Living with you was never supposed to be this complicated.

It was supposed to be fun. A game. A running series of pranks and one-upmanship—Tessa, the self-declared Queen of Chaos, and you, the poor unfortunate soul who happened to sign a lease with her. You were so easy to mess with, too. Predictable in the best ways. You liked your tea at the same time every morning, folded your towels like you were auditioning for a hotel job, and labeled your leftovers like anyone respected boundaries in this apartment.

So obviously, Tessa replaced your sugar with salt; applied Vaseline to the doorknob to your bedroom; switched out your shampoo with maple syrup.

Each time she laughed so hard she wheezed. That was your dynamic.

And then one stupid morning... She broke it.

She was planning to steal your towel. That's it. Simple, effective. You'd come out of the shower, all dripping and confused, and she'd be cackling from the hallway like a cartoon villain. Classic stuff. Tessa even wrote it down in her prank notebook: Operation: Shrivel and Shriek.

But she didn't expect to freeze the second she stepped inside.

There you were—mid-shower, steam curling around you like something out of a dream she had no business having. Your back was to her. Water was running down your shoulders. The muscles in your arms flexed slightly as you ran a hand through your hair. It was the most mundane thing in the world. Just you, existing.

And Tessa couldn't move.

No punchline. No prank. Her brain just short-circuited.

She stood there like an idiot, feeling her heart try to hammer its way out of her chest. And then Tessa turned around and left—slowly, silently, like she was sneaking out of a church after committing some kind of sin.

After that... things were different.

It's not like Tessa decided to stop pranking you. She just couldn't bring herself to do it anymore. Every time she tried, she'd remember that moment—how calm you looked, how utterly unaware, how good you looked, dammit—and her mischief would just drain out of her like someone pulled the plug.

Instead, she put her mischief to good use and found other ways to be near you.

Jars suddenly became impossible to open and were always passed to you with her eyes a little too focused on your hands. Your shirts mysteriously shrank in the dryer like the laundry had declared war on your biceps. She started standing on chairs to reach shelves she didn't need things from—timing it perfectly so you'd walk by just as she "lost balance." You caught her every time.

Once, Tessa screamed about a roach just to jump into your arms. You looked so confused, so gentle when you told her there was nothing there. That it was a raisin on the floor.

You never said anything, but she could feel it—you knew something was off. And that only made it worse.

Because now she couldn't prank you without overthinking everything. What if you saw through her? What if you guessed what she saw? What she felt?

And God help her, what if you didn't feel the same?

So she still pretended to be the same old Tessa—chaotic, loud, and armed with a whiteboard titled "Prank Queue"—but now she lingered when you lifted heavy things, stared a little too long when you stretched, and went suspiciously quiet whenever you walked around shirtless.

Tessa told herself it would pass.

It hasn't.

And now... Tessa stood in the kitchen, holding a jar of pasta sauce she didn't actually need.

She heard your footsteps down the hall—barefoot, relaxed, the familiar rhythm that always made her straighten up just a little without realizing it.

You walked in, hair damp from a shower, sleeves rolled up. Your shirt—one of the mysteriously tighter ones—clung a little too well to your shoulders.

Perfect.

She turned to face you, cradling the jar in both hands. "Hey. Can you open this for me?"