33. Eve #2
"Yes," Nash responds before I can even open my mouth. "Manhattan. We'll pay extra for them to bring it up to the third floor."
The casual way he handles the logistics, taking care of details I hadn't even thought to consider, reminds me again how different this feels from my relationship with Ethan.
Nash anticipates needs and solves problems without making it feel like a grand gesture or something I should be grateful for. He just... handles things.
By the time we've arranged delivery and paid for both the tree and the service, my cheeks are numb from the cold but my entire body feels warm with contentment. There's something deeply satisfying about choosing something together, about making decisions that will affect both of our living spaces.
"They'll be there in about two hours," Nash tells me as we head back toward the subway station. "Gives us time to grab lunch and maybe pick up some more ornaments if we need them."
"We have ornaments," I remind him. "From the Christmas market yesterday, remember? Plus whatever Morgan brought over."
"I remember. But you looked like you wanted to examine every single decoration at that market. Figured you might want to add to the collection."
He's right—I did want to examine everything.
The Christmas market had been overwhelming in the best possible way, filled with handmade ornaments and unique decorations that would be impossible to find in regular stores.
We'd bought a beautiful glass angel for the tree topper, but there had been dozens of other pieces that caught my eye.
"You don't mind?" I ask as we descend into the subway station. "I know shopping isn't exactly most guys' favorite activity."
Nash's laugh is low and warm. "Sweetheart, watching you get excited about Christmas decorations is pretty much the best entertainment I can imagine. Besides," he adds, his voice dropping to that rough tone that makes my stomach flutter, "seeing you happy makes me happy. Simple as that."
The train ride back to Manhattan passes in comfortable conversation about tree placement and decoration strategies.
Nash suggests putting it in the corner by the windows, where the lights will be visible from the street.
I agree, already mentally arranging ornaments and imagining how the space will look once everything is in place.
By the time we climb the stairs to his apartment, my anticipation has reached almost childlike levels. I haven't decorated a Christmas tree since moving out of my parents' house, and certainly never with someone who seemed as invested in the process as I am.
Nash unlocks the door and gestures for me to enter first, his hand finding the small of my back as I pass him.
The apartment looks exactly as we left it this morning, but somehow the knowledge that we'll soon have a Christmas tree in the corner makes the entire space feel different.
More festive. More like a home that two people share rather than a bachelor pad I'm temporarily occupying.
"They should be here soon," Nash says, checking his phone for the time. "Want to get the decorations organized while we wait?"
I'm already moving toward the boxes Morgan brought over, eager to see what treasures she selected for us.
Inside, I find strings of warm white lights, boxes of glass ball ornaments in silver and gold, and several packages of what appear to be handmade decorations—stars cut from sheet music, small wooden angels, delicate snowflakes that look like they were crocheted by hand.
"These are beautiful," I murmur, lifting out a particularly intricate snowflake and holding it up to catch the light. "Where did Morgan find these?"
"Probably has a guy who knows a guy," Nash replies with amusement. "Morgan has connections for everything."
I'm still examining the decorations when a knock at the door announces the arrival of our tree. Nash tips the delivery guys generously for hauling the Noble fir up three flights of stairs, and soon we're alone with our purchase.
The tree looks even more perfect in Nash's living room than it did at the lot.
He was right about the corner by the windows—the natural light makes the green needles seem to glow, and the height is exactly right for the space.
Not so tall that it overwhelms the room, but substantial enough to feel like a proper Christmas tree.
"Now for the fun part," I say, clapping my hands together with excitement.
Nash disappears into the kitchen and returns with a bottle of wine and two glasses. "Figured we might want sustenance for the decorating process."
"It's barely past noon," I point out, even as I accept the glass he offers.
"It's tree decorating. That's a special occasion worthy of wine."
I can't argue with that logic, especially when the wine is smooth and warming and Nash is looking at me like I'm the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.
