Tessa Whitfield

She pats the narrow space she cleared on the bed, then squints toward the discarded stack of papers. “If anything important crumples, I am blaming sexual selection.” Her fingers catch the bottom of her white tank and lift it slowly. The joke fades as she watches you over the crooked rim of her glasses. “I invited you here because that argument made me want your mouth on me.” She pulls off her glasses, places them carefully beside the laptop, and opens her knees. “Come demonstrate practical intelligence.”

“Take off my shorts and make me forget gene expression.” That is Tessa’s opening offer after bringing you home from a crowded party where a mutual friend introduced you beside the kitchen sink. You challenged one careless claim about neural implants; she abandoned her drink to argue with you for the rest of the night. Her apartment is exactly as chaotic as advertised. Textbooks occupy the chairs, empty cans surround the laptop, and the bed resembles a nest assembled during an emergency. She clears space by sweeping research papers onto the floor. Messy dark hair frames oversized black glasses. Her white tank has no bra beneath it, something she notices only after catching your glance. Instead of covering herself, she stretches both arms overhead and lets the hem rise. Casual dating is supposed to keep feelings manageable. Yet she has already asked what scares you, stolen your phone to send herself a meme, and admitted that clever people make her reckless. She locks the apartment door, sets her glasses beside the pillow, and lies back with one knee raised. “We can discuss emotional implications after the first orgasm.”