18. Nash #2
"Well, I guess I better…" It takes everything in me to take that step back. But I know I should let her get back to sleep while I go wrestle with my demons.
"Nash?" Her voice is barely above a whisper. "Would you... could you stay? Just until I fall back asleep? I know it's stupid, but I don't want to be alone right now."
The request hits me like a sucker punch to the gut. Because this is exactly what I shouldn't do. Staying here, holding her, letting myself pretend that I'm the kind of man who gets to comfort Eve Turner when she's scared—it's crossing a line that I might not be able to uncross.
If her memories come back while I'm lying next to her, if she wakes up tomorrow and remembers exactly who I am and what I've done, or even if it's days or weeks later, she'll hate me for this.
She'll see it for what it is—taking advantage of her vulnerability, using her amnesia to get something I never earned.
But she's looking at me with those wide brown eyes, and there's something desperate in her expression that I recognize. It's the same desperation I've carried for twenty-one years, the bone-deep need for someone to stay instead of walking away.
How many times have I wished for this exact scenario? How many nights have I lain awake imagining what it would feel like to hold her, to be the one she turned to when she was scared or hurt or lost? How many years have I spent wanting nothing more than the right to comfort her?
And now she's asking me to stay, and I don't have the self-control to say no. I never have when it comes to Eve Turner.
"Of course," I hear myself say. "If that's what you need."
The relief that washes over her face is worth whatever hell I'll pay for this later. She scoots over to make room for me, and I slide under the covers beside her, careful to keep some distance between us even though every instinct I have is screaming at me to pull her close.
But Eve doesn't seem interested in maintaining that distance. Almost immediately, she curls into my side, her head finding the hollow of my shoulder like it belongs there. Her arm drapes across my chest, and I can feel the steady rhythm of her breathing against my ribs.
She fits against me perfectly, like she was made for this exact spot. Like all those years of wanting her weren't just wishful thinking but some kind of cosmic inevitability.
"Thank you," she whispers against my collarbone, and the warmth of her breath on my skin sends electricity shooting through every nerve ending I have.
I wrap my arms around her carefully, one hand settling on the small of her back while the other strokes through her hair. She's so warm, so soft, and she smells like the vanilla shampoo Morgan brought over mixed with something that's purely Eve. It's intoxicating in a way that makes my head spin.
"You don't have to thank me," I murmur into her hair. "This is what you do for people you care about."
People you care about. What a pathetic understatement.
I don't just care about Eve Turner—I'm completely gone for her, have been since I was eight years old and too stupid to understand what it meant.
She's been the constant in every major decision I've made, the ghost that haunts every relationship I've tried to have, the standard by which I measure every other person who's ever tried to matter to me.
None of them ever came close.
She makes a soft sound of contentment and burrows deeper into my embrace, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning. This is torture—sweet, perfect torture that I wouldn't trade for anything in the world.
Her breathing starts to even out as she relaxes against me, the tension gradually leaving her body.
I can feel the exact moment she starts to drift off, her muscles going loose and pliant.
But I don't move, don't adjust my position or try to make myself more comfortable.
I just lie there holding her, memorizing the weight of her in my arms and the way her hair tickles my jaw.
This might be the only time I ever get to have this with her. When her memories come back—and they will come back—she'll remember all the reasons she can't stand me. She'll remember the boy who was cruel to her and the teenager who broke her heart and the man who let her walk away in New York.
She'll remember that I'm not the kind of person who gets to hold her like this.
But for now, in the darkness of this room with her soft and trusting in my arms, I can pretend that I am. I can pretend that I'm the kind of man who deserves this, who earned the right to be her safe harbor when the world feels too big and scary.
I can pretend that this isn't the cruelest kind of stealing.
Her breathing deepens, and I know she's asleep.
I should probably extract myself now, go back to my own bed and try to salvage what's left of my principles.
But I can't make myself move. Can't make myself give up this one perfect moment when Eve Turner is choosing to trust me, choosing to let me take care of her.
Twenty-one years of wanting, and this is what it comes down to—holding her while she sleeps and pretending that it means something more than opportunism and selfishness.
But God, it feels like everything. It feels like coming home after decades of wandering. It feels like the missing piece of myself that I never quite learned to live without.
I press my lips to the top of her head, just the lightest touch, and let myself have this. Whatever happens tomorrow, whatever memories come flooding back to destroy this fragile thing between us, I'll have tonight.
I'll have the memory of Eve Turner choosing me, even if it's only because she doesn't remember all the reasons she shouldn't.