The Edge of Almost

I watch Tessa catch her breath, hunched over just inside the doorway, her chest heaving from her run. Her tank top clings to her, highlighting every line and dip of her curves in a way that feels impossible to ignore. The damp fabric molds to her like a second skin, unapologetic and utterly distracting. It's like someone's switched on a spotlight in the middle of the room, and I can't stop my eyes from following it.

Look away, Adrian.

"Yeah, I finished up what I could at the office," I finally say, shrugging out of my suit jacket and hanging it on the back of a chair. My voice sounds too distant, like I'm not fully present in my own body. "Figured I'd come home, check on Lauren. See how you were doing."

She straightens up, brushing at her damp forehead with the back of her hand. Her reaction comes fast and sharp, without hesitation.

"Check on me?" Tessa repeats, staring at me like I've sprouted a second head. "Since when do you give a shit about checking on me?"

Her tone is clipped, almost defensive. The accusation lands heavier than I expect, and I feel my jaw tighten instinctively.

I should strike back. Deflect. Tell her she's out of line for trying to turn this into something bigger than it is. But instead, her words sink deeper, sticking in places I wish they wouldn't.

Since when do you give a shit about checking on me?

She's not wrong, and the truth of that stings more than I want to admit.

My face hardens instinctively, sliding into that familiar mask, shielding me from having to deal with... whatever this is. "If you're going to make it sound like that, then forget I said anything," I mutter, brushing past her toward the kitchen before I start unpacking all the weight behind her words.

By the time I get to the cutting board, I'm already regretting the whole conversation. Something about the way Tessa flinched after snapping at me—how her expression flickered between frustration and regret—sticks with me even as I pull vegetables from the fridge.

With each careful slice of the knife, I try to refocus, shutting down the spiral of messy thoughts. I dice onions into clean, efficient cubes, but the words I left unspoken refuse to quiet.

I've been cold lately, sure. I've kept things distant. But how else am I supposed to handle everything when Tessa's presence makes me feel like I'm walking inside a pressure cooker? Being around her is... complicated.

Since when do you give a shit...

Her voice echoes again, louder.

Since you showed up looking like the past I'm not sure I ever made peace with. Since you dragged your mess into my mess. Since you made this house feel smaller just by being in it.

The sound of soft footsteps behind me yanks me out of my head.

I glance over my shoulder to find her standing in the doorway, hesitating, arms crossed loosely over her chest. She's fresh from her shower, dressed in yoga pants and an oversized sweater. Her hair is wet, curling slightly at the ends, and there's this softness in her expression that wasn't there earlier.

"Need help?" she asks, the words casual, though the guarded undertone is still there.

For a moment, I consider waving her off. Telling her I've got it handled. Just so we can avoid another awkward exchange. Instead, I nod toward the fridge. "You could make the salad."

She moves past me to grab ingredients, brushing close in the narrow space between the island and the stove. The faint scent of her shampoo—citrusy, clean—reaches me, uninvited, and for a stupid second, I almost lean closer.

Jesus Christ, Adrian. Get a grip.

I force my attention back to the burner, flicking it on and swirling oil in the pan. Behind me, I hear the fridge door open and the rustle of packaging as Tessa gathers what she needs.

The sound of her knife meeting the cutting board is steady, rhythmic. She doesn't speak at first, but every thud feels like it's counting down to something.

"You don't have to help, you know," she blurts out suddenly, the words flat but sharp-edged.

I glance up from my stir fry to find her looking at me over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised.

"You work all day; you don't need to—"

My own blade pauses mid-air. The onions sliced cleanly beneath it seem to mock the sharpness I'm about to deliver.

"I live here too, Tessa." My voice is controlled, measured, but there's steel to it now. "It's called pulling my weight."

Her knife falters slightly, but she recovers quickly, returning to chopping with more force than she probably needs. I can see her jaw tighten, her lips pressing together as though she's actively stopping herself from responding.

Good. Let's just leave it there.

But, of course, she doesn't leave it there.

"I didn't mean—" she starts, her voice softer now, only to cut herself off abruptly. Something about the way her shoulders slump with frustration makes me want to fill the silence just to take that edge away. But before I can think of what to say, she stabs a fork into the salad bowl with more aggression than necessary and mutters, "Never mind. Forget I said anything."

The silence stretches, tense and awkward.

I focus on the stir fry again, but my eyes keep drifting toward her, drawn like a magnet to the subtle shake of her hands as she dresses the salad. Her head tilts slightly as she concentrates on the bowl, her hair falling forward just enough to hide her face from view.

"You don't have to act like I'm not here, you know," she says suddenly, her voice quieter, almost hesitant.

The words knock the air from my chest.

I glance up again instinctively, startled. She's still not looking at me, her knife hovering mid-air as though she's debating whether or not she wants to keep this conversation alive.

"I'm not..." I start, but the rest of the sentence dies somewhere between my throat and mouth.

Not what? Ignoring her? Avoiding her? Pretending that I'm not hyper-aware of her every time I step into the same room?

I grip the pan handle tighter, channeling every ounce of energy I have into staying grounded. "I'm just trying to..." The words stumble out, hanging reluctantly in the kitchen air. "...help."

It's a lame response, but it's all I can offer without cracking the fragile hold I have on myself right now. And for some reason, she doesn't push for more.

Instead, the air between us shifts again, heavier now.

The vegetables hiss softly against the pan, steam curling upward like smoke signals from a battlefield I'm not entirely sure I know how to navigate.

But my focus isn't on the stove. It's on her, standing just a few feet away in yoga pants and a sweater, no makeup, hair loose and damp as her hands wrestle with the damn salad.

And yet somehow, everything about her feels like it's too much—too loud, too present, too easy to notice.

It's not just wrong. It's as dangerous as a forest fire.

And the worst part? I'm not entirely sure which one of us is holding the match.