Page 42 of Tessa and Nash

“I needed time.”

“And now you’re in my bed,” she adds. “Congratulations. You’ve outdone yourself.”

The argument sparks fully now, words snapping back and forth, old rivalry flaring as dry brush catching fire.

“You don’t get to judge me,” I say. “You don’t know what it’s like to be dismissed every time you open your mouth.”

“You don’t get to drag other people into your mess,” she fires back. “Especially not me.”

“I didn’t plan⁠—”

“You always do this,” she says, quieter now. “You jump. You improvise. You assume you’ll land on your feet.”

“That’s not⁠—”

“And you do,” she continues. “Most of the time. That’s the problem.”

I drag on my jeans and shirt, then grab my boots, fingers fumbling as anger and embarrassment tangle tight in my chest.

“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll go.”

She doesn’t turn around. “Yeah.”

I grab my coat from the chair. The room suddenly feels smaller. Too full of things I shouldn’t have touched.

I reach for the door.

“Nash.”

I stop, hand on the knob, pulse roaring in my ears.

She turns slowly, expression closed off now.

“You’re buying me breakfast.”

I blink. “What?”

“At Spurs,” she says, as if this is the most reasonable conclusion in the world. “You owe me an explanation that doesn’t involve shouting or passing out.”

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say honestly.

“I didn’t say it was,” she replies evenly. “I said you’re buying.”

I just stare at her.

My head throbs. My pride throbs harder. Every instinct I have is screaming to run, get out of this house, out of this conversation, out of the mess I made.

But she’s right.

Running won’t fix this.

And somehow, impossibly, she’s offering me a way to stay in the room without blowing everything apart.

“Fine,” I mutter. “Breakfast.”

She lifts her chin, reclaiming the space between us inch by inch. “Good. Window.”

I blink. “What?”