Page 72 of Tessa and Nash

“You’re thinking again,” Nash murmurs, mouth near my temple, voice pitched low enough that it’s meant only for me.

“I always think,” I reply.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “But this is the heavy kind.”

I don’t answer because he’s right, and because the words are stuck somewhere between my throat and my chest.

The music slows.

The space between us tightens without either of us moving closer. The world narrows to the feel of his hand at my waist and the way my body seems to recognize his before my brain can object.

Nash looks down at me.

And finally, I see it.

Hesitation. He’s asking without asking.

My heart is pounding hard enough that I’m sure he can feel it through his hand at my waist. Every breath comes shallow, uneven. My body has decided something before I have. The space between us tightens, charged and unbearable, and I can’t tell anymore whether I’m leaning toward him or he’s being pulled toward me.

Then he leans in, following the pull of it too.

The kiss isn’t rushed or showy. It’s careful, and it still shocks me. My pulse stutters as his mouth brushes mine, soft, restrained, and entirely too familiar. It feels less like a choice and more like gravity finally winning.

This isn’t leverage anymore.

Leverage doesn’t make my hands shake.

The town reacts like it’s been holding its breath. A collective exhale. Applause breaks out somewhere. Someone whistles, sharp and approving.

But I barely hear it.

Because the kiss doesn’t feel like it’s for them.

It feels like a line being crossed again. Public this time, undeniable.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t smile.

He searches my face instead, eyes dark, uncertain, waiting to see if I regret it.

I don’t know what expression I give him.

I only know my heart is racing and my thoughts are scattered, and nothing feels neatly categorized anymore.

I offer a small smile because that’s what’s expected.

Because the town is watching.

Because I don’t yet know what to do with the way that kiss still hums through me as an aftershock.

Inside, everything is unsettled.

The song winds down gently, reluctant to let go of the moment it created.

The fiddle’s last note hangs in the air, thin and bright, before dissolving into applause and laughter and the scrape of boots as couples separate. The world rushes back in all at once, too fast after how narrow everything just was.

Nash’s hand remains at my waist for half a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Then he lets go.