Page 114 of Tessa and Nash

And I hear myself say the truth that tastes of blood.

“I’m scared that if I stop holding everything together,” I whisper, “I won’t know who I am.”

Nash’s face softens.

He nods once, slowly.

“Yeah. Me too.”

I let out a shaky breath, and my next confession comes out before I can stop it.

“I don’t want to be a Long anymore,” I whisper.

Nash’s eyes widen slightly. “Tessa⁠—”

“I mean,” I say quickly, panic flaring, “I don’t want it to be the only thing I am.”

Nash’s gaze softens again, understanding settling in. “I get that.”

“I don’t want to be a McCoy the way the town expects either.”

There it is again.

That impossible thing.

Sameness.

In two people who were supposed to be enemies.

“Then we choose,” he says softly.

It feels like a foreign language.

“I don’t know how,” I whisper.

Nash’s gaze holds mine. “You do.”

I blink. “What?”

He gestures to me, small and firm. “You already did. You came here. You opened the drawer. You didn’t hand it to your uncle.”

My chest aches.

He’s right.

I did choose.

And now the next choice sits between us, a line drawn in snow.

Because I feel it, under my skin, in my bones, how close we are to something we can’t blame on heat or storms or old journals.

If I kiss him now, it won’t be because I’m overwhelmed.

It’ll be because I want him.

And I don’t know what that makes me.

Dangerous, stupid, and alive.