Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lucy
The door swings open before I can knock.
Nash stands barefoot, wearing dark jeans and a soft, navy T-shirt that hugs his shoulders in a way that feels completely unfair. His hair is slightly damp, like he just showered. Casual. Unbothered.
I, on the other hand, am doing my best not to drop the overnight bag sliding down my crutch and betray the fact that I’m two seconds from fully spiraling.
“Hey,” I manage.
“Hey,” he echoes, stepping aside. “Welcome home.”
His house smells warm and clean. There’s music playing low—something instrumental and moody, piano with a hint of strings. I hobble in, trying not to feel self-conscious. He grabs my bag before I can protest and leads me down the hall.
“I gave everything a good dusting today,” he says, pushing open the door at the end of the hall. “There’s a dresser and a closet… Use what you need.”
The room is small but tidy. Neutral colors.
A soft-looking bed with a navy quilt, white sheets, and a folded throw at the foot.
There’s a diffuser puffing something calming into the air—lavender maybe—and a plush chair by the window.
The blinds are half-open, letting the last of the evening light spill across the floor.
I don’t say anything right away because I can’t. Does this man’s generosity have no limits?
“Everything okay?” he asks from behind me. “Is the lavender too much? I thought it was too much.”
“Everything’s wonderful. This is just so much nicer than sleeping on Stella’s couch in the shoebox. I mean look! I have a door and everything.” I glance back at the bed and am assaulted by thoughts of Nash tossing me onto it, pulling his shirt over his head, climbing on top of me…
Woah.
Like… woah…
Where in the world did that come from?
I inwardly grab myself by the shoulders and give a firm shake. Nash is my doctor, my landlord, my… my benefactor. This relationship is complicated enough without me thinking things like that.
“It’s nicer than any place I’ve stayed in the last two years,” I say, turning back to him and physically shaking my head to refocus.
“That’s a low bar.”
“Out of work dancer in Los Angeles. I’m not sure there was a bar.”
His mouth curves. “Want the rest of the tour?”
Nash shows me the guest bathroom—gray tile, black fixtures, exactly one decorative plant. Then the kitchen. Stainless steel appliances. No clutter. A basket of bananas and a bowl of apples. One drawer suspiciously full of protein bars.
He opens the fridge, gesturing to the top shelf. “That’s yours. And the door if you need it. Don’t touch the cold brew unless you’re ready to commit to its consequences.”
I peer in. “Got it. Cold brew comes with consequences. Oh! That reminds me. I brought more cookies.”
He glances over, a strange look in his eyes. “If I make a joke about these, will you get all weird again?”
“Probably,” I say with a shrug.
“Good to know.” Nash closes the fridge then leans against the counter, opening the bag to sniff appreciatively. “You hungry?”
I nod. “Always.”
“I figured we’d keep it simple. Pasta okay?”
I cover a surge of surprise that we’ll be cooking dinner instead of ordering in. My friends, the guys I’ve dated—however briefly—pick up the phone instead of opening the fridge as a rule.
“I’m not picky,” I say. “Unless you’re one of those clean eating, food-is-fuel people.”
“I’m a real food, real fast, minimal cleanup kind of person.”
“I think we’re gonna get along just fine.”
Nash snorts, pointing to a stool tucked up near the counter. “Sit. That ankle has to be throbbing.”
I do as he says, watching as he moves with confidence around the kitchen.
He hands me ingredients; opens cabinets I’d never guess held what I needed.
From my stool at the counter, I chop tomatoes, onions, and basil for the sauce while he boils water and grates parmesan.
Our conversation is easy, and the lulls are filled with music from his Re-education of Lucy Calder playlist.
He opens a bottle of red and sets out two glasses without asking.
“You’re off the pain meds, right?”
“Days ago. Hate the way they make me feel.”
We eat on barstools at the counter. The pasta is good… simple, fresh, comforting, like everything else about this night.
“So, I have to admit, the music is good,” I say, poking my fork around my plate for a bite.
“You say that like you’re surprised.”
“I mean… I had my doubts.”
Nash snorts. “Don’t worry. You’ll figure out soon enough that it’s better if you trust me more and fight me less.”
“Oh! So that’s how it is?” I quirk a playful eyebrow. “Doctor Kincaid’s word is law, huh?”
He grimaces, shaking his head. “Be careful putting words in my mouth. That is not at all what I said.”
“Enlighten me then, because that’s what I heard.”
“I’m just saying I have good taste in music,” he says with a laugh, before all humor slides from his face, leaving something real and raw and honest in its wake. “And I will fight hard for people to get what they need.”
“And what do I need?” I ask, partly curious how he sees me, partly daring him to list all the ways I’m living incorrectly. To start in on me the way Dad always has.
