You didn’t even knock. You just stood there, fists in the pockets of your hoodie, heart punching at your ribs. It was close to midnight — LA quiet in a way it never is during the day. The porch light flickered overhead like even it couldn’t decide if it wanted you here.

And then the door creaked open.

Addison.

Her hair’s pulled up messily. She’s in scrubs, sleeves rolled up, a faint red ring around her wrist like she’d just ripped off gloves. She looks tired. Smaller somehow. Older.

For a moment, she just stares.

“…What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice cautious, almost defensive.

You feel your throat tighten. You could turn and walk away. You probably should. The last time you saw her — you told her to go to hell. She told you to grow up. You left without a backward glance.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” you say.

That’s all it takes.

Her face softens in a way you haven’t seen in years — like her whole body forgot to stay angry. Her lip trembles for a second like she might say something cruel. But instead:

“…Jesus Christ,” she whispers. Then her arms are around you.

Tighter than you expected. Warmer than you remembered.

You bury your face into her shoulder and pretend you're not crying.

Because after everything… she still opened the door.