14. Eve
EVE
I'm about to head back to the guest room when there's a knock at the door. Nash glances at the clock on the microwave, and something that might be irritation flickers across his face.
"That'll be Morgan," he says, like that explains everything.
The name doesn't mean anything to me, obviously, but when Nash opens the door, I'm immediately struck by the woman standing in the hallway.
She's beautiful in that effortless way that makes other women feel inadequate—lean and graceful, with flawless dark skin and coiled curls pulled back in a sleek bun.
She's wearing all black, fitted clothes that show off her athletic build, and when she smiles, it's the kind of smile that could probably get her anything she wanted.
But the moment I see her, something ugly and violent rises in my chest. Pure, irrational envy that hits me hard, sweeping through me. It's so intense it actually makes me take a step back, my hand going instinctively to my ribs where the pain flares in response to my sudden movement.
I have no idea why I feel this way about a complete stranger, but the emotion is so strong it makes my vision blur at the edges. I'm practically radiating with anger.
"Nash," she says, and even her voice is perfect—low and smooth like expensive whiskey. Her dark eyes scan the apartment until they land on me, and something knowing flickers in her expression. "And you must be Eve."
She steps inside without waiting for an invitation, carrying what looks like several shopping bags. Nash closes the door behind her, and I catch the way his jaw tightens slightly. Does he not…like her? I can't make sense of it.
"Morgan." His tone is carefully neutral, but there's an edge underneath it that makes me feel like he's warning her. "Did you get everything?"
Morgan sets the bags down on the coffee table and turns to give Nash a look that's equal parts amused and exasperated. "I sure did. But I didn't follow your list."
She gestures toward me, and I'm suddenly acutely aware that I'm still wearing the oversized hospital sweats that make me look like a child playing dress-up. Next to Morgan's polished perfection, I feel like a complete mess.
"I wasn't sure of your size," Morgan continues, addressing me directly now, "but I tried to get a range. There's some basics in there, plus some warmer stuff since it's December. Oh, and Christmas pajamas because everyone needs Christmas pajamas."
Her smile is genuine and warm, the kind of gesture that should make me grateful. Any reasonable person would be touched by this thoughtfulness from a stranger. But instead, that inexplicable rage just burns hotter in my chest. Especially as Nash looks at her.
"That's... very kind of you," I manage, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. "Thank you."
If Morgan notices the tension in my voice, she doesn't let on. Instead, she gives Nash a look that I can't quite interpret—something sly and knowing that makes my stomach clench with an emotion I refuse to acknowledge as jealousy.
"Nash didn't tell me much when he asked me to bring them," she says, and there's something in her tone that suggests she knows exactly why that might be significant. "Not even how long you're staying."
Nash runs a hand through his hair, that gesture I'm starting to recognize as his go-to when he's stressed or uncomfortable. "It's temporary. Eve needed a place to recover."
"Right. The accident." Morgan's eyes are sharp as they study my face, taking in the stitches along my hairline and probably cataloging every other sign of my recent trauma. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," I lie, because the truth is I feel like I'm drowning in emotions I can't understand, and this woman's presence is making everything worse.
Morgan nods like she expected that answer. Then she gives Nash another one of those looks—this time it's almost challenging, like she's daring him to do something he doesn't want to do.
"Well, I should let you get some rest," she says, but she doesn't move toward the door. Instead, she settles onto the couch like she's planning to stay awhile. "How long are you thinking of keeping her here, Nash?"
The question hangs in the air like a loaded weapon. Nash's expression goes carefully blank, but I catch the way his hands clench at his sides.
"As long as she needs," he says, his voice carrying a warning that Morgan either doesn't hear or chooses to ignore.
She raises an eyebrow, that perfect smile never wavering. "That's very... generous of you."
There's definitely subtext here that I'm missing, some kind of conversation happening beneath the surface that I'm not privy to. But what's crystal clear is the way Morgan keeps looking between Nash and me, like she's waiting for something to happen.
The worst part is how comfortable she looks in this space. She knows exactly where everything is, moves around the apartment like she's been here a thousand times before. When she reaches for a glass of water from the kitchen, she doesn't have to ask where anything is. She just knows.
"You used to live here," I say suddenly, the words coming out sharper than I intended.
Morgan pauses, glass halfway to her lips, and gives me a look that's pure amusement. "Very observant. Yeah, I lived here for about ten years."
The casual way she says it makes something cold settle in my stomach.
Ten years. She lived here for ten years, which means she knows Nash better than almost anyone.
She knows his habits, his secrets, his history.
She's probably seen him at his worst and his best, been there for moments I'll never understand or be part of.
And the way she's looking at him now, with that fond exasperation and underlying affection, makes it clear that whatever their relationship is, it runs deep.
"But now I live with my boyfriend," Morgan continues, and Nash actually snorts.
"Boyfriend," he repeats, giving her a look that's pure mockery. "Is that what we're calling Antonio now?"
Morgan's smile turns sharp and predatory. "What would you prefer? Lover? Partner in crime? Pain in my ass?"
"All of the above," Nash mutters, but there's no real heat in it. If anything, he looks almost fond.
