Chapter 10 – Tessa
Chapter Ten
Tessa
Ikick Rowan’s door open.
Okay, maybe not kick.
More like “aggressively hip bumping with my reusable grocery bag” because my arms are full of enough discount dog supplies to restock a PetSmart clearance aisle, and I still haven’t figured out how his building security works. But the vibe is a kick.
“Hey!” I shout as I barrel into his ridiculously pristine apartment. “It’s me!”
Waffles bounces at my heels, leash dragging, wearing the world’s most offensively plaid dog sweater. I picked it because it was on sale and had tiny elbow patches that scream, I read legal thrillers for fun, and I bite when nervous. Which felt spiritually accurate.
Rowan is not in the foyer, which is probably for the best because I’m currently shedding bits of kibble from a torn bag and juggling a collapsible dog tub, three bottles of lavender oatmeal shampoo, and a chew toy.
I dump everything by the kitchen island and call out, “I need your bathroom! Don’t worry, it’s not for me. I already cried in the Walgreens parking lot!”
Still no answer.
Perfect. I love an ominous silence.
Waffles darts past me and immediately beelines for the one rug that looks imported from a Scandinavian monastery. He circles it twice, sniffs, then flops down dramatically.
I scoop him up. “Nope. No, sir. You don’t get to claim land here. Not while you are filthy.”
I march toward the hallway. Rowan’s apartment is exactly how I remember: minimalist, sharp, expensive enough to make my FAFSA whimper. The kind of place where soap comes in black glass bottles and towels have tags that read Egyptian cotton instead of Property of Mom’s Discount Linens.
I nudge open the bathroom door and—
Of course.
It’s pristine with a walk-in shower that looks designed for product photography.
Waffles sniffs the marble, and I see him considering his options.
“You so much as lift a leg, I will fake your death and enroll you in obedience boarding in Idaho,” I whisper.
I set him in the tub, roll up my sleeves, and turn on the water.
It’s fine.
I’ve done worse.
I grew up bathing in gas station sinks on road trips with a single mom and a cracked bottle of hotel shampoo. I’ve been sprayed with puke, pissed on by toddlers, and once cleaned a shelter kennel using nothing but a bucket and a sponge mop.
This? This is a spa day.
Until Waffles jumps out.
“Waffles!”
Water goes everywhere.
He hits the tile, legs flailing, fur drenched, ears flying in opposite directions. He tears through the hallway and shakes off mid-run, sending a fine mist of water across Rowan’s abstract wall art.
I chase him, slipping on my own wet socks. “This is why we can’t have nice things!” He slides into the living room.
And then—
Then Rowan appears.
Sleep-rumpled. Barefoot. Wearing gray sweatpants and the expression of a man who just stepped out of a hostage negotiation.
He surveys the chaos.
The dripping floor.
The wet dog on his leather ottoman.
Me.
“Explain,” he says.
I open my mouth, then close it.
Waffles shakes again. Water sprays across the couch.
“I had a coupon,” I say helplessly.
I lunge after Waffles just as he makes a break for it. My fingers brush his tail and miss right as he veers left, then sprints down the hall and slides, full body, into the wall.
The thud echoes through the apartment.
Rowan stops.
And then he blinks, slow and dangerous.
I beat him to it.
“Before you speak, let’s all remember that tone is a choice, and I did light a candle.”
Rowan stares.
I gesture toward the bathroom. “It was sandalwood. For ambiance.”
He drags a hand down his face and mutters something I don’t catch.
“You said I could bathe him,” I add quickly. “You literally said that.”
“In a controlled manner,” he rasps, voice still thick with sleep. Not like”—he waves his hand dismissively through the air—“whatever this is.
I open my mouth to argue, but then Waffles comes careening around the corner, water still clinging to one ear, and skids across the tile into the foyer rug.
Rowan flinches.
“That rug,” he says, staring at it in horror, “is hand knotted. From Nepal.”
“Okay, but to be fair,” I pant, scrambling to my feet, “so is his trauma.”
I dive. Miss. Waffles does a figure-eight around Rowan’s ankles and lets out a bark so smug it nearly makes me cry. “I had him under control.” I haul myself upright and try not to look like I just lost a fight with a very small, very moist werewolf.
Rowan doesn’t move.
Doesn’t speak.
Just stands there, utterly still.
I brush wet hair out of my face and try to look composed, which is hard when you smell like wet dog and your bra is sticking to your ribs.
“Okay,” I say brightly. “So maybe there was a small complication. But it’s nothing I can’t fix. I brought towels. And Swiffer pads. And—”
“You used my shower.”
“Yes?”
“You let that gremlin sprint through my hallway while I was asleep.”
“In my defense,” I say, backing slowly toward Waffles, “only toddlers nap at this hour.”
He blinks. “Tessa.”
“It was a hygiene emergency! You told me not to let him stink. And he rolled in something behind the vet’s office.”
“I didn’t say you could turn my apartment into a dog spa.”
“I announced myself!”
“By yelling ‘It’s me’ and then slamming the door?”
