27. Nash
NASH
Iwake slowly, awareness creeping in like dawn through curtains.
The first thing I register is warmth—soft, feminine warmth pressed against my side.
The second is the scent of Eve's hair tickling my nose, that familiar mix of coconut shampoo and something uniquely her that's haunted my dreams for years.
My arm tightens around her instinctively, and for a moment I'm terrified this is just another one of those dreams that's tortured me since she left. The ones where I hold her like this, where she looks at me with love instead of hurt, where I wake up aching and empty-handed.
But the weight of her body is real. The steady rhythm of her breathing against my chest is real. The way her fingers are curled loosely against my ribs, like even in sleep she needs to touch me—that's real too.
Eve. In my bed. In my arms. Remembering everything and still choosing to stay.
Christ, I can barely wrap my mind around it.
Twenty years. Twenty fucking years of wanting her, pushing her away, convincing myself I was protecting her from the darkness in me.
Twenty years of watching her smile at other people, touch other people, be happy with anyone but me because I was too much of a coward to believe I could be worthy of her.
And now she's here, naked and warm and mine, and I still can't quite believe it's real.
I study her face in the pale morning light filtering through my bedroom windows.
She looks younger in sleep, the stress lines around her eyes smoothed away.
Her curls are a wild halo against my pillow—our pillow now, I guess—and there's the faintest smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
Like even unconscious, she knows she's exactly where she belongs.
The memory of last night crashes through me in waves. The way she felt beneath me, around me. The sounds she made when I touched her. The absolute trust in her eyes when she told me she forgave me, like those words didn't just rearrange my entire fucking world.
I've had sex before. Plenty of it, actually, though never anything that mattered. But what happened between us last night wasn't just sex. It was reclaiming something that should have been mine from the beginning. It was coming home after decades of wandering in the wilderness.
My fingers trace the curve of her shoulder blade, and she stirs slightly, pressing closer to my warmth.
The movement makes the sheet slip lower, revealing the elegant line of her spine, the soft curve of her hip.
She's so beautiful it actually hurts to look at her sometimes.
Always has been, even when she was that shy little girl hiding behind her parents at church functions.
But she's not that little girl anymore. She's a woman—my woman, if last night meant what I think it did—and the thought makes something possessive and fierce curl through my chest. No one else gets to see her like this. No one else gets to touch her, hold her, make her come apart with pleasure.
Especially not that bastard fiancé of hers.
The thought of Ethan makes my jaw clench involuntarily.
I should tell her. Should explain about the research Morgan and Antonio did, about the embezzlement and the possibility that her accident wasn't really an accident.
Should mention that she has a life she can't remember, a man who put a ring on her finger.
But the selfish part of me—the part that's been starving for her touch for two decades—wants to keep this bubble of perfection intact for just a little while longer.
She's safe here. Happy here. And when she finds out about Ethan, about the complications waiting for her in that lost year...
Well, I'll deal with that when it happens.
Right now, all that matters is the woman in my arms and the fact that she chose me. Chose this. Chose us, despite everything I put her through.
Eve shifts again, this time turning more fully into me.
One of her legs slides between mine, and the contact makes my cock twitch with interest despite everything we did last night.
Her skin is silk against mine, warm and inviting, and I have to close my eyes and count to ten to keep from waking her up by pressing my suddenly very awake dick against her thigh.
Easy, Callahan. She needs rest. She's still recovering from a head injury, and you fucked her pretty thoroughly last night. Let her sleep.
But even as I tell myself that, my hand finds the curve of her waist, thumb stroking the soft skin there. I can't help myself. After years of forcing myself not to touch her, the freedom to do so now is intoxicating. Every caress feels stolen, precious.
She makes a soft sound in her sleep, something between a sigh and a purr, and burrows deeper into my embrace. The trust implicit in the gesture—the way she seeks me out even unconsciously—makes my chest tight with emotions I don't have names for.
This is what I wanted. What I've always wanted. Not just the physical connection, though fuck knows that's incredible, but this intimacy. This quiet domestic peace. The knowledge that she's mine to protect, mine to care for, mine to wake up next to every morning for the rest of our lives.
