13. Eve
EVE
The building is old brick, worn but solid, with the kind of character that comes from decades of New York winters.
Christmas lights twinkle around us and I try to focus on that instead of my body.
As we climb the narrow stairs to the third floor, my ribs protest with each step, but I grit my teeth and push through.
Nash hovers behind me, close enough to catch me if I stumble but not so close that it feels suffocating.
"Almost there," he says quietly, his voice carrying that same careful tone he's used with me since I woke up in the hospital.
The apartment is exactly what I'd expect from Nash, somehow.
Masculine but not aggressively so, lived-in without being messy.
The hardwood floors are scuffed in places, and the tall windows let in streams of afternoon light that make the whole space feel warmer than it probably is.
A worn leather couch dominates the living room, facing a coffee table scattered with newspapers and what looks like medical journals.
But it's the kitchen that really gets to me.
Stainless steel appliances that have seen better days, a refrigerator covered in photos and magnets.
I can't make out the details of the pictures from here, but something about the whole scene feels...
familiar. Like I've stood in this exact spot before, looking at this exact view.
And not a Christmas decoration insight. For some reason, it fits him, too.
I don't say anything, though. Nash is already being so kind, helping a virtual stranger who can't even remember her own life. The last thing he needs is me having phantom memories about his apartment.
"It's nice," I tell him instead, and mean it. There's something comforting about the space, something that makes my shoulders relax for the first time since I woke up in that hospital bed.
Nash runs a hand through his sandy hair, suddenly looking almost nervous. "It's not much, but it's home. Come on, let me show you where you'll be staying."
He leads me down a short hallway, past what must be his bedroom—I catch a glimpse of a neatly made bed and more of those tall windows—to a smaller room at the end.
The guest room is sparse but clean, with a queen bed covered in a dark blue comforter and a dresser that looks like it's seen better days.
The window faces the courtyard, and I can hear the distant sounds of the city filtering up from below.
"You have a bathroom attached," Nash says, gesturing to an open door. "There should be towels and everything you need for a shower. I'll... I'll work on getting you some proper clothes soon."
I look down at the oversized hospital sweatshirt and sweatpants that are currently drowning my frame. The fabric smells like disinfectant and institutional laundry detergent, clinical and impersonal. A shower and real clothes sound like heaven.
"That sounds perfect," I tell him, managing what I hope is a grateful smile. "Thank you. For all of this. I know taking in a stranger with no memory isn't exactly normal."
Something flickers across his face—too quick for me to interpret. "You're not a stranger, Eve."
The way he says my name makes my stomach do this little flip that I don't understand. There's weight behind it, history I can't access. It makes me want to ask more questions, to push until I understand why every time he looks at me, I feel like I'm drowning in emotions I can't name.
Instead, I just nod and head for the bathroom.
The shower is exactly what I need. The hot water helps ease some of the ache in my ribs, and washing away the lingering scent of hospital makes me feel more human.
I stand under the spray longer than I probably should, letting the heat work its way into my muscles and trying to make sense of the weird mix of emotions swirling in my chest.
Being around Nash feels like standing too close to a fire—warm and comforting, but with the constant awareness that I could get burned.
There's something in the way he looks at me, something that makes my skin heat and my heart race even though I can't remember why.
It's not just attraction, though that's definitely part of it.
He's gorgeous in that classic, all-American way that probably makes women trip over themselves in the street.
But it's more than that. It's like my body remembers him even when my mind doesn't. Like every cell in my body is trying to tell me something important, and I'm just too broken to understand the message.
When I finally turn off the water and wrap myself in one of Nash's towels—which smells clean and masculine and somehow familiar—I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
The stitches along my hairline are stark against my skin, and there are dark circles under my eyes that speak to more than just physical exhaustion.
I look like someone who's been through hell, which I suppose is accurate enough.
I get dressed in the same oversized clothes and make my way back to the living room, following the scent of something that makes my mouth water. Nash is in the kitchen, unpacking what looks like takeout containers, his phone pressed between his ear and shoulder.
"Mom, it's me again," he's saying, his voice tight with something that might be stress. "I really need you to call me back. It's... it's important. More important than you think."
He ends the call and sets the phone down with more force than necessary, running both hands through his hair in what seems like a habitual gesture. Whatever he needs to talk to his mother about, it's clearly weighing on him.
"Everything okay?" I ask, settling carefully onto one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter.
Nash glances up, and I catch another one of those flickers across his face—like he's editing his response in real time. "Yeah, just trying to reach my mom. She's a nurse back home, works crazy hours. Sometimes it takes a while to connect."
He pushes one of the containers toward me, along with a plastic spoon. "I didn't know if you still like this, but I got us soup from this Jewish deli a few blocks over. You used to..." He pauses, like he's catching himself. "I thought you might like it."
