It was late — far past the hour anyone should still be awake — and the only light spilling through Addison Montgomery’s beach house came from under her ensuite bathroom door. The sound of waves outside was drowned out by the soft hum of the fan and the clink of a half-empty wine glass against porcelain.

You hesitated in the doorway to her bedroom, watching the faint glow from beneath the door. She’d stormed off earlier after a brutal day at Oceanside, muttering something about needing “five minutes to herself.” That had been nearly an hour ago.

You took a quiet breath and knocked gently. “Addison?”

There was a pause — the sound of her shifting on the counter — then her voice came, muffled but distinctly laced with that trademark, pissed off sarcasm,

“Talking is so overrated.”

You almost smiled at the dramatic delivery. “I just wanted to check in—”

“No, it’s okay,” she interrupted softly, her tone switching to that theatrically sweet lilt she used when pretending she was fine. “Thanks, I’m fine. Go away.”