33. Eve
EVE
The morning light filters through Nash's bedroom windows, casting everything in soft gold that makes the events of yesterday feel almost dreamlike.
Almost. The soreness between my thighs and the possessive weight of Nash's arm across my waist remind me that everything—the warehouse, Ethan's death, the way Nash claimed me in this bed—was very real.
I turn in his arms, studying his face in sleep.
Without the intensity that usually radiates from those blue eyes, he looks younger somehow.
Peaceful. The sharp angles of his jaw are softened by stubble, and his sandy hair falls across his forehead in a way that makes my fingers itch to brush it back.
It's strange how right this feels. How natural it is to wake up in his bed, surrounded by his scent—clean soap and something distinctly masculine that I've never been able to identify but have craved for years.
Even when I was engaged to another man, even when I convinced myself I'd moved on, some part of me was always searching for this exact feeling.
Like I'm exactly where I belong.
Nash's eyes flutter open, immediately focusing on my face with an alertness that suggests he's been awake longer than he's let on. A slow smile spreads across his lips, transforming his entire expression into something soft and content.
"Morning, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep and tinged with an affection that makes my chest warm.
"Morning." I trace the line of his collarbone with my fingertip, marveling at how different everything feels in daylight. "How long have you been awake?"
"Long enough to watch you sleep for a while." His hand slides up my spine, fingers tangling in my curls. "You make these little sounds when you dream. Did you know that?"
Heat creeps up my neck. "What kind of sounds?"
"The kind that make me want to wake you up by putting my mouth between your legs."
The casual way he says it, like he's discussing the weather, makes desire spike through me so suddenly it takes my breath away. But before I can respond, he's already rolling away from me, sitting up on the edge of the bed with his back to me.
"But we have plans today," he continues, reaching for his jeans from where they landed on the floor last night. "Tree shopping, remember?"
I do remember. Yesterday at the Christmas market, while we were examining ornaments and sipping hot chocolate, Nash mentioned that his apartment had never had a proper Christmas tree. When I expressed shock at this revelation, he'd immediately suggested we remedy the situation together.
At the time, it had felt like such a normal, domestic thing to plan.
Now, watching him pull on clothes while my body still hums with satisfaction from the night before, it feels like something much more significant.
Like we're building traditions together, creating the foundation of a life that includes both of us.
"You're really okay with getting a tree?" I ask, pulling the sheet up to cover myself as I sit up. "You seemed pretty convinced that Christmas decorations weren't your thing."
He turns to look at me over his shoulder, and the expression on his face is so tender it makes my throat tight. "I'm okay with anything that makes you happy, Eve. Besides, Morgan already started the process when she brought all those decorations over. Might as well commit fully."
The casual mention of happiness—specifically my happiness—hits me harder than it should.
Ethan never considered what would make me happy.
He made decisions based on what looked good, what his colleagues would approve of, what fit the image he wanted to project.
My actual feelings were rarely part of the equation.
But Nash talks about my happiness like it's his primary concern, like making me smile is worth any amount of effort or inconvenience on his part.
I slip out of bed and start gathering my scattered clothes, hyperaware of Nash's eyes tracking my movements. There's something possessive in his gaze that makes my skin feel too warm, like he's memorizing every inch of exposed skin for later reference.
"Stop looking at me like that," I tell him, stepping into my underwear with as much dignity as I can manage.
"Like what?"
"Like you're planning to bend me over the nearest surface."
His grin is pure sin. "That's because I am. But tree first, then bending you over surfaces."
The promise in his voice makes my knees weak, but I force myself to focus on getting dressed.
We have plans, and I've been looking forward to finding the perfect Christmas tree since he suggested it yesterday.
The fact that we'll be doing it together, creating memories that belong to both of us instead of trying to fit into someone else's vision of what our life should look like, makes even the simple act of putting on clothes feel significant.
