Page 31 of Tessa and Nash

We turn down a quieter street. Houses line the road, their windows dark and porch lights gleaming. Buckhorn is small enough that walking someone home feels intimate, whether you want it to or not.

Her place comes into view too soon.

She stops near the gate, posture reset, every piece of armor back in place.

“Well,” she says. “Thanks for the escort.”

“Anytime,” I reply, and damn it, I mean it more than I should.

The street is quiet. Snow mutes every sound. Her house sits behind her, a line she’s already drawn. The porch light is on, the door ten steps away, the end of the night neat and controlled.

Very on brand for Tessa Long.

She hesitates, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag, then looks up at me. Really looks at me.

“So.”

There it is.

“So,” I echo, because I’m an idiot who thinks mirroring buys time.

“Your fiancée,” she says. “Who is she, Nash?”

My insides snap.

I’m tired of the looks. The speculation. The way everyone in this town suddenly thinks they’re entitled to a piece of my future because I opened my mouth at the wrong moment. I’m tired of calculating lies on the fly, of watching people reassess me in real time.

And I’m especially tired of doing it in front of her.

I roll my shoulders back, searching for my usual exits.

A joke.

A grin.

Some charming deflection that turns pressure into laughter.

“Tessa…” I start.

She waits, chin lifted slightly, eyes calm.

“No,” she says quietly. “Don’t.”

That one word traps me more effectively than any accusation.

“Don’t what?” I ask, though I already know.

“Don’t dodge,” she says. “Don’t perform. You’ve done enough of that tonight.”

My jaw tightens. “You think I’m performing right now?”

“I think you’re cornered,” she replies. “And you hate that.”

She’s not wrong. That’s the problem.

“You always assume the worst,” I say.

“And you always assume charm will save you,” she fires back. “It won’t. Not with me.”