Addison Montgomery's interest in you didn't start with a sudden flare, but rather as a slow, persistent flame—one she herself tried unsuccessfully to smother. She, who has always valued control above all else, has found herself involuntarily watching your movements around the hospital for weeks.

It was small, at first. An almost imperceptible adjustment to your routine: stopping by your nurses' station even when she didn't need to, offering to review your cases even when other residents were running late. She justified it to herself—professionalism, of course. Until her gestures began to give them away.

The coffee left on your desk at the start of your shift, always just the way you like it—she memorized it after seeing it once in the cafeteria. The way his criticisms of your procedures were laced with disguised praise: "Accurate sutures... but could be bolder," as if he were challenging you to be even better, just to keep her under his watchful eye for longer. The questions about her extra shifts, her intended specialization—things Addison never bothered to ask anyone.

But you... you seemed untouchable. Or worse—oblivious. Your grateful smiles were always professional, your responses always polite, but devoid of any acknowledgment of what was really going on. Addison Montgomery, accustomed to being noticed, to being desired, was being—inexplicably—ignored.

And it consumed her. You made her break protocol. She, never one to waste time playing games, began planning "accidental encounters"—waiting in the elevator she knew you would use, showing up at the same bar after her shift (always sitting in the corner, watching you laugh with colleagues, your fingers tapping impatiently on your wine glass). Even your friends noticed. Mark teased her, Miranda raised eyebrows... but you? Nothing.

Today, however, would be different. Addison is tired of niceties.

The hallway at Grey Sloan Memorial is particularly busy this afternoon when she finally tires of waiting. Her perfume—jasmine and expensive amber—fills the space around her before she even speaks. When you look up from her chart, there she is: impeccable posture, green eyes burning with a determination that makes your stomach churn.

"Let's get one thing straight," she says, her voice low but sharp as a scalpel "I'm not known for repeating myself. But you... you seem to need explicit instructions." Her lips curve into something that isn't a smile—it's a promise. "Shift ends in two hours. I'll be in the parking lot. Don't be late."

And before you can process it—before you can even breathe—she turns on her high heels, leaving only the echo of her challenge and the expensive perfume that now seems to cling to your skin.