Page 110 of Tessa and Nash

Not in him.

In me.

Because if he’s allowed to admit failure, then what does that mean for me?

If Nash McCoy, who I’ve spent years calling reckless and spoiled, can stand here and say he’s scared he isn’t enough…

Then maybe what I’ve hated in him wasn’t entitlement.

Maybe it was courage, the kind that makes you keep trying anyway.

And maybe my own version of courage has always been quieter and colder. The kind that looks like control because control is the only safety I’ve ever been offered.

The radiator ticks once, a small metallic complaint.

The wind shoves snow against the window again.

The house stays trapped in its own history.

And Nash stands in front of me, looking like someone just told him the world is ending and he has to smile through it.

I can’t.

“Your legacy isn’t just a ranch project,” I say, and my words come out sharper than intended. My sincerity doesn’t know how to be gentle. “It’s your family.”

Nash flinches slightly—my words hit a bruise.

“Tessa,” he says quietly, and there’s warning in it. Or resignation. Like he’s about to tell me not to pity him.

I refuse.

“I’m not saying that to make you feel better,” I snap, because I don’t know how to be soft. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”

He swallows hard.

I step closer before my body can second-guess it.

His gaze flicks to me, wary.

“What do you mean?”

I exhale through my nose, trying to hold onto the one thing I can control: my voice.

“Buckhorn has survived because the McCoys stayed,” I say. “Because you stayed. Because your mother stayed. Because your brothers stayed. You act like that doesn’t count because it isn’t stamped on a brochure or approved by a council.”

“I’m not saying it doesn’t count,” he snaps. “I’m saying it might not be enough.”

That hits.

I understand what it feels like to look at the future and see it slipping away.

I just never expected to understand it in him.

And in this moment, I realize something that makes me feel sick:

Nash isn’t only scared that the guest ranch won’t happen. He’s scared he’ll be proven right about himself. That he’s filler. That he doesn’t matter the way his brothers matter. That all his hope will turn into another story that people roll their eyes at in the diner.

“Oh, Nash,” I whisper before I can stop myself.