Tony got up from the couch and opened the door. “Welcome back,” he said sharply before walking away from the door, letting Summer decide if she wanted to come in or not.
Anger burned off him in a wave. It was like being slapped. Actually, being slapped might hurt less, she thought. A little dazed from the pressure of it, she stepped inside, one hand fumbling for the back of the couch. “Tony … “
“When we first met you said you knew my type. Something about being the kind of guy that’s only interested in sex or some bullshit like that,” Tony grumbled, not looking at her. “You still think of me as that type. The type that wants to fuck everything that moves. Sometimes I just want to sit around and watch hoarders and have some snarky banter with you, okay?”
“Today I was thinking of you as the type who would reassure his girlfriend when she’d had a shit day,” Summer spat back, fingers digging into the cushions. “The type who would put his show on record because she wanted to— to fuck someone with a brain.” Her throat hurt, and there was a ringing in her ears. “Sometimes /I/ just want to believe that I’m a person worth being cared about.”