The easy familiarity between them makes my chest tight with something that feels suspiciously like jealousy. They have history, inside jokes, a shorthand that speaks to years of shared experiences. I'm the outsider here, the stranger who doesn't understand the dynamics at play.
"I should go change," I say abruptly, grabbing one of the shopping bags from the coffee table. "Thank you again for the clothes."
I escape to the guest room before either of them can respond, closing the door behind me and leaning against it like I'm trying to keep the world out. My hands are shaking, and I can't tell if it's from physical exhaustion or the emotional overload of the last few minutes.
The bag contains exactly what Morgan promised—basics like jeans and sweaters, plus warmer clothes like thermal shirts and thick socks.
Everything looks expensive and well-chosen.
Things I like. There's even a few sets of Christmas pajamas covered in tiny snowflakes or lights that are objectively adorable.
I should be grateful. This is an incredibly generous gesture from someone who has no obligation to help me. But instead, all I can think about is the way Morgan looked at Nash, like she knows things about him that I never will.
I change into a pair of Christmas pajamas, which fit perfectly—of course it does—and catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror.
I look more human in real clothes, less like a hospital patient and more like an actual person.
But my eyes still have that hollow, confused look of someone who doesn't know who they are.
When I crack open the bedroom door to head back to the living room, I can hear Morgan and Nash talking in low voices. Something about their tone makes me pause, pressing closer to the gap so I can listen without being obvious about it.
"So what are you going to do?" Morgan is saying, her voice softer than it was before.
Nash huffs out a breath that sounds frustrated. "I don't know."
"This is your chance."
"No." The word comes out sharp, almost angry. "Absolutely not."
"Nash—"
"She's too good for me, Morgan. She always has been."
The rattle in my chest, and I think he's talking about me. This conversation is about me, and apparently whatever his feelings are, he thinks I'm too good for him.
But why does hearing him call me "good" make my heart twist in my chest? Why does it feel like being dismissed rather than complimented?
"You don't know that," Morgan argues, her voice taking on an edge I haven't heard before. "Things are different now."
"Different how?" Nash's laugh is bitter. "No. Don't answer that. I can't, Mor. And you know that."
I wonder what I'm missing. Because it seems like there is a lot of history I should be remembering that I'm not. That there's more than Nash is letting on.
But it would explain the careful way he's been answering my questions, the way he deflects whenever I try to dig deeper into our past. I can't untangle this mess inside of me, and Nash seems wary every time I try.
"I think you're wrong. I thought you were wrong then, and I think you are wrong now."
"I'm not taking advantage of her," he huffs.
"I'm not saying that." She sounds placating now. "I'm just saying that maybe a fresh start is good for you both."
The silence that follows is heavy with implications I don't understand. But there it is again, making me feel like I am missing something. Why would we need a fresh start?
I press closer to the door, desperate to hear more, but my movement makes the old floorboard creak. Shit.
I quickly step back, my heart hammering against my ribs. Did they hear me? Are they going to know I was listening?
After a moment, I hear Morgan's voice again, but now it's pitched at normal volume, clearly meant for me to hear.
"I should probably head home. Antonio gets cranky when I'm gone too long."
I wait another few seconds before opening the door and walking back to the living room, trying to look casual despite the fact that my entire world just shifted on its axis.
Morgan is already putting on her coat, a sleek black thing that cuts around her frame perfectly. She gives me a smile that seems genuine, but I can't help wondering what she's really thinking.
"The clothes look good," she says approvingly. "Much better than hospital chic."
"Thank you," I manage, still reeling from what I overheard. "Really. This was incredibly thoughtful."
Morgan waves off my thanks, then gives Nash a pointed look. "Walk me out?"
It's clearly not a request. Nash nods stiffly and follows her to the door, and I catch just a fragment of their whispered conversation in the hallway.
"Don't be an idiot about this," Morgan hisses.
Nash's response is too quiet for me to hear, but when he comes back inside, his expression is thunderous.
I'm standing in the middle of the living room in my new clothes, feeling like an actress who's walked onto the wrong stage without a script. Everything is coming at me in bits and pieces with no context, and I don't know how to process any of it.
"She seems nice," I say carefully, testing the waters.
Nash snorts, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Nice isn't the word I'd use for Morgan. Efficient, maybe. Terrifying when she wants to be. But she means well."
He's trying to sound casual, but I can see the way his jaw is still tight, the way his hands are clenched at his sides. Whatever Morgan said to him in the hallway, it affected him.
My mind keeps running through everything I heard, trying to make sense of it. If we need a fresh start, does that mean we didn't get along? Did I do something wrong?
Did he?
I study Nash's face, trying to reconcile the man sitting across from me with someone who wasn't my friend but took me in. Who needed a fresh start with me. He's been nothing but kind to me, gentle and patient and protective. What could have happened between us that has him so on edge?
And more importantly, why do I feel so many emotions when I look at him if we clearly have a history that should make me feel something—something specific that would give me any clue into what they were talking about?
This whole situation is such a mess. One I don't know how to get out of.