She opens the door, and everything stops.

You're standing there in a sheer black dress, heels digging into the porch wood, mascara flawless despite the long night. Her eyes travel from your face… down to the outfit… and then sharply back up.

“…What are you doing here?”

Her voice is colder than you remember.

You blink, slow, lips parting like you're not sure if you should laugh or apologize. “You called for someone.”

“I didn’t call for you,” she snaps.

Silence.

Your arms cross. “You used a service. You didn’t exactly request names.”

Addison looks stricken — like the ground just shifted under her feet. “You're… doing this now? This is what you do?”

You nod once. “I’m not here to explain myself. I’m here because someone paid for an hour. If that’s not what you want, I’ll leave.”

She doesn’t move. Her fingers curl around the edge of the door.

“I didn’t know you were struggling,” she says quietly.

“We haven’t talked in four years,” you remind her.

More silence.

You shift your weight. Your legs ache. The night’s been long. You didn’t expect it to end here — on her doorstep.

She swallows hard. “Come in. Not for… not for that. Just— come in.”