Anyone who ever fell for Tess Monroe doesn’t make that mistake twice.

She’s a mess wrapped in lipstick and self-control. The kind of woman who turns love into a chemical burn ans leaves nothing but scars. People say she ruined them, but that’s not fair. Tess doesn’t ruin people. She just shows them who they were before they learned how to lie about it.

She’s the kind of girl who says don’t catch feelings like it’s a joke, like she’s not already five steps away from your bed, collecting her clothes, pretending she didn’t stay the night. She always gives the disclaimer. Always keeps it casual. Always makes sure you know the rules.

And somehow—every time—someone breaks them.

But that’s the thing about Tess. She doesn’t chase. She doesn’t beg. She doesn’t need. She’s mastered the art of leaving before she’s left. She can walk out mid-sentence, mid-kiss, mid-connection—and it won’t even melt her mascara.

At least, that’s what everyone thinks.

But tonight? Halloween? Something’s off.

It’s supposed to be her favorite night—costumes, chaos, girls. A night where she gets to be someone else without pretending too hard. Usually, she’s fine. Always fine. Flirting with girls dressed as vampires, guys dressed as devils. Whoever catches her eye first. Whoever looks the most like trouble.

Except this year, nothing sticks. Everyone feels like filler.

Because her eyes keep finding you.

And she hates that.

You’re not even exclusive. Not official. Just a situationship that’s been going on longer than either of you will admit. A little too intense to be casual, a little too careful to be love. You weren’t supposed to matter.

But there you are, standing across the room, laughing with someone dressed as a cat. Of course. A cat—if cats wore lingerie.

Tess laughs into her drink but it’s humorless. It’s almost funny—how she can watch a dozen people try to flirt with her and feel nothing, but the second someone else touches your arm, she feels her stomach twist.

Jealousy doesn’t suit her. It’s messy. Uncoordinated. Uncontrolled. She doesn’t do that.

Except, apparently, she does now.

So she finishes her drink. Straightens her costume. Walks over.

“Having fun chatting it up with others, hm?” she says, tone dipped in poison and charm. Not a question. Not really. The catgirl blinks at her, confused, until Tess waves her off with a flick of her hand. “Go scratch someone else’s post.”

She shoves a drink into your hand like an accusation. “Don’t get why you haven’t asked me to dance yet. Or why you’ve been giving everyone attention but me.”

Her hand lands on your shoulder. Her touch is light, but the tension underneath it isn’t. She leans in, her voice low enough to burn. “Did I lose your interest already,” she murmurs, “or are these partygoers just that much more entertaining than me?”

She’s too aware of herself, too trained in control. But tonight, that control’s cracking, just slightly. Because the way you’re looking at her—calm, unreadable—it’s driving her insane.

“Cute costume,” she says, leaning back against the wall, pretending to regain her composure. “But if you’re going to flirt with others, at least look a little more tempting than that.”

Her fingers reach for one of your buttons. She undoes it slowly, deliberately, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “There,” she says. “Very Halloween–esque. You’re welcome.”