18. Nash
NASH
The vent above my bed has twenty-seven slates.
I know because I've counted them four times since I laid down two hours ago, tracing the spaces between them in the dim light filtering through my blinds.
Sleep feels impossible when my mind won't stop churning, replaying the moment Eve's face changed when she remembered our first meeting.
You called me sweetheart. But not in a nice way.
Christ. Even at eight years old, I was already finding ways to hurt her.
I roll onto my side, punching the pillow into a different shape like that might somehow make the thoughts stop.
But they don't stop. They never do when it comes to Eve Turner.
She's been a constant in my head for over twenty years—sometimes a whisper, sometimes a roar, but always there.
Always reminding me of who I used to be and who I could never quite become.
The thing is, I know exactly what I am. I've never had any illusions about that.
I'm the guy who takes bribes to look the other way when criminals kill each other.
I'm the guy who helped raise a girl into someone who could put a knife between a man's ribs without flinching.
I'm the guy who lets people die for money because I tell myself they probably deserve it anyway.
I'm not good. I've never been good.
And Eve? Eve has always been everything I'm not.
Even as a seven-year-old new in Wintervale, she radiated this kind of inherent goodness that made everyone around her want to be better.
She volunteered at the church, helped her classmates with homework, never said a cruel word about anyone even when they deserved it.
She was the girl who brought flowers to Mrs. Henderson when her husband died, who stayed after school to help clean the classrooms, who smiled at everyone like they mattered.
I used to watch her sometimes, from across the cafeteria or the playground, and wonder what it would feel like to be someone she could look at without that carefully polite distance in her eyes.
Someone she might actually want to be around instead of someone she had to tolerate because we lived in the same small town.
But I was never that someone. I was the kid who pulled her hair and called her names because the alternative—admitting how much I wanted her attention—felt like handing her a weapon.
I was the teenager who kissed her and then walked away because staying felt too much like believing I deserved something that good.
I was the nineteen-year-old who made love to her like she was everything I'd ever wanted and then watched her run because I couldn't find the words to make her stay.
I was the twenty-four-year-old who let her walk away in New York because I thought she deserved better than someone like me.
And here I am, twenty-nine years old and still the same fucking coward, just with better reasons to justify it.
The rational part of my brain—the part that still remembers what it felt like to want to be a doctor, to save lives instead of letting them slip away for money—knows I should call her parents tomorrow.
Should find this mysterious fiancé and get Eve back to her real life where she belongs.
She's vulnerable right now, confused and lost and trusting me in a way she never would if she remembered who I really am.
Taking advantage of that makes me exactly the kind of person I've always been afraid I was.
But then I think about the way she looked at me tonight when I knelt in front of her, concerned and gentle like I actually gave a damn about her wellbeing.
For just a moment, before the memory hit her, she looked at me like I might be someone worth trusting.
Someone who could take care of her instead of someone she needed protection from.
And God help me, I want that. I want to be the person she sees when she doesn't remember all the ways I've failed her. I want to be the one she turns to when she's scared, the one who makes her feel safe instead of the one who makes her want to run.
I've spent twenty-one years wanting Eve Turner and telling myself I can't have her. Twenty-one years of watching from a distance and convincing myself it's for her own good. Twenty-one years of being noble and self-sacrificing and completely fucking miserable.
I don't have the strength to do it again.
Maybe that makes me selfish. Maybe it makes me the exact kind of monster I've always suspected I was.
But I've let her go three times now—when I was fifteen and too scared to fight for her, when I was nineteen and too proud to beg her to stay, when I was twenty-four and too convinced she deserved better to chase after her.
I can't do it a fourth time. I physically cannot make myself walk away from her again, not when she's here and safe and looking at me like I might actually matter.
The smart thing would be to put distance between us.
Set her up in a hotel, maybe, or track down one of her friends in the city.
Give her space to remember who she is without my influence clouding everything.
But the thought of letting her wake up somewhere else, confused and alone, makes something violent twist in my chest.
