Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Lucy
Nash opens his front door in a charcoal-gray T-shirt and joggers, hair slightly tousled from his fingers having just raked through. I do my best not to notice the way the fabric clings to his chest. Or arms. Or anywhere, really.
But I do.
I’ve been nervous about seeing him again after the bar. What was with his protectiveness? My flirtation? And then there’s the confusing possibility that he might have been flirting back.
Will any of that come up?
Should it come up?
Our situation is weird enough as it is.
“Hey,” I say, shifting awkwardly on my crutches to hold out a batch of chocolate chip cookies in a plastic baggie. “I made these for you. They’re nowhere near as good as what Violet makes, but I wanted to say thanks for not rescinding your offer after the other night.”
Nash’s brow lifts. “Was I supposed to?”
I shrug. “You didn’t seem thrilled to see me at the bar.”
Though also, you kind of did, I think, remembering the way our eyes kept locking… right up until he stormed out of the place. I assumed I’d somehow made him mad, but he seems so chill today, I don’t know what to think.
Nash pauses. Then steps aside. “I wasn’t thrilled to see you six days post-concussion, holding a drink, in a room full of flying elbows. But I was glad to see you.”
That shouldn’t make me smile. But it does.
“Especially if you’re gonna keep bringing me treats.” He waggles the bag of cookies, then leads me to the gym. It’s already prepped, mat unrolled, resistance bands laid out, a clean towel folded neatly on the bench, next to a thick book which Nash picks up and hands to me.
“You seemed so interested in the process the last time we met that I thought you might be interested in reading this.”
I sit, then flip through the pages filled with images of ligaments and tendons, medical jargon and handwritten notes in the margin. I clutch it to my chest like the treasure it is. “Oh wow. This is so thoughtful. Thank you.”
“You seem surprised.”
“Not at the thoughtfulness. You’ve basically been dropping grumpy little kindness bombs since we met.”
“Grumpy little what now?”
“Well, yeah. At the hospital, you looked like you wanted to melt into the floor when you noticed I’d been crying, but then were so reassuring.
Then, when Bennett brought me over here, you called me reckless and idiotic, then put together a whole rehab program.
Last night? Stormed right over to grumble about my drink choice, but then told me you’d be there in a heartbeat if I needed you. Grumpy little kindness bombs.”
Nash stares for a long moment, then huffs a funny little laugh. “Better prepare yourself, because I’ve got one more for you.”
He pulls out his phone and after a few taps, music fills the room—low guitar strums, something bluesy and rich.
“This the musical education you promised?” I ask, easing onto the mat and undoing the straps on my ankle brace, the harsh rasp of the Velcro momentarily overpowering the music.
Nash nods, faintly smug. “Thought I’d help retrain your ears while we rehab your ankle.”
“Oh, so this is a dual-purpose session,” I say, lips twitching.
Nash tosses me a resistance band. “Exactly. A full body and soul restoration program.”
I roll my eyes, even as I catch myself smiling. “I’ll have you know Sandro René’s latest album has been described as transcendent.”
“By people with brain injuries?” he deadpans.
I snort, starting the first exercise. The music thrums low in the background—less distracting than I expected.
Actually, it feels grounding. Warm. Like cinnamon and fireplaces and someone humming in the kitchen.
We fall into rhythm, Nash guiding me through the exercises with steady hands and the occasional pointed glance when I try to push too far. His touch is professional. Focused.
For the most part.
There’s a moment when he adjusts the angle of a stretch—his chest pressed against my back, his cheek grazing mine, his touch gentle yet firm—and something electric moves between us. He doesn’t acknowledge it, but my breath catches anyway.
Then my phone buzzes on the bench.
I glance over and grimace when I see Trish’s name.
This can’t be good. I haven’t talked to her since she stole my job.
My stomach knots. One swipe opens the message.
Hey. I’m leaving next week for tour. Can’t afford to float the place solo so I found someone to sublet. I need you to get your stuff before I go or I’ll have to sell it or something
Sorry
Everything inside me stills. The floor of my stomach falls out.
My entire life—my clothes, my dance gear, my journals, the chipped Holiday Coffee & Cake mug Violet and Simon gave me right before I moved—gone. Or close enough to it.
“Do I even want to ask?” Nash asks.
I shake my head slowly, my throat tightening. “That’s officially the last time I check my phone while I’m at your house.”
Nash straightens, brows knitting. “What happened?”
I consider brushing it off, telling him it’s nothing and I’m fine and letting that be that. I’ve emotionally detonated more than enough in front of this man. But, for some reason, the truth comes out.
“My roommate is leaving for tour and is subletting the apartment. If I don’t come get my stuff, she’s selling it. Oh. And the reason she’s leaving for this particular tour? She’s the one who took my spot. It should be me going. Not her.”
The words hit even harder out loud. I press my palm to my forehead like that might stop the pressure building inside. Just when I think I’m about to cry, I start laughing.
“I don’t have the money for a flight,” I say through a giggle.
“I can’t drive. I don’t even know where I’m going to live, so I don’t know where to put my stuff if I manage to get it.
And… and I just…” I start laughing again, because I couldn’t make something up like this if I tried.
“Like, really. What have I done to deserve this? I’d like to say I can’t take anymore,” I add, voice breathy, “but God has surely used up all his gut punches at this point so I’m not sure it matters. ”
“You are kind of a mess,” Nash says gently, lips twitching.
