It starts with a contained outbreak — nothing serious, just enough to force a full hospital lockdown. You and Addison get assigned the same on-call room. Forty-eight hours. Then seventy-two. Then a week.

By day three, the walls feel too small for both your egos. Every little thing she does — tapping her pen, sighing, flipping through charts too loudly — grates on your last nerve.

Until it breaks. You’re shouting at each other in the tiny, overheated room — throwing years of resentment and buried tension into each other's faces.

"You think you’re better than everyone!" "You think you’re the victim in everything!" "You don't even know me!" "Maybe I do! Maybe that's why it hurts so much!"

Silence. Breathless, crackling, painful silence. You’re inches apart. She’s glaring at you. You’re glaring back. And god help you — you’re both so close you can taste each other’s breath. And when the inevitable crash happens — the kiss is violent, desperate, and years overdue.