27. Nash #2
I can't help but grin at her enthusiasm. This is the Eve I remember from before everything got complicated—bright and determined and absolutely unstoppable when she sets her mind to something. Seeing that spark back in her eyes, knowing I'm the reason for it... fuck, it's better than any drug.
I give myself another moment to just lie here and bask in the impossible reality of my situation.
Eve Turner—the woman I've loved since I was eight years old, the woman I pushed away because I thought I wasn't good enough for her, the woman who haunts my dreams and occupies my every waking thought—is in my kitchen making us coffee like we're a real couple.
Like this is our life.
The thought sends a rush of something that might be panic through my system. This is real now. Whatever's between us, whatever this becomes—it's not just fantasy anymore. Which means I can fuck it up. Again.
But no. I'm not that scared kid anymore, convinced that everything good in my life will eventually be taken away.
I'm a grown man who's spent the last decade learning exactly what he's capable of, exactly how far he'll go to protect the people he loves.
And I love Eve Turner more than I love my own life.
I won't fuck this up. I can't. Not when she's finally mine.
The smell of brewing coffee drifts from the kitchen, along with the sound of Eve humming something under her breath.
Some Christmas song, probably—she always did love the holidays.
The domesticity of it all hits me like a physical blow.
This is what normal people have. This is what I thought I'd never get to experience.
I force myself out of bed and pull on a pair of sweatpants before following the sound of her voice.
I find her at the counter, hair still wild from sleep, swaying slightly to whatever tune is in her head as she measures coffee grounds.
The sight is so perfectly, unbearably domestic that I have to pause in the doorway just to take it in.
She notices me watching and grins over her shoulder. "What?"
"Nothing," I say, moving to stand behind her, my hands finding her waist. "Just... this. You. Here."
She leans back against my chest with a contented sigh. "Get used to it, Callahan. I'm planning on sticking around for a while."
The words are casual, teasing, but they hit me with the force of a promise. She's planning on sticking around. This isn't just about one perfect night—she wants a future with me.
I press my face into her hair, breathing her in. "Good," I murmur against her ear. "Because I'm never letting you go again."
She shivers at the words, but it's not from fear. I can feel the way her body responds to my proximity, the way she melts into my touch. Like she's been waiting for this as long as I have.
"The coffee's almost ready," she says, but makes no move to step away from my embrace.
"Let it finish," I reply, turning her in my arms so I can see her face. "I'm more interested in you right now."
She looks up at me with those warm brown eyes, and I see my own wonder reflected there. Like she can't quite believe this is real either. That after twenty years of circling each other, pushing and pulling and breaking each other's hearts, we're finally here. Finally together.
I kiss her then, pouring everything I can't say into the connection between us. She tastes like toothpaste and hope, like everything I've ever wanted and thought I could never have. When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Tree shopping," she says firmly, though her voice is unsteady. "We're going tree shopping, and then we're coming home and decorating it and being disgustingly happy together."
"Sounds perfect," I agree, because it does. Because after twenty years of complication and heartbreak and thinking I wasn't worthy of happiness, the simple pleasure of buying a Christmas tree with the woman I love sounds like everything I've ever wanted.
The coffee maker beeps, signaling that it's finished brewing, and Eve grins. "Perfect timing."
She pours us each a mug, doctoring hers with cream and sugar while I take mine black. It's such a small thing, but knowing how she likes her coffee, being able to provide it for her—it feels monumental. Like I'm finally getting to take care of her the way I've always wanted to.
We end up on the couch, Eve curled into my side while we drink our coffee and watch the city wake up outside my windows. The silence between us is comfortable, peaceful in a way that feels foreign after so many years of tension and misunderstanding.
This is what I've been missing. Not just Eve, though she's the center of everything, but this sense of rightness. Of being exactly where I'm supposed to be, with exactly the right person. Like all the broken pieces of my life have finally clicked into place.
"So," Eve says eventually, setting her empty mug on the coffee table. "Christmas tree. Are you thinking real or artificial?"
"Real," I answer without hesitation. "Always real. The apartment should smell like pine for the next three weeks."
"Good answer," she says, grinning up at me. "I was going to be very disappointed if you said artificial."
"Can't have that," I tell her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Your happiness is pretty much my only priority now."
She makes a soft sound of contentment and burrows deeper into my side. "I like the sound of that."
So do I. More than she could possibly know.