11. Eve
EVE
The boy—Nash, he said his name was—keeps staring at me with these ocean-blue eyes that seem to hold secrets I can't access.
There's something about the way he looks at me that makes my chest tight, like I'm drowning in emotions I can't name or understand.
His sandy-blond hair is tousled in a way that suggests he's been running his hands through it, and there are lines of exhaustion around his eyes that tell me he's been here for a while.
Watching over me.
But I don't know why.
"Let's run through some basic cognitive tests," Dr. Martinez says, pulling my attention away from Nash's unsettling gaze.
He's a middle-aged man with kind eyes and steady hands, the type of doctor who probably has teenagers at home and knows how to be both gentle and no-nonsense. "Can you tell me your full name?"
"Eve Lynn Turner." The words come easily, automatically.
"Good. And your age?"
"Twenty-eight."
He nods, making notes on his tablet. "Do you know what year it is?"
I have to think about that one for a moment, my brain feeling sluggish and thick. "I…don't know."
"That's okay. Can you tell me the last thing you remember?"
I close my eyes, trying to push through the fog in my head. There are fragments—walking down a street, the sound of my footsteps on pavement, the feeling that I was upset about something. But when I try to grab onto the details, they slip away like water through my fingers.
"I was walking somewhere," I say finally, opening my eyes. "I think I was angry. Or sad. Maybe both. But I can't remember why."
Dr. Martinez exchanges a look with Nash that I can't decipher. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and I catch a flash of something dark in his expression before he schools his features back to careful neutrality.
"That's normal with this type of injury," Dr. Martinez reassures me. "The memories should return gradually. Sometimes it takes days, sometimes weeks. Everyone heals differently."
He continues with more questions—asking me about my childhood, my family, basic information.
Only…I can't answer any of it. I don't remember anything but vague wisps.
I definitely have parents. I think I grew up somewhere cold.
Basic information is there—like I do know what New York City is, which is where I am apparently—but everything else is just gone.
And through it all, Nash sits in that chair beside my bed like a sentinel, his presence both comforting and unsettling in equal measure.
I find myself stealing glances at him, trying to figure out why looking at him makes my heart race and my chest ache with something that feels suspiciously like longing.
Or desire. Or heartbreak or anger. I'm really not sure.
He's undeniably handsome—the kind of man who probably turns heads wherever he goes.
Tall and broad-shouldered, with classic features and tousled blonde hair that belong on magazine covers.
There are tattoos peeking out from under the sleeves of his t-shirt, dark ink against tanned skin that suggests hidden depths beneath his clean-cut appearance.
But it's more than his looks that draws my attention. There's an intensity to him, a barely leashed energy that makes me think of predators pretending to be domesticated. The way he watches me isn't casual or polite—it's possessive. Hungry.
Like he knows things about me that I've forgotten.
"Now let's check your physical responses," Dr. Martinez says, pulling out a small flashlight. He shines it in my eyes, checking my pupils, then has me follow his finger as he moves it back and forth. "Any nausea? Dizziness?"
"A little dizzy when I first woke up," I admit. "And my head hurts."
"That's expected. You have a concussion along with the laceration on your scalp. Twelve stitches." He gently probes around the bandages on my forehead, and I wince. "The good news is that while you have three broken ribs on your left side, they're clean breaks. They should heal nicely with rest."
"How did this happen?" I ask, though part of me isn't sure I want to know the answer.
Nash shifts in his chair, and when I look at him, there's something almost guilty in his expression. "You were found in the middle of a side street," he says carefully. "No witnesses. No signs of what happened."
Dr. Martinez nods. "Nash is the EMT who brought you in, and he said there was no evidence of a vehicle involved. No tire marks, no debris. It's possible you fell, hit your head on something."
"Or a hit and run," Nash mumbles.
Something about that explanation doesn't feel right, but I can't put my finger on why. The harder I try to remember, the more my head pounds, so I let it go for now.
"We're going to keep you overnight for observation," Dr. Martinez continues. "Head injuries can be unpredictable, so we want to monitor you closely. If everything looks good in the morning, you can go home."
Home. The word should bring comfort, but instead it just makes me feel more lost. "I don't remember where that is."
The admission comes out smaller than I intended, and I see Nash's hands clench into fists on his thighs before he consciously relaxes them.
Dr. Martinez looks between us again. "Nash has already said he can take you and help you get settled. Is that all right with you?"
I stare at him, trying to process the implications of that. This man—this stranger who isn't really a stranger—knows me well enough that he's been sitting by my hospital bed for hours. Well enough that he's volunteering to take care of me.
The responsible part of me knows I should ask questions.
Should demand to know who he is, how we know each other, why he's here.
But looking at him makes my head spin with emotions I can't sort through—sadness so deep it feels like grief, anger that tastes like betrayal, and underneath it all, a want so sharp and desperate it steals my breath.
"Okay," I whisper, because I don't know what else to say. Because despite the confusion and the fear, some part of me trusts him. Some part of me that I can't access wants him here.
Dr. Martinez smiles. "Good. I'll have the nurses set up a cot for Nash so he can stay with you tonight. Just in case."
He finishes his examination, checking my reflexes and asking a few more questions about pain levels and comfort. Before he leaves, he turns back to me with a serious expression.
"I need to warn you about something," he says gently.
"Head injuries like yours can sometimes cause mood swings and emotional instability while you're healing.
You might find yourself feeling things more intensely than usual, or reacting in ways that seem out of character.
That's normal, but it's good to be aware of it. "
I nod, filing that information away. As if my emotions aren't already chaotic enough.
After Dr. Martinez leaves, the room falls into silence. Nash remains in his chair, but I can feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing. When I finally work up the courage to look at him directly, he's watching me with an expression so complex I can't begin to unravel it.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For staying. For helping me."
Something flickers across his face—pain, maybe, or regret. "Of course, sweetheart."
The endearment hits me hard, sending a sharp ache through my chest that has nothing to do with my broken ribs. My heart rate spikes, and I see Nash notice the change on the monitor. His jaw tightens, but he doesn't comment on it.
"Why do you call me that?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
For a moment, he looks like he might actually answer. His mouth opens, and I see something vulnerable flash in his eyes. But then he seems to think better of it, and his expression shutters closed.
"Old habit," he says simply.
It's not really an answer, but I don't push. My head is already pounding from trying to process everything, and every emotion I feel when I look at him seems amplified, overwhelming. Dr. Martinez's warning about mood swings echoes in my mind.
"I need to rest," I say, closing my eyes. "Everything feels too much right now."
"That's probably a good idea." His voice is rough, something my body reacts to, but I don't have the energy to analyze why. "Get some sleep. I'll be right here."
The promise should be comforting, but instead it fills me with a confusing mix of relief and panic. Part of me wants him to stay, wants that steady presence watching over me. But another part—a part that feels raw and wounded in ways I can't understand—wants to push him away.
I settle back against the pillows, trying to ignore the way his presence seems to fill the entire room. Trying to ignore the way my skin feels too tight and my heart won't slow down.
But even as exhaustion pulls at me, I can't stop stealing glances at him through my lashes. Can't stop wondering why this beautiful, intense man looks at me like I'm something precious he's lost and found again.
Can't stop wondering why looking at him feels like coming home and falling apart at the same time.
The monitors around me beep softly in the growing darkness, and somewhere between one breath and the next, sleep finally claims me. But even in unconsciousness, I'm aware of him there beside me.
Watching. Waiting.
Keeping secrets I'm not sure I want to remember.