15. Eve
EVE
The next morning, Nash is getting ready for his shift when he pauses by the kitchen counter, coffee mug halfway to his lips.
"Morgan's coming by," he says, like he's announcing an impending natural disaster.
I look up from the bowl of cereal I've been pushing around for the last ten minutes. "Oh."
The single word comes out flat, and Nash's eyes narrow slightly as he studies my face. I try to arrange my expression into something more neutral, but apparently I'm not as good at hiding my feelings as I thought.
"She offered to keep you company while I'm at work." His tone is careful, like he's testing the waters. "You don't have to hang out with her if you don't want to."
"No, it's fine." I force a smile that feels brittle around the edges. I have a feeling I'm not supposed to be left alone anyway. "It'll be nice to have company."
Nash doesn't look convinced. He sets his mug down and takes a step closer, those blue eyes searching my face with an intensity that makes my stomach flutter.
"Eve." His voice is gentle but firm. "Are you sure you're okay with this?"
I want to tell him the truth—that the thought of spending hours alone with Morgan makes my skin crawl with inexplicable jealousy. That every time I see her, I'm filled with emotions I can't understand or control. That she makes me feel small and inadequate in ways that don't make sense.
But I can't say any of that without sounding completely unhinged. Mostly because I'm not sure why I feel that way.
"I'm fine," I lie, stirring my cereal with unnecessary force. "Really."
Nash doesn't move for a long moment, and I can feel him watching me. When I finally glance up, there's something almost pained in his expression.
"If everything doesn't feel right, you can call me," he says quietly. "My shift doesn't start until noon, so I won't be far."
The concern in his voice makes my chest tight. "Nash, I'm fine. It's probably just those mood swings the doctor mentioned. You know how head injuries can mess with emotions."
It's a convenient excuse, and technically not a lie. The doctor did warn me about mood swings and irritability as my brain heals. Nash clearly knows this too, because some of the tension leaves his shoulders.
"Right," he says, but he still doesn't look entirely convinced. "Just... call if you need anything."
He lingers for another moment, like he wants to say something else, then he heads for his room to finish getting dressed.
I sit there for a while, staring at my soggy cereal and trying to figure out why the prospect of spending time with Morgan fills me with such dread. She's been nothing but nice to me. Generous, even. Any reasonable person would be grateful for her company.
But I'm not feeling particularly reasonable these days.
Just as Nash is leaving, Morgan arrives, carrying what looks like enough takeout containers to feed a small army. She's dressed in dark jeans and an oversized sweater, her hair pulled back in a messy bun that somehow manages to look effortlessly perfect.
"I brought sustenance," she announces, setting the bags down on the kitchen counter with a grin. "Thai food, because hospital food probably has you dying for something decent."
Despite myself, I have to admit the smell is incredible. My stomach actually growls in response, which makes Morgan laugh.
"See? I know what I'm doing." She starts unpacking containers with practiced efficiency. "Nash said you might not be eating much, so I got a variety. Pad thai, green curry, some of those spring rolls that are basically crack in edible form."
She moves around the kitchen like she owns the place, knowing exactly where to find plates and utensils without having to ask. The casual familiarity stings more than it should.
"You really don't have to babysit me," I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. "I'm perfectly capable of being alone for a few hours."
Morgan pauses in her unpacking and gives me a look that's equal parts amused and knowing. "Who says I'm babysitting? Maybe I just wanted an excuse to eat Thai food and watch terrible Christmas movies."
She flops down on the couch with theatrical flair, grabbing the remote and starting to flip through channels. Sure enough, every station seems to be running some kind of holiday programming.
"Seriously, what is it with December?" she mutters, pausing on what looks like a movie about a man who owns a Christmas tree farm. "It's like the entire entertainment industry has a collective sugar coma for a month."
Despite my best efforts to stay wary, I find myself relaxing slightly. There's something infectious about Morgan's easy confidence, the way she fills a space without demanding attention.
"Maybe people just like the escapism," I suggest, settling onto the other end of the couch with a plate of pad thai that actually tastes incredible.
"Or maybe they like torturing themselves with unrealistic expectations about family togetherness and holiday magic," Morgan counters, but there's no real cynicism in her voice.
"Don't get me wrong, I'm not completely heartless.
I just think most Christmas movies exist in an alternate universe where everyone's problems can be solved with hot chocolate and strategically placed mistletoe. "
I laugh before I can stop myself, and Morgan's grin widens in response.
"There we go," she says approvingly. "Nash said you've been pretty quiet since the accident. It's good to see you smile."
The mention of Nash makes my stomach clench, but not in the unpleasant way I was expecting. Instead, I find myself curious about what else he might have said about me.
