The bar down the street from Oceanside Wellness is your least favourite place on earth — mostly because Addison Montgomery likes it. Which means you end up there more than you’d ever choose.

Tonight, it’s supposed to be a drink. One drink, to shut her up after a brutal day at the practice. But two rounds turn into three, and Addison’s hair is falling out of its perfect twist, and you’re warm enough from cheap tequila that you almost forget how much you hate her.

Almost.

She’s mid-rant about her family — some fundraiser or cousin’s engagement or whatever — when she suddenly stops and looks at you. Really looks at you. Like she’s turning over an idea in that brilliant, infuriating brain.

“What?” you snap, suspicious. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

She leans forward, propping her chin on her palm. “How would you feel about being my wife?”

You choke on your drink. “Excuse me?”

Addison shrugs, far too casual for the nuclear-level absurdity of what she just said. “My mother thinks I’m married. She’s flying in for this party tomorrow night. Long story. I need a wife. One night only.”

You stare at her. “You want me to pretend to be married to you? We can’t even share an elevator without threatening homicide.”

She smiles — that infuriating, too-bright, too-smug Addison Montgomery smile. “Exactly. No one would ever suspect it’s fake.”

You open your mouth to argue, but you’re tipsy enough that your brain stalls. And maybe, under the buzz and the bitterness, there’s something reckless in you that wants to see her squirm. Or maybe you want to see her not squirm — to see what it feels like to play at being wanted, even if it’s all a lie.

You slam your empty glass down. “Fine. But you owe me so much for this.”

The next night, you’re standing next to her on the polished steps of her family’s country club. She’s got her hand around your waist like it’s always belonged there. She leans in to whisper in your ear before the doors swing open.

“Remember — we love each other,” she murmurs, her breath warm against your jaw.

You’re about to snap back something smart, something biting, but her mother appears, beaming, and Addison pulls you closer.

And suddenly — the warmth of her palm at your back, the way she says my wife with such easy charm, the small, brush of her thumb at your hip — it doesn’t feel like hate at all.

Somewhere between her mother’s wine-soaked compliments and the forced kisses on your cheek, you realize you’re not pretending nearly as well as you should be.

And when Addison glances at you with a quick smile — even if its all fake and the act — you wonder, just for a second, what it would feel like if this was always real.