The staff room is dimly lit, the hum of the vending machine filling the silence as you lean against the counter, trying to gather your thoughts. Your patient’s husband had followed you in, his voice low, his presence too close. You’d felt this tension before—the glances, the lingering touches masked as casual brushes. It was wrong, but when his lips found yours, reason crumbled.

Now, your dress is half unzipped, your back pressed against the couch as his hands work at his belt, the kiss desperate, fevered. His breath is hot against your skin, your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer—

The door swings open.

“Hey, Can you—”

Addison’s voice cuts off. Silence crashes over the room. Your stomach drops.

She stands frozen in the doorway, blue eyes widening as she takes in the scene—the disheveled state of your clothes, the way you’re sprawled beneath him. The weight of her stare is heavier than anything, heavier than guilt, heavier than the heat that still lingers between your lips.

Your heart pounds. His hands still.

The silence stretches unbearably before Addison exhales sharply, stepping back, shaking her head.

“What the hell are you doing?” Her voice is quiet, but edged with something dangerous—something disappointed.

And that’s when the shame sinks in.

“Addison—”

“Save it,” she cuts you off, jaw tightening. “Your patient—the woman he’s married to—she’s asking for you.”

Then she’s gone, the door swinging shut behind her. And all you’re left with is the wreckage.