Page 29 of Tessa and Nash

“When Mrs. Harrow put that essay grade on the board, and you beat me by two points.”

“It was three points,” she corrects instantly.

I grin. “See? Pleased.”

Her mouth twitches. She wants to argue and hates that she can’t, because she did enjoy it. She enjoyed every win. It proved the world could be controlled if you did everything right.

I used to hate that about her.

Or maybe I just hated that she made me want to do better.

“Are you always like this?” I ask.

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve got a ruler in your spine and a checklist in your head.”

Tessa’s eyes narrow. “Are you always like this?”

I blink. “Like what?”

“Like you’ve got a joke loaded in your mouth at all times, so no one can tell if you’re nervous.”

The words hit closer than they should.

I laugh anyway, because of course I do. “That’s rude.”

“It’s accurate.”

“You’re rude.”

“You’re fragile,” she shoots back without missing a beat.

I set my glass down a little too hard. “I’m not fragile.”

She tilts her head, studying me in that same clinical way she used to look at me when I’d answer questions in class, measuring whether I’d actually done the reading or if I was winging it.

I was always winging it.

Tonight, she’s still measuring.

“You look like someone who’s been holding his breath for hours,” she says.

I don’t answer right away.

Because she’s right, and I hate that she’s right, and I hate that she can see it when I’m trying so damn hard to make sure no one does.

I drag my thumb along the rim of my glass. “You don’t know anything.”

Tessa’s gaze drops to my hand, then back up. “That’s what people say when they’re terrified someone does.”

I swallow.

The bar lights dim a notch without anyone saying anything, the universal signal that time’s up. Chairs scrape. Empty glasses clink together as Jet helps stack them. Penny’s laughter fades into yawns. A few people linger to say goodbye, but their glances are too obvious now, like they’re waiting for something to break between us.

Eventually, it’s just us.

And the bartender wiping down the counter with the air of someone who’s seen enough drama for one evening.