7. Theo
THEO
The mail slots in the lobby stick when I open ours Tuesday morning.
Coffee hasn't kicked in yet, exhaustion pulling at my shoulders from another late night working.
I flip through the usual junk—credit card offers, grocery store flyers, a reminder about trash pickup schedules—until a thick envelope with the property management company logo stops me cold.
Official. Legal weight to the paper.
I tear it open, scan the contents.
Building sold. Renovations scheduled. All tenants must vacate within 30 days. Effective immediately, your lease agreement is terminated. Please coordinate move-out dates with property management.
"Fuck."
I read it again. Then a third time. Every word the same, every sentence confirming what I already processed the first pass through.
Thirty days to get out. Everyone in the building has to move.
My first thought isn't about the inconvenience or the hassle of finding somewhere new. It's automatic, instant, unquestionable: Need to find a new place. For both of us.
Because of course we'll move together. We've been living together for months, sleeping together for weeks. She's mine in every way that matters—sexually, emotionally, completely. The idea of her living somewhere else doesn't even register as a possibility.
I fold the notice, slip it back in the envelope, head upstairs.
Already planning. We can find something better anyway—bigger place, nicer neighborhood. Somewhere that's actually ours, not just a temporary arrangement that became something more.
The apartment is quiet when I return. Tessa left for her morning classes an hour ago.
I settle at my laptop, pull up apartment listings, start marking possibilities.
Two bedrooms minimum—she needs space to study, and I need a proper home office.
Good neighborhood, close to campus but not right on top of it.
Budget isn't an issue for me, but I'll need to ask what she's comfortable contributing. Or if she even needs to contribute. I can cover rent easily, and the thought of providing for her, taking care of her completely, sends satisfaction curling through my chest.
Time passes. I work, make calls, respond to emails. Normal Tuesday routine.
Tessa comes home around three, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She drops her bag by the door, kicks off her shoes.
"Hey."
"Hey. There's something you need to see."
I hand her the notice, watch her face as she reads.
Color drains from her cheeks. "Oh."
"Landlord's kicking everyone out. Building's being sold."
She nods slowly, eyes still on the paper, not meeting mine.
"I'll start looking for new places tomorrow. Probably can find something better anyway."
"Okay."
Just that. One word, flat and distant.
I frown, but she's already moving away, heading toward her room.
"What's your budget? I'm thinking we could?—"
"I need to study."
The door closes behind her. Not slammed, just... closed. Definitive.
I stare at it, confusion settling heavy in my gut. That was strange. Off. She's stressed about midterms though—mentioned them last week, complained about her English Lit professor assigning a massive research paper.
I return to my laptop, push the unease aside.
She just needs space to process.
By Friday, the unease has morphed into frustration and something sharper, something that tastes like fear though I won't name it that.
Tessa has been avoiding me.
Not obviously. She still comes home every night, still sleeps in her room down the hall. But she's... absent. Distant in a way that makes my chest tighten with an emotion I don't want to examine.
She spends most of her time holed up in her room or at the library. Comes home late, leaves early. When we're in the apartment together, she's silent. Eyes down, shoulders hunched, moving through the space like she's trying not to be noticed.
I tried Wednesday night.
"You okay?"
"Fine."
"You've been distant."
"Just busy with school."
"Tessa—"
"I said I'm fine."
She'd disappeared into her room again before I could push further.
Thursday wasn't better. She came home after ten, went straight to her room without even acknowledging me on the couch.
And our sex life—the connection that's been constant, intense, consuming—has evaporated completely.
She hasn't left her door open for me in three nights.
The one time I tried to initiate while she was awake, standing behind her in the kitchen and sliding my hands around her waist, she'd stiffened and claimed exhaustion.
Pulled away gently but firmly, left me standing there with my hands empty and confusion burning through my skull.
Something is very wrong.
I come home Friday afternoon with groceries—figured I'd make dinner, try to get her to actually talk to me—and find boxes in the hallway.
I stop, paper bags still in my arms, staring.
My boxes. The ones I'd started packing slowly over the week, loading up books and winter clothes and kitchen items I don't use often. Half my stuff already sorted and sealed.
But there are more boxes now. Smaller ones, clearly not mine. Feminine handwriting on the labels: Books , Clothes , Bathroom stuff .
Tessa's.
