Page 111 of Tessa and Nash

His eyes flicker at the sound of it. And because I’m apparently determined to ruin my own composure today, I reach out.

My hand lands lightly on his forearm, just above his wrist. Warm skin. Tension underneath it. A muscle that flexes, he’s bracing for pain.

He freezes.

So do I.

Because that touch is not something I do.

Nash’s eyes drop to my hand like it’s the most dangerous thing in the room.

Then he looks back at my face, and the expression there almost makes me step back, because it’s relieved, like someone just handed him proof that he isn’t alone, and that’s a weight I don’t know how to carry without panicking.

I pull my hand away too quickly, fingers curling into a fist at my side.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

Nash shakes his head once. “Don’t be.”

My chest tightens again.

I turn away under the excuse of movement, because movement is safer than standing still in front of him while he looks at me like that.

I grab my mug and take a sip of coffee that has gone lukewarm. It’s bitter. It grounds me.

Or it tries to.

“What happens now?” Nash asks quietly behind me.

The question lands right between my shoulder blades. Because it’s about us.

What happens now that he has said out loud the thing he believes about himself?

What happens now that I have heard it and can’t unhear it?

I swallow, staring at the counter as if it holds answers.

What happens now is that I do the thing I hate most.

I tell the truth.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

“Okay.”

I turn slowly, meeting his eyes.

He looks tired. Soul tired. The kind of tired you get when you’ve been fighting to be enough for years and you’re finally realizing you might lose anyway.

“I’m not good at this,” I say, and the words come out clipped because vulnerability makes me feel I’m stepping onto ice. “The… talking part.”

Nash’s mouth twitches faintly. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

I glare at him automatically.

Then I realize he’s trying to lighten it, to keep it from crushing us both.

It’s infuriating.