“Kind of?” I glance up, blinking fast. “I thought I’d get to come home, wave my contract in Dad’s face, and prove I wasn’t a total screw-up. Now I might have to ask him to store my things. Or worse, move back in. Because I literally have nowhere else to go.”
That last part comes out like a whisper. Like a confession I hadn’t intended to make.
The laughter dies.
Nash sits beside me on the mat, his presence steady and warm.
“I know you hate feeling helpless, but this is the first time I’ve actually seen you look it,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Lucy. I see how heavy your load is.”
I stare into those storm-gray eyes and he holds my gaze unflinchingly. “Most people look away when things get messy,” I say and he smiles softly. “You look closer.”
“I’m at my best in the mess. Kind of a prerequisite for the emergency room.”
“Even Stella opted to go out for drinks when I told her I lost the tour rather than sit with my discomfort. I don’t know if I’ve ever had someone do what you do.”
“Not even your parents?”
“Definitely not my parents. Dad always thinks he's helping but he cuts me down so hard in the process it doesn't feel like help. When I left for LA, he made it exceptionally clear that he expected me to fail. There was no support. No cheering me on. He just said when I hit rock bottom, my room would still be waiting but there’d be terms we’d have to agree on for me to use it. Like he had no faith in me at all. I really hate that I’m proving him right. ”
Nash leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice is quiet when he finally speaks. “I’m sorry you’ve spent so long feeling like you have to prove your worth and earn love.”
His eyes meet mine and it’s like he’s seeing into my soul, looking right at the little girl who simply wanted her daddy to love her and telling her it’s okay. It’s too much. Too real. Too vulnerable, so I retreat toward safer ground.
“We all have something, don’t we?” I turn back to my phone, staring at the message. “I’m supposed to meet my parents for coffee after I leave here. It was bad enough when I was gonna surprise them with the crutches—”
“They don’t know you’re injured?” Nash’s surprise sets off a shame bomb in my belly.
“I should have told them,” I say with a sad shake of my head. “I just… wasn’t ready for the lecture.” It sounds even more cowardly out loud.
He sets his jaw and I’d do anything for a thought bubble to appear above his head. Is he judging me? Does he understand? Has he ever had to live knowing that nothing he does will ever be enough, even when he's operating at max capacity?
“It’s gonna be so bad when I ask for a place to put my stuff.” I drop my head into my hands. “And even worse than that when I say I need a place to put me.”
“I might have a solution for that.” Nash shifts beside me, voice steady.
I blink. “What?”
“It’s gonna sound like a big deal, but it’s not.”
“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better.”
“I’ve got a spare room. Consider it yours. Store your stuff. Yourself, even. Whatever you need. I’ve got you.” He says it so casually, I’m not sure I heard him right.
I stare for a few awkward seconds then, “Did you just ask me to move in with you?”
“I guess I did.” Nash blinks, almost as surprised as I am.
For a moment, I think he’s going to rescind the offer, but then he shrugs and tosses up his hands.
“I mean, I’ve already caught so much shit from my family for helping you as much as I have, might as well give them something real to tease me about.
My schedule can get hectic. If you lived here, it would make finding time for us to meet so much easier.
Consider it another grumpy little kindness bomb. ”
And just like that, I’m laughing again. “Can you imagine what my dad would say?”
“It’s not about him, Lucy. This is about you needing the kind of help I have to offer. What he thinks about it doesn’t matter.”
And it’s that simple. No grand speech. No guilt-laced strings. Just a quiet man offering shelter to a woman who’s spent too long pretending she doesn’t need it.
I want to say no. To prove I can figure it out myself. But I’m so tired of performing strength I don’t feel. And maybe it’s okay to want someone in your corner.
Even if he’s older. Grumpier. And makes fun of your music.
I look at him, really look at him. And whatever I was about to say dissolves.
“Thank you,” I say instead, the words raw and unfiltered. “The offer means a lot to me, but I don’t want to take advantage. Let me think about it?”
Nash nods, slow and sure, then stands, offering a hand. It’s warm. Strong. My fingers wrap around his, and I don’t let go.
And for the first time since this whole mess started, I feel steady.
Behind us, the playlist shifts—soft piano, a voice like velvet. Something soulful and slow. The kind of song you don’t talk through.
My hand is still in his when our eyes meet.
There’s something in the way he’s looking at me. Something that feels safe and strong and secure. Something I’ve always wanted and never had.
His gaze moves to my lips and my tongue darts out to moisten them. I lean closer, just a fraction, both an invitation and an acceptance…
But then he clears his throat and drops my hand. Looking at anything but me.
Oh my goodness gracious!
Are you kidding me?
Did I really almost kiss him again?
This man offers me yet another solution to yet another problem and some part of me thinks that’s the way to repay him?
“Think about it,” Nash says, arms crossed, definitely putting distance between us. “Let me know. It makes a lot of logistical sense, you being here, what with rehab and all. My schedule’s tricky and you won’t have to rely on Stella for rides.”
I bob my head. “Yup. Logistical perfection,” I say and immediately regret because who says something like that? “I’ll definitely think about it.”
Nash nods and that’s that. We finish the rehab session without talking about it again, Nash once again seeming to know exactly what I need.