I huff, crossing my arms. “Would you rather I texted first or just set off a flare?”
He mutters something about wishing he had more renters’ insurance, then turns toward the kitchen.
I follow.
Because apparently, shame doesn’t kill you. It just makes you annoying.
“Look,” I say, grabbing Waffles before he can chew on the baseboards. “I know I’m pushing boundaries. But this is temporary. One bath. No puddles left behind.”
Rowan gestures vaguely at the hallway. “There is water in the grout.”
“Which just proves my dedication to cleanliness!”
He exhales.
I clutch Waffles tighter and try not to let the silence fill with all the things I don’t say out loud:
How I never learned to ask for help without offering cleanup.
How baths were a luxury growing up—cold water, shared towel, timer running and all that jazz.
How I want Waffles to feel safe in ways I never did when I was hiding from my mom’s boyfriends and pretending I didn’t hear yelling through the vents.
Rowan doesn’t ask. Of course, he doesn’t.
But he stares at me, and I think he knows.
And then he turns back toward the hallway, coffee forgotten.
“You missed a spot,” he mutters.
“What?”
He tilts his chin toward the puddle near the rug. “Left of the credenza. Next to the disaster that used to be my peace of mind.”
I blink.
Then beam. “So, you’re letting me finish?”
“No,” he says, flat. “I’m supervising.”
“Oh, good,” I say, hoisting Waffles. “I work better under passive-aggressive management.”
“I’m not passive,” Rowan says, deadpan.
And I swear, I see the corner of his mouth twitch.
Only a little.
But it’s there.
Which means I might survive this day after all.
Maybe.
If Waffles stops shaking.
* * *
We finish the bath.
If “finish” means Waffles only tries to drown himself once more, and Rowan only says “I’m going to burn this apartment to the ground” twice. Which honestly feels like progress.
I towel Waffles off with the least fancy of Rowan’s bathroom linens and carry him out. He’s limp in my arms now, half-asleep and smelling like lavender, with exactly one soap bubble clinging to the end of his tail.
Rowan trails behind me, barefoot and glaring.
“I cleaned everything,” I say, trying not to sound defensive as I deposit Waffles onto a folded bathmat I strategically positioned. “Tub’s rinsed, tile’s dry. No rugs were harmed in the making of this nervous breakdown.”
Rowan walks into the bathroom, disappearing for a beat.
Then, “You left the candle burning.”
“Oh,” I call. “That was for—uh—aromatherapy. Ambiance. Emotional balance.”
Silence.
“Did it work?” I ask weakly.
He reappears, eyebrows raised. “The dog sneezed eleven times.”
“Which is basically an exorcism, so you’re welcome.”
He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me gather the wreckage: discarded towels, soggy hoodie, Waffles’s chew toy that somehow ended up in the sink.
I move fast because I was raised in a house where you cleaned up your mess before anyone else could name it. Before it became part of your identity.
A good girl.
The kind of girl who didn’t give men excuses to leave.
“Tessa.”
I freeze, fingers still curled around a crumpled towel.
He only uses my full name when he’s either annoyed or something else. Something quieter.
I glance over my shoulder. “Yeah?”
He studies me.
“You don’t have to clean everything like your life depends on it,” he says finally.
I blink.
Because that’s exactly what I was doing.
Then I say, too brightly, “It kind of does, though, doesn’t it? I mean, I already owe you four favors and a dry-cleaning bill. You let me bring a fugitive dog into your apartment. The least I can do is Swiffer the crime scene.”
He doesn’t laugh, he simply watches me.
But then he turns back into the kitchen without another word, and I finish tidying in the quiet.
Waffles is asleep now. Fully, dead-to-the-world asleep. His one good eye is shut, his head buried against Rowan’s couch pillow.
I cover him gently with a towel and stand.
Rowan’s leaning against the counter again, drinking coffee.
I hover near the living room.
“Thanks,” I say.
“For what?” he asks without looking at me.
I swallow. “For letting him stay. For letting me come over and spend time with him. For not making me feel like garbage while doing it.”
He snorts softly into his mug. “You’re giving me too much credit.”
“Story of my life.”
His head tilts. Maybe he heard more in that sentence than I meant to give.
I clear my throat. “Anyway. I’ll get out of your hair. Or... shirtless torso. Whatever’s applicable.”
“Good,” he mutters.
But he doesn’t sound like he means it.
I grab my bag, toss the wet hoodie into it, and pause at the door. The apartment smells like sandalwood and detergent and a teensy bit like wet dog.
“See you later?” I ask lightly.
His gaze flicks to mine.
“I’ll be here.”
I open the door and step into the hallway.
Then, like a coward, I glance back.
He’s still watching me.
Still unreadable.
But this time... I think maybe he’s a little confused, too.
Not about me.
About himself.
About why, exactly, he let this whole mess happen.
Why he didn’t throw me out.
Why he hasn’t stopped me since.
The door closes softly behind me.
And for the first time since this whole thing started, I don’t feel like I’m running away.
I feel like I’m being watched.
And not in the bad way.
In the terrifying way.