25. Eve
EVE
Ipress my back against the guest room door, sliding down until I'm sitting on the floor with my knees pulled to my chest. My head throbs with each heartbeat, but it's not just the physical pain anymore. It's the weight of everything crashing down on me at once.
The memories hit like a sledgehammer—years of them, all tangled together in a mess of emotions I can't sort through.
Nash at eight years old, calling me sweetheart with that cruel twist to his mouth.
Nash at twelve, staring at me on the ferris wheel before snapping at me like I'd done something wrong just by existing.
Nash at fifteen, kissing me in those woods and then telling me it was just to shut me up.
And Nash at nineteen, making love to me on Christmas break before I ran away like a coward.
My fingers dig into my knees as the pain of that night washes over me fresh as blood.
I can still feel his hands on my skin, still hear the way he called me his good girl while he moved inside me.
The way he looked at me after—like I was something precious, something worth keeping.
And then I destroyed it all by telling him it meant nothing.
But it meant everything. God, it meant everything.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the tears that are threatening to spill over.
All these years I've carried that night with me, the memory of how right it felt to be with him, how perfectly we fit together.
And then I went to New York to find him and saw Morgan answer his door, and I assumed...
I assumed he'd moved on. Found someone better. Someone who wouldn't run away from him.
The voices from the living room are muffled through the door, but I can hear the serious tone of their conversation.
Morgan's voice is sharp and professional, Nash's rougher with what sounds like anger.
They're talking about something important, something that has nothing to do with the Christmas decorations or ice skating or the way he held just a day ago.
My body still hums with the memory of his fingers inside me, the way he made me come apart in his arms before pulling away like he was doing something wrong. But how can it be wrong when it feels so right? When every cell in my body recognizes his touch like coming home?
Except I don't know what home is anymore.
The last seven years are a complete blank, and I'm not sure if there's someone out there for me.
The last I remember, I was with Ethan, working for my father, trying to figure out my life.
A whole life I can't remember, filled with choices I can't understand.
But I remember Nash. I remember every cruel word, every moment of kindness, every time he pushed me away just when I thought we might have something real.
I remember loving him when I was too young to know better.
I remember hating him for making me love him.
And now? Now I don't know what to feel. He's been taking care of me, gentle and patient in ways the Nash from my memories never was.
He looks at me like I'm something fragile and precious, something worth protecting.
But underneath all that gentleness, I can still see the sharp edges, the darkness that always lurked beneath his golden-boy surface.
The worst part is how much I want him. Even angry, even confused, even with my head pounding and my heart breaking—I want him. I've always wanted him, from the time I was seven years old and he called me sweetheart with that mean little smile. Even when I hated him, I wanted him.
What does that say about me?
A soft knock on the door interrupts my spiral of self-recrimination. "Eve?" Nash's voice is careful, cautious. "Can I come in?"
I wipe my eyes quickly, even though I know he'll be able to tell I've been crying. "Yes."
The door opens and he steps inside, carrying a tray with a bowl of soup and a mug of tea.
He's changed out of his jacket into a soft gray henley that clings to his shoulders and chest in ways that make my mouth go dry.
Even upset and confused, my body responds to him like it's been programmed to want him.
He sets the tray on the nightstand and sits on the edge of the bed, leaving careful space between us. His ocean-blue eyes search my face, taking in every detail like he's trying to read my thoughts.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks quietly.
I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "I remember everything."
He pauses, and I can see a flash of fear. "Everything?"
"All of it." I swallow hard. "I remember you being cruel to me for most of our childhood.
I remember you dancing with me, showing up at bonfires to bother me, never letting me end up alone at parties or dances.
I remember…" My heart is pounding. "I remember when you made love to me and I told you it meant nothing. "
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't look away. "That's good. That you remember."
"Is it?" I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
"Because I've never felt more confused. I remember everything up until the last time I saw you in New York.
Everything else—the last seven years—it's all gone.
But you? God, Nash, I remember every single thing you ever said to me, every time you looked at me like I was some kind of inconvenience and the times that you've looked at me like I was more. "
He nods slowly, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. "I can see how it's confusing."
"Yes." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "Because the Nash I remember would have left me in that hospital bed. He would have called my parents and walked away because that's what he always did. He always walked away."
Something flickers across his face—pain, maybe, or regret. "You're right. That version of me would have."
"So why didn't you?"
He's quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on his hands. When he finally looks up, there's something raw and vulnerable in his expression that I've never seen before.
"Are you leaving?" he asks instead of answering. "Now that you remember?"
The question catches me off guard. "Do you want me to?"
"No." The word comes out fierce, immediate. "But I figured you'd want to get as far away from me as possible. After everything I put you through. Now that you remember how much you hate me."
I study his face, looking for signs of the boy who used to torment me, who used to push me away just when I thought we might have something real. But all I see is a man who looks like he's waiting for me to deliver a killing blow.
"Why, Nash?" I ask again. Because I don't know if I'm leaving and I think this would tell me if I'm being honest. "Why would you do all of this for me?"
He sighs, running a hand through his tousled hair. "Because I always cared about you, Eve. Even when I was being an asshole, even when I was pushing you away—especially then. I just had a bad habit of shoving everyone away because I knew I wasn't good enough for you."
My chest tightens at his words, but not in a good way. "So you decided what was best for me."
"Yes."
"You made sure I stayed away from you because I was too good." The last words come out bitter, sharp with years of frustration.
"Yes." He sighs, running his hands through his hair.
"I knew it the second I saw you, Eve. You were this sweet girl who has this bright light and I had no business being around you.
