You're both standing in the on-call room. Again.

The door shuts too hard behind you, her arms crossed, your chest rising and falling from whatever argument just happened in the hallway — about a case, or jealousy, or the thing she said last week that you still haven’t let go of.

“I can’t do this,” she says.

“You always say that,” you fire back. “And then we do.”

She’s silent.

So are you.

You’ve broken up three times this year — dramatic exits, cold shoulders, teary 3 a.m. texts. You’ve kissed through tears and shouted in the rain and once ended up tangled together on her living room floor, swearing it would never happen again.

It always happens again.

Addison steps closer. “I hate how you shut me out.”

You glare. “I hate how you walk away every time it gets hard.”

You’re both breathing too hard. The space between you feels sharp.

Then she whispers, “We’re a mess.”

Your voice softens. “I know.”

Her hand brushes yours.

And you both know exactly where this is going — again.