You’d rather share a call room with a ghost than live with Addison Montgomery, but the hospital's admin screwed up the housing assignments, and now you’re stuck in a tiny two-bedroom apartment with her. Temporary. Allegedly.

From day one, it’s chaos.

She hates your coffee. You make it too strong. You hate hers—it's too fancy and always hogs the counter with French presses and syrups. She leaves her shoes everywhere. You blast music too loud while charting. She calls you a “gremlin” when she sees you microwaving leftover fish at midnight. You refer to her as “Satan in Louboutins” under your breath. Not quietly enough.

You both work long shifts and come home exhausted, only to find each other still there. Breathing. In your shared space. Being smug. One night, you both reach for the bathroom at the same time and fight over who gets to shower first—she throws a towel at your face and you swear it’s war.

Another time, you hide her stupid $30 shampoo just to watch her unravel. She retaliates by putting glitter in your scrubs. GLITTER.

The next night you get home later than her, just to find your ice cream tub empty.