Page 166 of Tessa and Nash

Boone’s expression shifts, curiosity sharpening, more concerned. “Then what is it, Nash?”

My chest tightens.

I could tell them. Right now.

They’d listen.

They’d help.

They’d probably make it worse in entirely new and creative ways, but they wouldn’t leave me holding it alone.

The urge to unburden myself hits hard enough to make my eyes sting.

But the thought of dragging them into this mess, into her mess, into Long history and council politics and my own inability to keep my damn heart in check, stops me cold.

I shake my head once. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Boone studies me for a long beat. “You don’t have to handle everything by yourself.”

“I know,” I say quietly.

Dallas stands, carrying his mug to the sink. “You’ve been off since the night of the storm, I think.”

I force a shrug. “Cold weather does that.”

They both know I’m full of shit.

Boone sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Alright. I’m not going to pry.”

Dallas adds, softer, “But if this is about more than a hangover, you don’t get points for martyrdom.”

I nod, because nodding is safer than speaking.

Boone pushes off the counter. “Eat something. Then get to work. Fence line’s still busted.”

I grab a piece of toast, mostly to give my hands something to do. “Yeah.”

As they move back into their routines, the kitchen fills with the familiar sounds of normal life. Coffee. Footsteps. The quiet hum of the ranch coming to life.

I stand there, toast untouched, heart still racing from the things I didn’t say.

Because the truth is sitting right there, loud and insistent:

I’m far from fine, and I’m definitely out of control.

And I have no idea how to explain that.

So I swallow it down.

Again.

The fence line gives me something to do with my hands. It’s physical. Posts to check. Wire to tighten. Tasks with clear outcomes. Either the fence holds or it doesn’t. No ambiguity. No emotional landmines buried under polite conversation.

I focus on the rhythm. Walk, check, adjust, move on.

But my mind doesn’t cooperate.

Tessa’s face keeps intruding. The way she looked at me right before she ran.