The groceries hit the counter harder than intended. I move down the hall, heart pounding against my ribs in a rhythm that feels wrong, too fast, alarming.
Her door is ajar.
I push it open.
She's sitting on her bed, surrounded by half-filled boxes, folding clothes and placing them carefully inside. Methodical, focused. And crying.
Silent tears streaming down her face, dripping off her jaw onto the shirt in her hands.
"Tessa?"
She jumps, head snapping up, eyes wide and red-rimmed. Hands immediately move to her face, wiping roughly at the tears.
"Hi. Sorry, I'm just... packing."
"I can see that."
Silence stretches. She turns away, grabs another stack of books from her shelf.
"Why are you crying?"
"I'm not."
"Don't lie to me."
Her shoulders stiffen. "It's nothing. Just stressed."
Bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit.
I enter fully, close the door behind me with a quiet click. "Talk to me. What's going on?"
"Nothing. We're moving out. I'm packing."
"Where are you moving?"
She shrugs, the gesture too casual, too forced. "Not sure yet. Looking at a few places."
Confusion slams into me, stops my breath.
"What do you mean, a few places?"
"Dorms might have an opening. Or there's a cheap apartment near campus."
The words don't make sense. I stare at her, trying to process, trying to understand what the fuck she's saying.
"You're looking at places? Alone?"
She finally looks at me, and there's something broken in her expression.
"Obviously. I need somewhere to live."
"You'll live with me. We'll find a place together."
Her face crumples. Full collapse, features twisting with pain so raw it physically hurts to witness.
"Theo, don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't pretend this is more than it is."
My chest tightens. "What the fuck does that mean?"
"This." She gestures between us, the motion sharp and angry and desperate. "Us. It was temporary. I know that."
Disbelief hits first. Then anger, hot and vicious, flooding through my veins. "Temporary?"
"Yes. I knew you'd... eventually get tired of me. The novelty would wear off."
"You think this is about novelty?"
"I'm twenty, Theo. You're thirty-three. I'm a college kid. You're... you."
"So?"
"So I always knew this had an expiration date. The lease ending just makes it official."
Fury wars with hurt in my chest. She thinks—she actually thinks?—
"You think I've been fucking you for weeks because of novelty?"
She flinches at my tone, shrinks back slightly, but I can't control it. Can't soften it.
"I don't know. Maybe. Or convenience. We live together, I was available?—"
"Stop. Talking."
I move closer, cage her against her desk with my body on either side. Not touching but close enough that she can feel my heat, my presence, the intensity of what I'm feeling.
"You think I followed you to campus, stalked you, went insane with jealousy over some random guy because of convenience?"
"I don't know what to think!"
"Then let me make it clear: You're mine. Not temporarily. Not until the lease ends. Mine."
She shakes her head, tears falling faster now. "You say that now. But eventually?—"
"Eventually what? I'll wake up and realize you're too young? Too innocent? Not worth my time?"
"Yes!"
"You're wrong."
"You don't know that?—"
"I do. Because I'm in love with you, Tessa."
She gasps, eyes going wide, mouth opening in shock.
"What?"
"I love you. I've been in love with you for weeks. Maybe since the day you moved in."
"That's not—you can't?—"
"I can. I do. And you're not moving into some shitty dorm or cheap apartment. You're moving with me."
"Theo—"
"We'll find a place together. A real place. Ours."
She's crying harder now, but there's something different in her eyes. Hope, maybe. Fear and hope tangled together.
"You mean it?"
"Every word."
She stares at me, searching my face for... what? Proof? Confirmation? I hold her gaze, let her see everything I'm feeling. Everything I've felt since she walked into this apartment three months ago and turned my entire world sideways.
"I need time to think," she finally says.
Frustration burns through me. "About what?"
"About... everything. Us. What this means."
I want to argue. Want to grab her, kiss her, fuck her until she understands that this isn't negotiable. That she's mine and I'm hers and nothing else matters.
But I force myself to nod. "Fine. Take your time. But you're not leaving me."
She doesn't respond. Just stands there, tears still falling, looking lost and terrified and heartbreakingly young.
I leave her room, close the door, pace the living room with my hands in my hair.
She thinks I'm going to leave her. After everything.
I need to prove it. Show her I'm serious.
But how?
Three days later, moving day arrives.