Nash puts down his fork and regards me carefully. His eyes meet mine and there’s something gentle there, something that doesn’t feel at all like accusation.
“You need someone in your corner,” he says, simply and the truth of it leaves me breathless.
I stare for a few quiet moments, unsure what to make of the man beside me, then laugh lightly, trying to shift the conversation toward safer shores. “Wow. Switching from kindness bomb to truth bombs.”
He bobs his head, swirling his fork through his pasta. “People usually tell me I’m gruff and boring. I’ll take kind and honest any day.”
We finish our dinner and retreat to easier topics. His days at the ER. My life as a dancer.
Anything to pretend the tension simmering between us doesn’t exist.
But it does.
It’s in every glance. Every too-long moment of quiet.
And somewhere between his story about a misdiagnosed foreign object in a guy’s ear and my impression of a dance teacher who once threatened to glue our feet to the floor if we didn’t “stop thinking the music and start feeling the music,” the hours slip by.
We talk and laugh and sip and tease until the wine bottle is empty and the kitchen is clean.
There’s a million tiny moments, the brush of his fingers against my lower back.
My hand on his arm as I throw my head back in laughter.
Eye contact, thick and heavy, his gaze lingering on my lips when he thinks I’m not looking, and suddenly the clock on the microwave reads quarter past midnight.
“How is it so late?” I ask, stunned.
Nash just shrugs. “Guess I’m more interesting than you thought.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s a bold assumption.”
“But not incorrect.”
“No…” I reply with a slow smile. “Not incorrect at all.”
He brushes a lock of hair off my face, a gesture so simple yet so intimate, it brings a thrill of pleasure to life in my belly.
“I can’t decide if you being here is going to be good for my sanity or terrible for it.” His voice is low, almost like he wished he hadn’t spoken at all.
My breath catches. “Why?”
His gaze lingers on me. “Because I like having you here more than I probably should.”
The words hang between us, open and unguarded.
I don’t know what to do with them other than be thankful I wasn’t the one who said them, so I just stand, awkwardly leaning on my crutches.
“Well.” My voice wavers. “We should probably get some sleep.”
“Yeah.” Nash nods but doesn’t move.
I step past him, and he follows, slow and suddenly awkward. We stop outside my door.
The hallway feels too quiet now. The air thick. All I can think about is his lips on mine, my hands in his hair, desire coiling through me like a serpent in the garden, leading me towards my next worst decision.
I look up. Nash is watching me closely.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I whisper.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to kiss me.”
He swallows. Steps closer. Tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Only if you stop first.”
We both freeze. Someone clears their throat. We laugh a little.
“Sorry about that,” I say, going for cool and landing on self-conscious. “Wine goes straight to my head.”
“Must be it,” he replies, storm-gray eyes locked on mine.
“Goodnight, Nash.”
“Goodnight, Lucy.”
I turn to enter the room, then his hand is on my arm, drawing me back and we crash into each other.
No hesitation. No buildup. Just hands and mouths and the sudden ache of too much wanting.
His fingers slide into my hair. My hands find the edge of his shirt. We’re barely holding back and barely touching and somehow, it’s already too much.
The kiss is nothing like I imagined.
It’s more.
It’s not careful. It’s not gentle.
It’s every unsaid thing between us finally finding a voice.
When we break apart, I’m breathless and dazed and half-ready to invite him into my room for the night. Just as I’m about to speak, Nash blows a puff of air past his lips, blinking as if he’s just stepped from darkness into light.
“I’m uh… I shouldn’t have done that,” he whispers, then disappears down the hallway.
I slip inside my room, close the door quietly behind me, and lean against it for a long, long time. The room is dim, lit only by the soft wash of moonlight slipping through the blinds. My breath is still shaky, and I can feel the ghost of his hands on my waist, the heat of his mouth against mine.
What just happened?
Scratch that—I know what just happened. What I don’t know is what it means.
It wasn’t planned. Wasn’t careful. It just… is. Like something inevitable finally found its moment. I press a hand to my chest, half-expecting to feel the wild thud of my heart against my palm.
This is fine.
It’s fine.
People kiss all the time. Mistakes happen, especially when there’s wine. We can just go back to being roommates. Or physical therapy partners. Or strangers who live together. Or… whatever we are.
But my skin still tingles where he touched me.
And there’s a part of me—a very loud, very reckless part—that doesn’t want to stop at just one kiss.
That wants to go back out there and kiss him again.
Longer this time.
Slower.
I exhale hard and limp over to the bed, sinking down onto the mattress. The sheets are cool. The room smells like lavender and lust, and I just lay there, shaking my head at the ceiling.
“Damn it, Lu,” I murmur. “You really do make things harder than they need to be.”