We start with the lights, Nash holding steady sections of the tree while I weave the strands through the branches. It's more complicated than I expected—ensuring even coverage while avoiding gaps requires patience and frequent stepping back to assess our progress.
"Higher on that branch," I instruct, standing back to examine our work so far. "The left side needs more light."
Nash adjusts the strand obediently, his movements careful and deliberate. "Like this?"
"Perfect." I move closer to help guide the lights around a particularly dense section of branches, hyperaware of the way our bodies brush against each other as we work. "You're surprisingly good at this for someone who's never decorated a tree before."
"I'm a quick learner," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear as he reaches around me to secure a section of lights. "Especially when I have good motivation."
The double meaning in his words make heat pool low in my belly, but I force myself to focus on the task at hand. There will be time for other activities later, after we've finished creating something beautiful together.
Once the lights are in place, we move on to the ornaments. This part is pure joy—unwrapping each decoration and finding the perfect spot for it on the tree. Nash lets me direct the process, handing me ornaments and adjusting their placement according to my increasingly specific instructions.
"The gold ones need to be more evenly distributed," I explain, stepping back to assess our progress. "And we need more of the wooden angels. I want to show them off to Sarah when she visits."
Nash pauses in the act of hanging a silver ball ornament. "You're already planning for Sarah to visit?"
The question makes me realize what I've just said—that I'm thinking about Nash's apartment as a place where my niece will come to spend time, a space where my family will be welcome and comfortable. It's a level of permanence I hadn't consciously acknowledged until this moment.
"I... yes," I admit, meeting his gaze steadily. "Is that okay? I know we haven't talked about what this looks like long-term, but I can't imagine my life without Sarah in it. And I can't imagine her not being part of whatever we're building here."
Nash's expression softens into something so tender it makes my chest ache. "Of course it's okay. I want Sarah to feel welcome here. I want all the people you care about to feel welcome here."
The easy acceptance in his voice, the way he automatically includes my family in his vision of our future, makes emotion clog my throat.
Ethan always made me feel like my friends and family were an inconvenience to be tolerated rather than welcomed.
The idea that Nash not only accepts Sarah’s importance in my life but actively wants her to feel at home in his space feels like a gift I didn't know I needed.
We continue decorating in comfortable silence, occasionally pausing to sip wine or debate the placement of a particular ornament.
Nash proves to have unexpectedly strong opinions about color distribution and visual balance, approaching tree decoration with the same methodical precision he probably applies to emergency medical care.
"The glass angel goes on top," I announce when we've hung the last ornament, reaching for the beautiful piece we selected at the Christmas market yesterday.
"Allow me," Nash says, taking the angel from my hands. "I'm taller."
I watch as he carefully positions the angel at the very top of the tree, adjusting it until the wings catch the light just right. The delicate glass figure seems to crown our efforts perfectly, transforming the collection of branches and decorations into something magical.
"Step back," Nash instructs, moving to the wall switch that controls the overhead lights. "Let's see the full effect."
When he dims the room lights, our Christmas tree comes alive.
The warm white lights create a soft glow that makes every ornament sparkle, turning the corner of his living room into something from a holiday movie.
The handmade decorations add character and warmth, while the traditional glass balls provide elegance and sophistication.
It's perfect. More than perfect—it's exactly what I would have chosen if I'd been planning this moment for months instead of making it up as we went along.
"It's beautiful," I breathe, unable to keep the wonder out of my voice.
"It really is," Nash agrees, but when I glance at him, he's not looking at the tree. He's looking at me.
Before I can comment on that, he's moving toward the entertainment center, fiddling with something that turns out to be a streaming device. Soon, the familiar sounds of "White Christmas" fill the apartment, Bing Crosby's smooth voice providing the perfect soundtrack for our decorated tree.
"Classic Christmas movie?" Nash asks, settling onto the couch and patting the cushion beside him.
I curl up next to him, tucking my feet under me and leaning into his warmth. The wine has left me feeling soft and content, and the sight of our beautiful tree makes everything feel magically perfect.