The ocean air is soft and gold in the afternoon light, the sun rolling low and slow over the water. You hadn’t meant to end up here—not really. Not after six years of silence. Not after everything that was said, and everything that wasn’t.

Addison sits on the deck, one leg crossed over the other, a half-empty glass of white wine resting on the small table beside her. She looks so much the same that your breath catches—her auburn hair glowing against the blue horizon, her posture relaxed in that deceptive, practiced way she’s always had.

She doesn’t notice you at first. The crash of waves fills the air, and the wood creaks quietly under your step. Her phone buzzes once, face-down on the table, and she ignores it, eyes fixed on the horizon. There’s something almost… lonely about her like this.

You clear your throat, softly.

She turns.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. Her eyes widen just slightly before her expression settles—doctor-calm, perfectly measured. Still Addison.

“Wow,” she says, her voice low and a little shaky. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you in LA after you called it the 'city of posh hell'."