze, kind and certain, and his voice matter-of-fact.
"You're already enough."
Addison's eyes softened.
She blinked once, slow. Then again, faster. The burn behind her eyes rose hard and fast, panic-familiar. She turned away, blinking again like maybe she could outrun it.
She wouldn't cry. Not here. Not in front of someone.
But God, she wanted to.
Derek didn't speak, but his hand shifted beside hers. Not pressing, not assuming. Just close enough to be an offer.
Addison stared at it for a second.
Then, carefully—like it might undo her—she let her fingers find his.
And in that silence, for the first time in forever, Addison felt something shift.
She felt safe.