"He talks about me?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
Morgan's expression shifts slightly, becoming more thoughtful. "Sometimes. He's worried about you."
"He doesn't need to be," I say, but it feels automatic. Like maybe I'm a people pleaser all the time.
"Yeah, that's what he said you'd say." Morgan takes a bite of spring roll and gives me a sideways look. "You know, for someone who doesn't remember much, you're pretty predictable."
The comment stings more than it should. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing bad," Morgan says quickly, holding up her hands in a placating gesture. "Just that some things don't change, I guess. Memory or no memory."
There it is again—that suggestion that I should remember something important about myself, about my relationship with Nash, about the person I used to be. It's frustrating in a way that makes my head pound.
We eat in relative silence for a while, the ridiculous Christmas movie providing background noise. The woman on screen is now falling in love with the ruggedly handsome tree farm owner, because of course she is.
"Can I ask you something?" I finally say, setting down my chopsticks.
Morgan mutes the TV and turns to face me fully, her expression open and expectant. "Shoot."
"What's the deal with you and Nash?"
The question comes out more blunt than I intended, but Morgan doesn't seem offended. If anything, she looks amused.
"The deal?"
"You two have this... dynamic. You've lived here. You're obviously close. And yesterday, I got the feeling there was a lot of subtext I wasn't picking up on."
Morgan is quiet for a moment, her dark eyes studying my face with an intensity that makes me want to fidget. Then she smiles, and it's softer than any expression I've seen from her so far.
"Nash saved my life," she says simply. "When I was fourteen and had nowhere else to go, he gave me a home. Kept me safe when no one else would."
The words surprise me. Out of all the things, I hadn't expected that. Fourteen. She was a child when Nash took her in, which means their relationship isn't romantic—it's something deeper and more complicated than that.
"He was nineteen," Morgan continues, like she can read my thoughts. "Barely an adult himself, working as a CNA while going to school. But he saw a scared kid who needed help, and he didn't walk away."
There's such fondness in her voice, such genuine affection, that my earlier jealousy starts to feel petty and misplaced. This isn't romantic history—this is family.
"That's... incredible," I manage, trying to process this new information about Nash. "That was very kind of him."
"He's like that," Morgan agrees, but there's something complex in her expression. "Even if he doesn't think so."
The phrasing is odd, like she's trying to tell me something without actually saying it. But before I can ask what she means, she's grabbing the remote again.
"Were you two ever..." I trail off, not sure how to finish the question without sounding like a jealous idiot.
Morgan's nose wrinkles in genuine disgust. "God, no. Never. That would be like... ugh, no. Nash is family, not romantic material."
The relief that floods through me is embarrassing in its intensity. "Oh."
"Besides," Morgan continues with a sly grin, "I've got my hands full with my boyfriend. Antonio's the jealous type, so adding Nash to the mix would probably result in bloodshed."
She says it like she's joking, but there's something in her eyes that suggests she might not be entirely kidding.
"What about you?" Morgan asks, settling back against the couch cushions with a look of barely contained mischief. "Got a crush on our boy Nash?"
"I—what? No." The denial comes out too fast and too defensive, which only makes Morgan's grin wider.
"I mean, he's handsome," I add reluctantly, because denying that would be ridiculous. Nash is objectively gorgeous in that all-American way that probably makes half the women in the city swoon.
Morgan chuckles, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "He is pretty easy on the eyes."
"He's also a good guy," I continue, trying to steer the conversation away from my obvious attraction to him. "Patient and sweet. Not everyone would take in a stranger with memory loss."
"He has a good heart," Morgan says, and again there's that weighted quality to her words. "It's good to remember that."
I want to ask what she means, why she keeps emphasizing Nash's goodness like it's something I might forget or doubt. But before I can form the question, Morgan is unmuting the TV and reaching for another container of food.
"Okay, enough heavy talk," she declares. "We're going to order dessert, watch terrible movies, and pretend that Christmas magic is real for a few hours."
She pulls out her phone and starts scrolling through what looks like a delivery app, muttering about the merits of various dessert options.
Despite myself, I find my guard starting to drop.
There's something genuinely warm about Morgan when she's not being mysterious or intense.
She's funny and easy to talk to, and she clearly cares about Nash in a way that has nothing to do with romance.
Maybe spending the afternoon with her won't be so bad after all.
"What do you think?" Morgan asks, holding up her phone so I can see the screen. "Chocolate cake or ice cream? Or are you feeling adventurous enough for both?"
I find myself smiling—really smiling—for the first time since I woke up in that hospital bed. "Both sounds perfect."