If she'll have me, that is.
Because despite everything that happened last night, despite the way she said my name when she came, despite the forgiveness in her voice when she absolved me of twenty years of mistakes—I still can't quite believe this is permanent.
Can't quite trust that she won't wake up and realize she's made a terrible mistake.
She's too good for me. Always has been. Sweet where I'm bitter, kind where I'm ruthless, light where I'm all shadows and sharp edges. The smart thing would be for her to run as far and fast as she can from the complications I bring to her life.
But she's here. She stayed. And maybe, just maybe, that means something.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand—probably a shift notification or Morgan checking in—but I ignore it. Nothing is more important than this moment, this perfect quiet morning with Eve warm and naked in my arms. The rest of the world can wait.
She stirs more purposefully this time, her breathing shifting from the deep rhythm of sleep to something lighter.
I feel the exact moment consciousness returns—the way her body tenses slightly, then relaxes when she realizes where she is.
Her fingers flex against my ribs, and she makes that soft humming sound she's always made when waking up, like she's testing her voice.
I hold my breath, waiting. This is the moment of truth. Will she pull away? Regret what happened between us? Remember all the reasons we shouldn't be together?
Instead, she tilts her head back to look at me, and the smile that spreads across her face is like sunrise after the longest night of my life.
"Good morning," she says, voice husky with sleep, and then she's stretching up to kiss me.
It's a soft kiss, gentle and sweet, but it rocks me to my foundation. There's no hesitation in it, no regret. Just Eve, choosing me again in the light of day.
When she pulls back, I search her face for any sign of doubt, any hint that she's second-guessing what happened between us. But her brown eyes are warm and clear, holding none of the guardedness I've grown used to seeing there.
"Morning, sweetheart," I manage, voice rougher than I'd like.
She doesn't seem to mind the gravel in my tone. If anything, her smile widens, and she settles more comfortably against my chest. Like she belongs there. Like this is exactly where she wants to be.
"Are you working today?" she asks, tracing lazy patterns on my chest with her fingertip.
I shake my head, not trusting my voice for a moment. The casual intimacy of the question, the assumption that she has a right to know my schedule—it's everything I've wanted and been too afraid to hope for.
"Good," she says, and there's satisfaction in her voice that makes my chest warm. "I was hoping we could spend the day together."
"Yeah?" I can't keep the hope out of my voice, don't even try. "What did you have in mind?"
She's quiet for a moment, thinking, her finger still drawing those maddening patterns on my skin. "Remember yesterday? When we were walking through the market and you mentioned getting a tree?"
I do remember. It was one of those throwaway comments, the kind of domestic fantasy I've been harboring for years but never dared voice. The idea of picking out a Christmas tree with Eve, decorating it together, creating the kind of holiday memories I never had growing up.
"You want to get a Christmas tree?" The question comes out more uncertain than I'd like, but I can't help it. This all feels too good to be true.
"I want to get our Christmas tree," she corrects, and the way she says 'our' makes my heart skip a beat.
Our tree. Our apartment. Our life.
Christ, I want that so badly it physically hurts.
"Eve," I start, but she silences me with another kiss, this one deeper, more insistent.
"Don't overthink it," she murmurs against my lips. "I know what I want, Nash. I've known for a long time."
The certainty in her voice, the lack of doubt—it's more than I deserve but exactly what I need to hear. I cup her face in my hands, memorizing the feel of her skin, the way she looks at me like I'm something precious.
"Okay," I say simply. "Let's get our tree."
Her smile is radiant, and she kisses me again before rolling out of bed with more energy than anyone should have this early in the morning.
I watch her pad naked to my dresser, unselfconscious in her nudity, and pull out one of my t-shirts.
It hangs to mid-thigh on her smaller frame, the neckline sliding off one shoulder in a way that's both innocent and incredibly sexy.
"I'm making coffee," she announces, already heading for the door. "And then we're going to have the most perfect domestic morning of our lives."