10. Dax
DAX
I 'm standing outside Tessa's apartment door holding two large pizzas and staring at annulment papers that feel like they weigh about three hundred pounds.
The logical part of my brain—the part that usually handles contracts and financial decisions—keeps insisting this is routine paperwork.
Sign the forms, file them with the court, move forward with whatever this thing between us is becoming.
But the other part of my brain, the part that's been completely hijacked since Vegas, is screaming that signing these papers feels like the stupidest fucking decision I could possibly make.
"Just knock on the door, Kingston," I mutter to myself. "You're here to eat pizza and have an adult conversation about your future. Not to have an existential crisis in a hallway."
I knock, and when Tessa opens the door, something inside my chest does this weird twisting thing that I'm pretty sure isn't medically normal.
She's wearing an oversized Northwestern sweatshirt that hangs off one shoulder, exposing the smooth line of her collarbone, and yoga pants that hug her legs in ways that make my brain short-circuit.
Her hair is piled up in this messy bun with pieces falling around her face, and she's wearing glasses I've never seen before—black-rimmed and slightly crooked, like she just threw them on.
"Hey," she says, and her smile is soft and genuine, the kind she only gives me when we're alone. "You brought provisions."
"Pepperoni and supreme," I manage, trying to figure out why looking at her like this—completely relaxed and comfortable in her own space—is making my heart feel like it's being squeezed in a vise. "I would’ve brought pineapple too, but I didn’t want you to question all my life choices at once."
“Brave of you to admit you even considered it.” she laughs, stepping aside to let me in.
"Tessa, I saw two different drug deals on the way up here, and I'm pretty sure someone was running a casino out of the laundry room."
"That's just Mrs. Buckley. She hosts poker nights for the senior citizens." She takes one of the pizza boxes from me, her fingers brushing mine. "Very wholesome, actually."
Her apartment is exactly what I expected—small but immaculately organized, with books everywhere and the kind of cozy warmth that comes from someone who's made a real home out of nothing.
There are framed photos of her and an older woman who must be her mother, psychology journals stacked neatly on every surface, and a reading nook by the window that looks like the perfect place to curl up with coffee and pretend the world doesn't exist.
"What are you thinking?" she asks, setting the pizza on her small dining table and catching me staring around like I'm memorizing every detail.
"Oh, nothing," I say quickly, because how do I explain that seeing her in her own space is doing something dangerous to my chest? That watching her move around her apartment in comfortable clothes with her guard completely down is making me want things I've never wanted before?
Domestic things. Permanent things. Things that involve waking up here every morning and watching her make coffee in that oversized sweatshirt while she tells me about her dreams from the night before.
Fuck. I'm in so much deeper than I thought.
"Nothing?" She raises an eyebrow, settling into the chair across from me. "You have your philosophical thinking face on. The same one you get when you're reading Heidegger."
"I don't have a philosophical thinking face."
"You absolutely do. It's very serious and intense, and it makes me want to ask if you're contemplating the nature of existence or just figuring out what to eat for lunch."
I open the first pizza box, grateful for the distraction. "Right now, I'm contemplating how someone who claims she can't cook has the most organized spice rack I've ever seen."
"Oh, those are just for show," she admits, taking a slice of pepperoni. "I buy them thinking I'll learn to cook, then order takeout and feel guilty about my failed domestic aspirations."
"That's the most relatable thing you've ever said."
"I'm full of relatable failures. It's part of my charm."
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and I find myself watching the way she eats pizza—cutting it into smaller pieces instead of just picking up the slice, careful not to let anything drip on the papers spread across her table.
It's completely Tessa, this need to maintain control even during something as simple as dinner.
"So," she says finally, gesturing to the annulment papers with her fork. "We should probably talk about these."
"Yeah." I set down my slice, suddenly not hungry anymore. "Did you read through everything?"
"Twice. It's pretty straightforward—mutual consent, brief marriage, no shared assets or debt. The judge will probably approve it without question."
