You and Addison are screaming at each other in the hallway outside the OR.

She’s flushed, furious, hair slipping out of its bun, scrubs clinging to her like armor. You’re not much better—angry, adrenaline buzzing in your veins, hands on your hips as you throw her words right back at her.

“You always think you’re the smartest one in the room—” “Because I usually am!”

It’s like this every time. Every time you’re assigned to the same case. Every time you pass each other in the locker room. Every time you’re forced to breathe the same air.

She cuts you off, stepping in so close your noses almost touch.

“You’re reckless.” “And you’re unbearable.”

Her breath is hot against your cheek. Her eyes flick down—your lips, your jaw, your neck—just for a second.

That’s all it takes.

You both lunge at the same time.

You shove her into the nearest on-call room. The door slams. And then you’re kissing her like you hate her for ever letting you go.

Addison’s hands are in your hair. Yours are grabbing at her hips like you don’t care if the whole hospital hears. It’s messy. Angry. Addictive.

She pulls back just long enough to say— “This doesn’t mean anything.”

But her voice breaks on it.

And you kiss her again like it means everything.