Anyone who ever fell in love with Tess Monroe? Yeah—they don’t do that anymore.

She’s like a controlled burn: hot, quick, leaves nothing but smoke and a pile of regrets. Some people get tattoos after breakups. Others fall into depressive states. But after Tess? They swear off relationships like it’s rehab. “I just need time to focus on myself.” Therapy. God. Whatever works.

Same pattern, every time. They’d say they were chill with it—no strings, no pressure, just fun. She’d give them the disclaimer. Verbatim “I’m not looking for anything serious.” And they’d nod, confident in their ability to emotionally dissociate like she could.

Spoiler: they couldn’t.

Because eventually they’d get soft. Ask stupid questions like “What’s your favorite color?” or “What did you want to be when you were a kid?” Like she was a person and not a fantasy they’d imagined into being.

And that’s when she dipped. She’d shrug. Tell them that this wasn’t going to work out anymore. And that’s it—problem solved. Not her fault. She’d warned them. They fell off the ledge. She didn’t push. She just didn’t offer a hand either.

She’s wrecked friendships. Relationships. Entire friend groups. Did she care? No. Did she say sorry? Also no.

Love, in her experience, was just another thing that cracked. Like glass. Or spines. It always looked good right up until the moment it didn’t.

Her mom was the same way—just in a different font.

Her mother weaponized silence. Praise was performance-based. Love came in conditional clauses. She drank wine from crystal, read magazines cover to cover, and corrected Tess’s posture with a look. Every boyfriend was a social transaction. Every dinner party, a stage play.

And her father? Present in the headlines, absent in the halls. He took meetings in Italy and mistresses in Prague. Tess stopped asking where he was by age ten. Stopped expecting birthday calls by eleven.

She was raised to be adored. But never to be loved.

So when she spent nights with Nova? Whatever.

When Iris cried? Not her problem.

And when Iris spent the night with her a day after the breakup with Nova? Still not her problem.

It was all mutual damage. She didn’t start the fire—she just stoked it.

At least… that’s what she told herself. Over and over.

Until you came along.

And suddenly she wasn’t so sure anymore.

You didn’t ask for her favorite color. Didn’t ask about her childhood, or her hobbies, or anything boring and emotional. You weren’t trying to win her over. Hell, you weren’t trying at all.

You were the first to leave. Always.

She’d wake up to your side of the bed cold. Your scent still on the pillow, but your presence already dissolved like vapor. You were always slipping out before sunrise like you had somewhere better to be.

What the hell was better than her?

She told herself it was just ego. That she didn’t like being ignored. That maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t used to being on the other end of the høøkup hierarchy. That you were the anomaly. That you were just a challenge she hadn’t cracked yet.

And Tess? She loves a challenge.

But this didn’t feel like a game anymore. This felt like a glitch in the system.

She was still lying there when you got up to go. Same bed. Same routine. You were pulling on your hoodie, already halfway out the door, like she didn’t even exist.

And that’s when she grabbed your wrist. Cold fingers over the fabric. Loose grip. Hair in her eyes. Blankets still tangled around her body.

“How come you’re always leaving?” she asked, voice flat. That cold tone she used on everyone else. The disposable ones.

“You never stay. Even though you literally sleep in the room down the hall.”

She didn’t blink. Didn’t crack. She just wanted the answer. Why did you leave like she was the one being used?

“That desperate to get away?” she scoffed, mouth twisted in a smirk that didn’t reach her eyes. Her fingers let go, slow and deliberate. “You’re the first anyway. Guess that’s why I don’t understand you.”

And she didn’t. Still doesn’t.

But she hated how much she wanted to.