23. Nash
NASH
Iwake before dawn with my phone buzzing against the nightstand. Another shift pickup—someone called in sick. I decline it without hesitation. For the first time in months, maybe years, I'm taking a day off that isn't mandated by the department.
The apartment feels different in the early morning light, softer somehow with all of Morgan's Christmas decorations casting gentle shadows on the walls. Eve's still asleep—I can tell because there's no sound of movement from the guest room, no soft padding of feet on the hardwood floors.
Yesterday's memory is a knot in my chest I can't untangle. The way she'd ground against me, desperate and needy. The sounds she made when I touched her. How she'd fallen apart in my hands like she was made for me to break and put back together again.
And then how I'd run like a fucking coward the second it was over.
I need coffee. Coffee and something resembling a plan for how to face her this morning without making everything worse than it already is.
The coffee shop three blocks down has become my routine since moving to this neighborhood five years ago.
Giuseppe's—run by an old Italian man who makes coffee that could raise the dead and pastries that taste like his grandmother's recipes.
The kind of place where regulars don't need to order because Giuseppe already knows what they want.
"The usual, Nash?" Giuseppe calls from behind the counter when I walk in, the bell above the door chiming my arrival.
"Make it two coffees today," I say, approaching the counter. "And whatever pastries you think a woman with a sweet tooth might like."
Giuseppe's weathered face breaks into a knowing grin. "Ah, finally bringing a lady around? About time, my friend."
If only it were that simple. If only Eve were just some woman I was dating instead of the girl who's been haunting my dreams for over a decade. The girl who's currently sleeping in my spare room because someone tried to kill her and she can't remember why.
"Something like that," I mutter, watching Giuseppe select an assortment of pastries with the care of a curator choosing art for a museum. Cannoli filled with sweet ricotta. Sfogliatelle that flake apart at the first bite. Biscotti that pair perfectly with strong coffee.
"Women, they like the sweet things," Giuseppe says, arranging everything in a white bakery box tied with string. "But they also like the men who remember to bring them sweet things. You remember that."
I pay for the coffee and pastries, pocketing the change along with Giuseppe's unsolicited relationship advice. The old man means well, but he doesn't understand that my situation with Eve is far more complicated than whether or not I remember to bring her breakfast.
The walk back to my apartment gives me time to steel myself for whatever conversation is waiting for me.
Morgan mentioned that Eve remembered the winter formal, which means she's starting to piece together the disaster that was our teenage years.
The months when I was too young and too stupid to understand that following her around like a lovesick puppy was only making her more afraid of me.
When I let myself back into the apartment, it's still quiet. I set up the coffee and pastries on the kitchen counter, arranging everything in a way that looks intentional rather than like the desperate peace offering it actually is.
Twenty minutes later, I hear the soft creak of the guest room door opening, followed by the gentle shuffle of bare feet on hardwood. My entire body tenses despite my efforts to appear casual as I lean against the kitchen counter, nursing my second cup of coffee.
Eve appears in the doorway wearing one of the Christmas pajama sets Morgan brought her—soft flannel pants covered in tiny reindeer and a matching shirt that somehow makes her look both younger and more beautiful than she has any right to.
Her hair is sleep-mussed, curls forming a messy halo around her face, and there are pillow creases on her left cheek.
She looks like she belongs here, in my kitchen, wearing Christmas pajamas and blinking sleepily in the morning light. And that thought nearly flips my world upside down with its implications.
"Morning," I say, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "I got coffee. And pastries from an Italian place down the street."
Eve's warm brown eyes take in the spread on the counter, then shift to my face. There's something different in her expression today—a wariness that wasn't there before. Not quite fear, but a kind of careful assessment, like she's trying to solve a puzzle and I'm the missing piece.
"That's... thoughtful," she says, moving toward the counter with measured steps. "Thank you."
The formality in her voice makes my chest tight. Yesterday morning she was grinding against me, desperate and wanting. Now she's treating me like a polite stranger. The whiplash would be funny if it didn't hurt so much.