By the time we're both dressed and have grabbed coffee and toast for breakfast, the December morning has fully arrived outside Nash's windows. The city looks crisp and bright, the kind of clear winter day that makes everything seem possible.
"Where exactly does one buy a Christmas tree in Manhattan?" I ask as we head down the stairs from his apartment. "I've never had to figure that out before."
"There's a lot in Brooklyn that Morgan told me about," Nash explains, holding the building's front door open for me. "Apparently they bring trees down from upstate and sell them right off the truck. More selection than the corner lots."
The subway ride to Brooklyn is a study in contrasts—the harsh fluorescent lighting and industrial sounds of the train car versus the soft warmth of Nash's hand wrapped around mine.
He keeps our fingers intertwined even when we have to shift positions to accommodate other passengers, like he's reluctant to break the physical connection between us.
I find myself studying his profile as we ride, noting the way he scans the car with the practiced awareness of someone who's spent years responding to emergencies. Even relaxed, there's something alert about Nash that suggests he's always ready to spring into action if needed.
It should probably be unsettling, this reminder that the man I'm falling in love with operates in a world where violence is sometimes necessary. Where people like Morgan solve problems with knives and guns, where bribes change hands to determine who lives and who dies.
Instead, it makes me feel safer. Protected. Like whatever comes our way, Nash will handle it.
The tree lot is exactly what Nash described—rows upon rows of evergreens arranged by size and type, filling a converted parking lot with the sharp, clean scent of pine and fir.
The trees range from small table-top versions to massive specimens that would require cathedral ceilings, all of them fresh and full and perfect in their own way.
"This is incredible," I breathe, turning in a slow circle to take in the sheer variety of options. "How are we supposed to choose just one?"
Nash stuffs his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, watching my excitement with an expression that's equal parts amused and tender. "Take your time. We're not in a rush."
That simple statement—take your time—hits me unexpectedly hard.
When was the last time someone encouraged me to take my time with anything?
Ethan was always checking his watch, always eager to move on to the next item on his carefully planned agenda.
Even my parents, despite their good intentions, have always been focused on efficiency and practicality rather than allowing for spontaneous joy.
But Nash stands there patiently as I wander between the rows, occasionally reaching out to test the freshness of needles or examine the shape of a particular tree.
He doesn't rush me or suggest alternatives when I spend ten minutes comparing two nearly identical Douglas firs.
He just follows behind, hands in his pockets, letting me explore at my own pace.
"What about this one?" I ask eventually, stopping in front of a seven-foot Noble fir with perfectly symmetrical branches and rich green needles that feel soft beneath my fingers.
Nash circles the tree slowly, examining it from every angle with the same thoroughness he probably applies to medical assessments. "Good needle retention," he observes seriously. "Nice shape. Strong enough to hold ornaments without drooping."
"You sound like you actually know what you're talking about."
"My mom was very particular about Christmas trees when I was a kid," he admits. "She had criteria. Height, freshness, branch strength, overall aesthetic appeal. I learned to evaluate trees before I learned to tie my shoes."
The casual mention of his childhood catches my attention. Nash rarely talks about his past, especially the parts that predate his move to New York. "She sounds like she took Christmas seriously."
"She took everything seriously. Still does." His expression softens with obvious affection. "You'd like her, I think. She's got your same determination to make everything perfect for the people she cares about."
The suggestion that I might meet his mother someday, that we're building something permanent enough to warrant family introductions, makes warmth spread through my chest. With Ethan, meeting his parents had felt like a performance evaluation—a test I needed to pass to prove my worthiness for their family name.
The idea of meeting Nash's mother feels entirely different. Like sharing pieces of ourselves with the people who matter most.
"This is the one," I decide, patting the tree's trunk with satisfaction. "It's perfect."
Nash signals to one of the lot attendants, a bearded man in a flannel shirt who approaches with the easy competence of someone who's been doing this job for years.
"Good choice," the attendant says, examining our selection with approval. "This beauty'll last through New Year's if you keep her watered. You folks need delivery?"