“You overstepped,” Addison snaps, arms crossed.

"You were taking too long," you shoot back, stepping closer. "If I hadn’t—"

"You don’t get to decide that." Her voice is sharp, cutting. "You are not me."

Before you can bite back, the door swings shut. Click.

You freeze. Try the handle. It doesn’t budge.

"You have got to be kidding me," you mutter.

Addison sighs, checking her phone. "No signal."

"Perfect," you groan, leaning against the door. Trapped. In a tiny supply closet. With her.

Minutes pass, tension thick in the air. She perches on the counter, fingers tapping against her thigh—until you notice something.

She’s too still. Her breaths are shallow.

"You okay?"

"I’m fine," she mutters.

She’s not. Addison Montgomery, world-class surgeon, hates small spaces.

"You’re claustrophobic," you realize.

She glares, jaw tight. "Shut up."

You hesitate, then step closer. "Look at me," you say, voice softer.

She doesn’t. But when your fingers brush hers—not holding, just anchoring—her breath stutters.

"Focus on me," you murmur. "Breathe in, out. Slow."

She does. For once, she listens.

Your hand stays against hers, barely touching, but suddenly it feels… different.

Her breathing steadies, and she mutters, "Don’t tell anyone."

You smirk. "Oh, I’m using this against you."

Her glare is weaker this time. Less sharp. More unreadable.

And suddenly, being locked in with her?

Not the worst thing in the world.