I was angry and confused, lost and sometimes I felt forgotten.
I would have taken you down with me." His voice drops to a soft admission.
"But I couldn't keep away, even when I knew I should.
When I knew you deserved so much better. "
I stand up abruptly, anger flaring hot and bright in my chest. "Don't you dare," I say, pointing a finger at him.
"Don't you dare call me good or sweet like it's some kind of insult or excuse.
You've been doing that my whole life, Nash.
Good girl. Too good. Good girls don't do this, good girls don't want that.
I'm so sick of you using it as a weapon against me. "
He blinks, surprised by my vehemence. "Eve?—"
"No." I pace to the window and back, my hands clenched into fists. "You don't get to decide what's good for me. You don't get to make choices about my life because you think you know what I can handle. That's for me to decide."
He stands too, his height forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "You're right."
"I—what?"
"You're right," he repeats, stepping closer. "I've been making decisions for you, about you, without asking what you wanted. I've been doing it since we were kids."
The fight goes out of me as suddenly as it flared, leaving me feeling hollow and exhausted.
"I had the biggest crush on you when I was little," I whisper.
"Despite everything, despite how mean you could be, I really cared about you.
Do you know how that felt? To want someone who looked at you like you were an inconvenience? "
His face crumples slightly. "Eve..."
"And then that night when you came back for Christmas. God, Nash, that night was—" I swallow hard, the memory still so vivid it makes my skin burn. "It was everything I'd ever wanted, and you looked at me like you felt the same way. Like maybe you'd been waiting for it too."
"I had been," he says quietly. "For years."
"But then I ruined it." My voice cracks. "I got scared and I ran and I told you it meant nothing because I was eighteen and stupid and I didn't know how to handle feeling that much." I shake my head. "I was so scared that you were just going to reject me after, and I never would have survived."
"You didn't ruin anything." He takes another step closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. "I let you go. I should have fought for you then, should have told you how I felt instead of letting you believe I didn't care."
I look up at him, this man who's both a stranger and the person I've known longest in the world.
His face is different than I remember—harder, more defined, with lines around his eyes that speak of years I can't recall.
But his eyes are the same startling blue, the same eyes that have haunted my dreams for a decade.
"I don't understand you," I whisper. "I don't understand why you're being so kind to me now when you spent years pushing me away."
"Because I'm done being an idiot," he says simply. "I'm done pretending I don't want you, done convincing myself you're better off without me. Maybe you are, but that's your choice to make, not mine."
The space between us feels charged, electric. Every breath draws me closer to him, like gravity has shifted and he's become my center point. I can see the exact moment his restraint starts to crack, the way his pupils dilate and his breathing deepens.
"Nash," I breathe.
"Tell me to leave," he says roughly. "Tell me to go and I will."
Instead, I close the distance between us, placing my hands flat against his chest. His heart is racing beneath my palms, matching the frantic rhythm of my own. "I don't want you to leave. I've never wanted you to leave."
Something breaks in his expression, all that careful control shattering like glass. His hands come up to frame my face, thumbs stroking across my cheekbones like he's memorizing the shape of me.
"I've wanted you for so long," he whispers against my forehead. "So goddamn long."
I rise up on my toes, bringing my mouth closer to his. "Then stop talking and kiss me."
He doesn't need to be told twice. His mouth crashes against mine with a desperation that steals my breath, years of wanting poured into the connection of our lips.
It's nothing like that kiss in the woods when we were teenagers—that was hot and angry and over too fast. This is hungry and urgent and deep, like he's trying to make up for every moment we've lost.
And just like that one, it's consuming in a way that no one else's kiss ever has been.
I thread my fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, and he groans into my mouth.
The sound sends heat racing through my veins, pooling low in my belly.
I want more, need more. I want to feel his hands on my skin, want to know if this version of Nash will be as generous and thorough as he was that night ten years ago.
Without breaking the kiss, I guide him backward until his legs hit the bed, then push him down to sit on the edge. He looks up at me with those blazing blue eyes, his breathing ragged, his hands gripping the comforter like he's trying to keep himself from reaching for me.
"Eve," he starts, but I cut him off by climbing onto his lap, straddling his thighs.
The position brings us flush together, and I can feel exactly how much he wants me through the thin cotton of my pajama pants. He sucks in a sharp breath when I settle against him, his hands coming up to grip my hips almost involuntarily.
"Is this what you want?" I ask, rolling my hips against him in a slow, deliberate movement that makes his eyes flutter closed.
"Christ, yes," he breathes. "But I know I don't des?—"
"Stop it," I snap. We do have so much to sort through, so much hurt to recover from. But I don't want to talk about it now. Not when he's looking at me like I'm something miraculous, something worth fighting for. "I want you, Nash. I've been sure of that since I was eighteen years old."
That seems to be the permission he was waiting for. His mouth finds mine again, hungrier this time, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that makes me moan. His hands slide up my back, slipping under the hem of my shirt to trace patterns against my bare skin that make me shiver.
I can taste the mint of his toothpaste, can smell the clean scent of his soap mixed with something that's uniquely him.
Every sense is flooded with Nash, and it's exactly what I need—to be overwhelmed by him, to forget about fiancés I can't remember and lives I can't recall and focus on this moment, this choice that's entirely mine.
His mouth moves to my neck, pressing hot kisses along the column of my throat that make me arch against him. "I've missed you, sweetheart," he murmurs against my skin. "Every day, I've missed you."
The words break something open in my chest, years of hurt and longing spilling out like water through a cracked dam. "I missed you too," I whisper, and it's the truest thing I've ever said.