"It looked like you had more memories come back yesterday," I say, pouring coffee into the mug I set out for her. "How are you feeling about all that?"
Eve accepts the coffee with both hands, wrapping her fingers around the ceramic like she's trying to absorb its warmth. "A lot of it doesn't seem to make sense," she admits, her voice soft and uncertain. "Like pieces of a puzzle that don't quite fit together."
I can imagine. Remembering fragments of our past without the context to understand them would be confusing as hell.
She probably remembers me being cruel to her without understanding why—not that the full memories will give her much answer.
Remembers the tension between us without knowing about the attraction that caused it.
I'm sure she's been hit with emotions that make no sense.
"Do you want to talk about it?" The question comes out rougher than I intended, but I force myself to continue. "I'll answer any questions you have. About our past, about what happened between us. Whatever you want to know."
It's a dangerous offer, one that could destroy whatever fragile peace we've managed to build. But Eve deserves the truth, even if it hurts both of us. Especially after what happened yesterday morning, after I touched her and then ran away like a coward.
She studies my face for a long moment, her brown eyes searching for something I'm not sure I can give her. I can see her weighing the offer, considering whether she wants to open that particular can of worms.
Finally, she shakes her head. "I need time to sort it out first," she says, taking a sip of her coffee. "To figure out what I remember and what I'm just... feeling."
Relief floods through me so suddenly I almost stagger. I hate that I feel relieved—hate that I'm grateful for more time before I have to explain all the ways I failed her. But I am. I'm not ready to watch her face change when she learns the truth about what kind of man I really am.
"That's fair," I say, nodding like her decision doesn't affect me one way or the other. "Whenever you're ready."
Eve's shoulders relax slightly, some of the wariness fading from her expression. She takes another sip of coffee, then eyes the pastry box with interest.
"What did you get?" she asks, moving closer to peer inside the box.
"Giuseppe's finest," I say, lifting the lid to reveal the assortment of Italian pastries. "Figured you might have a sweet tooth." Because she always does.
Her face lights up at the sight of the cannoli, a genuine smile replacing the careful neutrality she's been wearing. "Oh my god, is that ricotta?"
"Fresh made this morning," I confirm, watching her expression brighten. "Giuseppe's grandmother's recipe, or so he claims."
"I love ricotta," Eve says, reaching for one of the cannoli with the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas morning. "I can't remember the last time I had a good cannoli."
I doubt she can remember much about food preferences either, but I don't point that out. Instead, I watch her take her first bite, the way her eyes close in appreciation, the small sound of pleasure she makes as the sweet filling hits her tongue.
It's almost enough to make me forget about yesterday morning. Almost.
"Good?" I ask, though her expression already answers the question.
"Amazing," she says, licking a bit of ricotta from her lower lip. "Thank you for this. For... all of this."
The gratitude in her voice makes my chest ache. She shouldn't be thanking me for basic human decency, shouldn't be surprised that I brought her coffee and pastries. But then again, based on what she remembers of our past, maybe kindness from me is surprising.
"Do you want to get out of the apartment today?" I ask impulsively. "You've been cooped up in here for days. Might be good to get some fresh air."
Eve pauses mid-bite, considering the offer. I can see her weighing the risks, probably wondering if spending time alone with me is a good idea given the complicated mess of emotions swirling between us.
"Where would we go?" she asks finally.
"Wherever you want," I say, though I already have ideas. "You don't really remember the city, right? I could show you around. My favorite places."
It's a terrible idea, probably. Spending the day playing tour guide to the woman I've been in love with for half my life, pretending we're just friends when yesterday I had my fingers inside her.
But I want to see her smile again, want to watch her experience things for the first time without the weight of our shared history pressing down on both of us.
"Okay," Eve says, and the simple word hits me like a gift I don't deserve. "I'd like that."
An hour later, we're walking down Fifth Avenue bundled in winter coats, our breath forming small clouds in the crisp December air. Eve's wearing the wool coat Morgan brought her—deep green that brings out the warmth in her brown eyes—and a knitted hat that makes her look impossibly good.