Page 17 of Tessa and Nash

“Well,” he said, peering at the board. “Looks like you beat me.”

I turned slowly. “By three points.”

He grinned, unfazed. “Still hurts.”

“You didn’t cite your secondary sources,” I said automatically. “You lost points in analysis.”

“Details,” he replied. “Besides, you only won because you rewrite everything like five times.”

I looked him dead in the eye. “I rewrite until it’s right.”

That grin sharpened. “Yeah. That tracks.”

He wasn’t wrong, and I hated that he knew it.

We stood there a moment longer, shoulder to shoulder, both pretending not to care while absolutely caring. Competing in a way no one else seemed to notice, or understand. He thrived on improvisation. I thrived on control. Somehow, we always landed close enough to make it infuriating.

Later that semester, we were paired for a debate.

Pure academic cruelty.

Topic: Tradition versus Progress.

Of course it was.

He argued for progress as if it were something alive, his hands moving as he pulled the room along with him. He didn’t stick to the outline. He didn’t need to. People leaned forward anyway.

I countered with structure, precedent, and precision, my voice calm and my points measured. I took his argument apart one piece at a time.

We tied.

Again.

Afterward, he leaned across the table and said quietly, “You ever think you’d be less stressed if you stopped trying to win everything?”

I smiled thinly. “You ever think you’d win more if you tried harder?”

Respect flickered across his face before he masked it with humor.

That was always the problem.

Nash McCoy never looked like he was trying, which made it impossible to tell how much of him was an act.

Standing here now, years later, with the town buzzing and my pulse doing things it has no right to do, I realize something uncomfortable.

He still gets under my skin the same way.

Not because he’s impressive, but because he refuses to stay where I put him.

Then his jaw tightens.

He looks away first.

The reaction is instant and deeply annoying. My breath leaves me in a slow exhale.

Good.

He turns and pushes through the front doors, cold rushing in behind him.