Page 150 of Tessa and Nash

Discretely, of course. Buckhorn doesn’t stare head-on—it watches sideways, through reflections and over shoulders.

And Nash…

Nash is dancing with me.

Sort of.

His movements are automatic, muscle memory carrying him through the steps even though his jaw is tight and his shoulders are rigid. I can feel the tension rolling off him, thick and restless.

He’s trying too hard not to look at me, which perversely makes me more aware of him.

The heat of his arm when we brush. The subtle hitch in his breathing when the line shifts and we end up closer than the choreography requires. The way his hand hovers, uncertain, when the move calls for contact.

I follow the steps cleanly. I always do. This is familiar ground for me. Pattern, rhythm, predictability. If I focus on the mechanics, I don’t have to focus on the fact that my pulse is sprinting.

Left. Right. Kick. Turn.

Nash stumbles half a step.

I hold him without thinking, fingers curling briefly into his sleeve.

His head snaps toward me.

For a split second, the noise drops away.

His eyes are dark. Focused. A little startled. Like he forgot where he was and just remembered.

Juniper House flashes through me uninvited, his hands warm and certain, the way he looked at me afterward as if he’d crossed a line.

I let go immediately.

He notices.

Of course he does.

His mouth tightens, and he looks forward again, jaw set, pulling himself back into the role.

The role.

That’s what this feels like now, more than it ever has before.

This is the performance.

The song ends, boots scuffing as someone whoops. Faith cheers like she’s watching a championship game.

Nash exhales hard through his nose, like he’s been underwater too long.

“Well,” I murmur, keeping my voice dry, “you survived.”

He shoots me a look. “That was touch and go.”

“I noticed,” I say. “Your posture was tragic.”

“Thank you for your support.”

“Anytime.”

We step off the dance floor, and the space between us fills immediately with people.