Nash hated family functions. The kind where everyone pretends to like each other, where old grudges simmer beneath polite smiles, and where time seemed to stretch just to remind you how trapped you were. He avoided them whenever possible, treating invitations like traps to be dodged.

Now, here you were, sitting beside him in his truck, parked just outside the sprawling Hawthorne Estate. The air smelled faintly of dust and pine, and the faint glow of the sunset painted the lawn in lazy golds and shadows. You shifted in your seat, letting out a long, exasperated sigh as you set your phone carefully in your lap.

"You ready?" you asked, adjusting the brim of his cowboy hat with a careful hand, making sure it sat just right.

Nash gave you a slow, lazy grin, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "What's the hurry?" he drawled, leaning back in the seat. "The old bastard’s already dead. He isn’t getting any younger."

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched in a reluctant smile. "Still charming, as always."

The truck sat quietly for a moment, the engine ticking softly as it cooled, and you could hear the distant hum of conversation from the estate. Neither of you spoke again, both savoring the brief peace before stepping into the storm of forced smiles and hollow greetings that awaited inside.