I pop open the container and the rich scent of chicken broth and vegetables hits me. It smells incredible, and my stomach reminds me that I haven't eaten anything substantial since... well, since whenever I last ate before ending up in that hospital bed.
"I don't know what I like anymore," I admit, stirring the soup with the plastic spoon. "Everything's kind of a blank slate right now."
Nash settles onto the stool across from me with his own container. "Maybe that's not entirely a bad thing. Fresh start and all that."
There's something in his voice when he says it, something that makes me look up from my soup to study his face. But his expression is carefully neutral, giving nothing away.
"Tell me about growing up together," I say after taking a few spoonfuls of what turns out to be absolutely delicious matzo ball soup. "What was I like? What were you like? Were we friends?"
The question seems to catch him off guard. He takes a long moment to chew and swallow before answering, and I get the sense he's choosing his words very carefully.
"We weren't really friends, exactly," he says slowly. "More like... we knew each other. Same small town, went to the same school. You were always the good girl—straight A's, sweet to everyone, the kind of person who helped old ladies cross the street."
Something about that description feels right, even if I can't remember specifics. It fits with the person I seem to be now, at least based on how I've been responding to everything.
"And you?"
A wry smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I was not the good kid. Got into trouble, gave my mom gray hairs, probably drove the teachers crazy. We didn't exactly run in the same circles."
I study his face as he talks, trying to reconcile the man sitting across from me with the troublemaker he's describing.
There's definitely something dangerous about Nash, something that lives just beneath that careful, caring exterior.
I can see it in the way he moves, the way his eyes sometimes go sharp and calculating.
But with me, he's been nothing but gentle.
"But we knew each other well enough that you recognized me yesterday," I point out.
"Small town," he says with a shrug that feels a little too casual. "Everyone knows everyone. Plus, some faces you don't forget."
The way he says it makes that fire-too-close feeling flare up again.
There's something in his eyes when he looks at me, something that speaks to a history much more complicated than casual acquaintance.
But every time I try to push for more details, he deflects or keeps his answers frustratingly vague.
"So what happened after high school?" I ask, trying a different angle. "Did you stay in touch?"
Nash shakes his head, focusing intently on his soup. "I left for college in New York. Columbia. Lost touch with pretty much everyone from home."
"But you stayed in the city."
"Yeah. Dropped out of pre-med, became an EMT instead. Never quite made it back to Vermont except for holidays."
There's definitely more to that story, but something in his tone suggests it's not a topic he wants to explore. I file it away as another mystery to unravel later, when my head doesn't feel like it's full of cotton and missing puzzle pieces.
"What about me?" I ask. "Do you know what I've been doing? Where I was living?"
Nash's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "I'm working on figuring that out. But honestly, I don't know what you've been up to the last few years. Like I said, we lost touch."
It's a reasonable answer, but something about it doesn't sit right with me. Maybe it's the way he won't quite meet my eyes when he says it, or the careful neutrality of his tone. Or maybe it's just that every instinct I have is telling me there's more to our story than he's letting on.
But pressing him for details I can't remember feels unfair, especially when he's being so generous with his help. So I let it go for now and focus on finishing my soup, which really is excellent.
"This is really good," I tell him, scraping the bottom of the container. "Thank you. For the food, for letting me stay here, for everything. I know this isn't exactly how you planned to spend your day."
Nash finally looks up at me directly, and for just a moment, his carefully controlled expression slips. There's something raw in his eyes, something that looks almost like pain.
"There's nowhere else I'd rather be," he says quietly, and the sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight.
The moment stretches between us, loaded with things I can't understand but can definitely feel. It's like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing there's something important just out of reach but not being able to see what it is.
Nash breaks the spell by standing and collecting our empty containers. "You should probably get some rest. The doctor said to take it easy, and you've had a long day."
He's right, of course. The exhaustion is starting to hit me again, that bone-deep weariness that comes with trauma and healing.
But part of me doesn't want to retreat to the guest room just yet.
Part of me wants to stay here in this kitchen that feels familiar, with this man who makes me feel safe and on edge all at the same time.
But I'm not ready to walk away from him yet.
I want to ask him about the connection I feel, about why being near him makes my heart race and my skin heat.
I want to ask why sometimes when he looks at me, I feel like I'm drowning in emotions I can't name.
I want to know why this apartment feels familiar, why the way he says my name makes something deep inside me ache.
But all of those questions feel too big, too complicated for someone who can't even remember her own last name. And I have so many things I don't know. Do I have an apartment somewhere? A job? Friends who are wondering where I am?
The questions circle in my head like vultures, picking at the edges of my consciousness. But underneath all of that, there's one thought that keeps pushing its way to the surface, no matter how hard I try to ignore it:
Being here with Nash doesn't feel like staying with a stranger.
It feels like coming home.