Page 113 of Tessa and Nash

Because if we stay in softness, I might start crying.

And I refuse.

“I don’t get to be reckless,” I say tightly. “I don’t get to chase dreams and fail and have the whole town call it charming. I don’t get second chances.”

Nash’s eyes flash. “You think I get those?”

“Yes,” I bite out. “You do.”

The moment the words leave my mouth, regret hits.

“You think I’m protected,” he says quietly.

I stare back, stubborn and shaking inside. “I think you’re forgiven before the damage even lands.”

Nash’s breath goes sharp.

I think he’s going to snap.

“You can be surrounded by people and still feel like you’re drowning.”

The words hit me in my chest.

Because they’re not defensive, they’re true.

And looking into a mirror, I didn’t expect to find a McCoy.

I go still.

I have to swallow three times before I can speak.

Then I do something I never do.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and the words scrape my throat like rust.

Nash looks startled. Apologies aren’t what he expects from me.

I add quickly, because I can’t help myself, “For lashing out like a crazy person.”

His mouth twitches faintly. “You did.”

I huff a breath that’s half laugh, half relief.

Then the softness creeps back in, quiet and dangerous.

Nash watches me intently. “You’re scared.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re observant.”

“What are you scared of?” he asks, not letting me deflect.

I could lie.

I could say my uncle. The land. The council. The storm.

But the real fear sits deeper.

I stare at him, at the warmth in his eyes, at how he looks at me like I’m not just leverage.