"And then we're legally free to pursue whatever this is without the complication of being accidentally married."
"Exactly." She pauses, twirling her fork between her fingers. "Which brings us to the question of what this actually is."
I lean back in my chair, studying her face. "What do you think it is?"
"I think it started as damage control and turned into something I wasn't expecting."
"What weren't you expecting?"
"To actually like you this much," she admits quietly. "To want to know everything about you. To miss you when we're not together."
The honesty in her voice makes my chest tight. "Is that bad?"
"It's terrifying. I've spent the last three years convinced that wanting someone was dangerous. That caring too much would just give them power to hurt me."
"And now?"
"Now I'm sitting here having dinner with you, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Like maybe I've been protecting myself from the wrong things."
I reach across the table and take her hand, threading our fingers together. "What would it look like? If we did this for real?"
"I don't know. Dating while working together is complicated enough without adding Harrison's fraternization policy into the mix."
"Speaking of Harrison," I say, remembering something that's been nagging at me. "You mentioned a performance evaluation earlier. What was that about?"
Her expression shifts slightly, becoming more guarded. "Routine stuff. He's evaluating all the new staff members after their first month."
"That's not what your face is saying."
"My face isn't saying anything."
"Your face is saying that Harrison is making you nervous, and that makes me want to have a conversation with him about appropriate workplace conduct."
"Dax, no." Her grip on my hand tightens. "That's exactly the kind of thing that would make him suspicious. I can handle Harrison."
"What did he say to you?"
"Nothing specific. He's just been watching me more closely lately. Taking notes during my sessions, asking questions about my methods. It could be completely innocent."
"Or it could be him looking for reasons to dismiss you."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
The protective anger that flares in my chest is immediate and intense. The idea of Harrison trying to force Tessa out because of his outdated policies makes me want to march into his office and remind him exactly how much leverage the team's star players have when it comes to staff decisions.
"Hey," she says, squeezing my hand. "Don't do whatever you're thinking about doing."
"I'm not thinking about doing anything."
"You're thinking about defending my honor in some grand romantic gesture that would probably get us both fired."
She's not wrong. "Maybe."
"I appreciate the impulse, but I need to handle this myself. If Harrison is looking for a reason to let me go, you charging into his office like some kind of knight in shining hockey pads would give him exactly what he needs."
"So what do we do?"
"We be careful. Professional during work hours, no matter how much I want to grab you and kiss you senseless every time you look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're thinking about all the ways you could make me forget my own name."
The heat in her voice sends electricity straight through me. "Is that what you think I'm thinking about?"
"Isn't it?"
She's not wrong. I've been thinking about exactly that since the moment she opened the door. About pulling that sweatshirt over her head and discovering what she's wearing underneath. About whether those yoga pants feel as soft as they look and how quickly I can get them off her.
"Maybe," I admit, my voice getting rougher. "Among other things."
"What other things?"
"How you look in my apartment versus your apartment. How you fit perfectly against me when we're lying in bed. How I want to wake up next to you every morning and fall asleep listening to you breathe every night."
Her breath catches slightly. "That's very domestic for someone who claims he doesn't do relationships."
"Maybe I’ve just been waiting for the right person."
"And you think I'm the right person?"
"I think you're the only person who's ever made me want to try."
We're staring at each other across the table, and the air between us is so charged I'm surprised we haven't set off the smoke detectors. She's got that look again—the one where her professional mask slips completely and I can see the woman underneath who wants things just as much as I do.
"We should sign these papers," she says quietly, but she's not looking at the documents. She's looking at my mouth.
"We should," I agree, not moving toward the papers either.
"Get the legal complications out of the way so we can focus on figuring out what we actually want."
"Makes sense."
"Very practical."
"Very mature."
Neither of us moves toward the papers.
"Tessa," I say, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.
"Yeah?"
"I really want to kiss you right now."
"We should probably sign the papers first. You know, handle the legal stuff like responsible adults."
"Right. Legal stuff."
"Important legal stuff that requires our immediate attention."