No one will protect her like I will. No one will care about her safety the way I do.
That fiancé of hers hasn't even called hospitals looking for her, hasn't filed a missing person's report as far as I know.
What kind of man lets the woman he's supposed to marry just disappear without turning the world upside down to find her?
A man who doesn't deserve her. A man who doesn't understand what he has.
I understand exactly what I have. I understand that Eve Turner is the only thing I've ever wanted that might actually be worth the cost of my soul. And maybe that makes me a bastard, but at least I'm an honest bastard.
And even if she remembered something about us, even if she seems to be a little more wary, I still have more of a chance with her now than I ever have. And it's left me at a crossroads.
Tomorrow I'll deal with whatever information my mom manages to dig up about Eve's fiancé. Tomorrow I'll figure out how to navigate this impossible situation I've created. Tomorrow I'll?—
A sound from the next room cuts through my thoughts like a blade. Soft at first, barely audible through the thin walls, but unmistakably distressed. A whimper, maybe, or a muffled word. Then it comes again, clearer this time, and I recognize Eve's voice.
I'm out of bed before my brain fully processes the decision, bare feet hitting the cold hardwood as I pad toward her room. The sounds are coming more frequently now—broken words and gasps that make my chest tighten with something protective and fierce.
Her door is slightly ajar, and I can see her in the pale light from the street lamp outside.
She's tangled in the sheets, her body twisting like she's trying to escape something only she can see.
Her face is scrunched in distress, a sheen of sweat visible on her forehead despite the cool temperature of the apartment.
"No," she mumbles, the word thick with sleep and fear. "Please, I can't... don't..."
Whatever she's dreaming about—whatever memory her damaged brain is trying to process—it's hurting her. And I can't stand here and do nothing while she suffers. I've never been good at doing what's right with Eve, and I'm not sure I'll ever be able to. But I have to protect her.
I push the door open wider and step into the room, my voice soft in the darkness. "Eve? Sweetheart, wake up."
She doesn't respond, just continues to toss and turn, her breathing coming in sharp, shallow gasps. Her hands are fisted in the sheets, knuckles white with the force of her grip. Whatever she's seeing in her dream, it has her completely caught.
"Eve." I move closer to the bed, careful not to startle her. "It's just a dream. You're safe."
Still nothing. If anything, she seems to be getting more agitated, her movements becoming more frantic. A broken sob escapes her lips, and it tears something open in my chest.
I can't watch this anymore.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. Very gently, I reach out and touch her shoulder, just the lightest pressure of my fingers against her skin.
"Eve, come back to me. Whatever you're seeing, it's not real. You're here with me, and you're safe."
She jerks at the contact, her eyes flying open, wide and unfocused and filled with terror. For a moment she stares at me like she doesn't recognize me at all, and I wonder if I've made things worse somehow.
"Nash?" Her voice is small, confused. She sits up slowly, wincing as the movement pulls at her injured ribs. Her hair is messed from tossing and turning, dark curls sticking to her damp forehead. "What... what time is it?"
"A little after two." I keep my voice low, soothing. "You were having a nightmare, I think. A bad one, from the sound of it."
She looks around the room like she's trying to orient herself, her breathing still quick and shallow. When her eyes come back to mine, there's something raw and vulnerable in them that makes my chest ache.
"I don't remember what it was about," she says quietly. "But it felt... real. Like it already happened."
Maybe it did. Maybe her subconscious is trying to process something from her past, some trauma that her waking mind can't quite access yet. The thought that she might be reliving something painful makes me want to hunt down whoever hurt her and return the favor.
"Dreams can feel that way sometimes," I say instead. "Especially when your brain is still healing."
She nods, but I can see the lingering fear in her eyes, the way her hands are still trembling slightly.
She looks so small sitting there in her cozy pajamas, a little matching top and shorts set with peppermints and candy canes, so fragile and lost. Everything in me wants to gather her up and hold her until the fear goes away.