She walked in without knocking — of course she did.

Addison Montgomery stood in the doorway of your office, arms crossed, ready to bite into whatever smug retort she’d prepared... but then her eyes dropped. And she stopped cold.

Your legs were still parted, skirt rucked up slightly, hand frozen mid-motion under the thin fabric. Heat blew across your face, your head tipped back—until reality slammed into you.

You yanked your hand away and scrambled to tug your skirt down, the sudden rush of shame so loud it buzzed in your ears.

Addison blinked. “Wow,” she said flatly, like the breath had left her lungs. “That’s… classy.”

You couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t move. The door was still open behind her, wide enough for anyone walking past to see. The risk. The exposure. The hum of humiliation vibrating under your skin.

She scoffed. “You seriously couldn’t wait? What is wrong with you?”

Still, no words. Just your breath, shallow and uneven, and her judgment—sharp, merciless—filling the room like smoke.

“I knew you were reckless,” she muttered, stepping inside and closing the door behind her, but not with kindness. With finality. “But this is desperate. This is sad.”