Page 112 of Tessa and Nash

It’s also kind.

I take a breath. “Being a Long has never felt like pride.”

His expression shifts. Attention sharpening, the way it does when he knows something real is coming.

I continue anyway, forcing it out.

“It’s felt like an obligation. A role.” My voice tightens. “Grief.”

Nash’s eyes darken.

I don’t say my mother’s name. I never do unless I’m alone.

But the air changes like it hears her anyway.

“When she died,” I say, quiet while breaking inside, “I didn’t get to be twelve. I didn’t get to be messy or angry or confused.”

Nash doesn’t move. He doesn’t interrupt.

He stays still. He’s afraid any sound will scare the words back into me.

“I became… useful,” I whisper. “I became the one who didn’t need. The one who didn’t ask. The one who didn’t fall apart.” My laugh is small and bitter. “Because falling apart wasn’t an option.”

Nash’s voice is low. “That’s not fair.”

I lift my chin. “It doesn’t matter if it’s fair. It’s what happened.”

I go colder, because this is how I survive feeling too much.

“My uncle…” I exhale slowly. “He talks about legacy like it’s holy. Like it’s something that should be protected at any cost.”

“Including you.”

I flinch.

Nash steps forward. “Tessa⁠—”

“No,” I cut in. “Don’t.”

His brows knit. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me like I’m fragile,” I snap.

“You are allowed to be fragile.”

“I’m not,” I say immediately.

The words hit like a gunshot.

Nash goes very still.

“You shouldn’t say that,” he murmurs.

I laugh, sharp. “It is true.”

“That’s…” he starts, then stops himself like he’s trying not to argue with my entire life.

I can’t help it. Anger rises like a familiar shield.