Chapter 21
The moment we’re inside Eve's apartment, she’s moving with purpose—but there’s something off about it. Something forced.
“Sit,” she says, her hand on my arm, guiding me toward the couch. Her grip is firmer than necessary. “Let me get ice for your hand.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Your knuckles are swelling.” She’s already halfway to the kitchen, pulling open the freezer. “I have an ice pack somewhere. Or frozen peas. Do frozen peas work? I think I read that somewhere.”
I follow her. “Eve.”
“Maybe I should make tea. Or coffee? Do you want coffee?” She’s opening cabinets now, her movements sharp and efficient, but her eyes don’t focus on anything for more than a second. “I think there’s ibuprofen in the bathroom cabinet. You should take some before the adrenaline wears off—”
“Eve.”
“—because once it does, you’re going to feel everything, and—”
I catch her wrist gently as she reaches for a mug. “Eve. Stop.” She freezes, her hand suspended mid-air. For a long moment, she just stands there, staring at my mug in the cabinet. Then she closes her eyes and takes a breath.
When she opens them again, there’s a crack in her composure that she’s trying desperately to hide. I understand then.
This is what’s breaking her. Not the confrontation with Luis.
Not watching me get arrested. It’s the fact that for once, she doesn’t have a plan.
For once, she can’t fix it with preparation and perfect execution.
Eve, who always knows exactly what to do, who commands every situation with quiet confidence, is completely adrift.
And she hates it.
I turn her around to face me, my hands on her shoulders. Her eyes meet mine, and I see something I’ve never seen in them before: uncertainty. Fear.
“We’re both okay,” I tell her. “That’s all that matters.”
She nods, but I can feel the tension thrumming through her body.
She’s holding herself together by sheer force of will, and it’s costing her.
I pull her into my arms. For a second, she resists—Eve doesn’t break down, doesn’t show weakness—but then she lets out a shaky breath and leans into me, her forehead pressing against my shoulder.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur into her hair. Her hands come up to grip my shirt, tight enough that I feel the fabric pull. We stand like that for a long moment, her breathing gradually slowing to match mine.
“We should shower,” I say quietly. “Then get some sleep. Everything else can wait.”
She nods against my shoulder but doesn't move. “You shower first,” she says, her voice muffled against my chest.
I want to argue. Want to tell her to go first so I can make sure she’s okay. But I can feel her pulling herself back together, rebuilding those walls brick by brick, and I know she needs space to do it.
“Okay,” I say, stepping back reluctantly.
She immediately busies herself, moving toward the bedroom. “I’ll get you some clothes.”
I follow her, watching as she opens the drawer that’s somehow become mine over the past few weeks. When did that happen? When did I start leaving pieces of myself in her space?
The same thoughts that had plagued me back at the restaurant return.
We’re basically living together at this point.
I don’t do relationships like this. I keep them casual.
And now, with Luis out of the picture, I can step back.
I don’t have to spend my nights here. I don’t have to come over and hang out with her. I don’t—
I don’t want to step back.
I enjoy spending time with Eve. She gets me in a way nobody else ever has. She challenges me, makes me want to work harder, be better. Working with her, spending my evenings wrapped around her—These few months have moved so fast, I didn’t even realize how empty my life was before her.
She pulls out a worn gray T-shirt and pajama pants, holding them out to me. “Here.” Our fingers brush as I take them, and I see her eyes flick to my bruised knuckles before she quickly looks away.
“Thanks,” I say softly. She nods, already turning toward her closet, putting distance between us.
I head into the bathroom and close the door. The bathroom smells like her. That subtle floral scent from her shampoo, something clean and expensive from her soap. My toothbrush sits in the holder next to hers. Blue next to pink. Another piece of me in her space.
I turn on the shower, making it as hot as I can stand, and step under the spray. The water pounds down on my shoulders, and I press my palms against the tile, letting my head drop forward.
I keep seeing Luis’s hand in Eve’s hair, keep hearing the small sound she made when he hit her, keep feeling that moment when something inside me just snapped.
I saw red. Literally. Everything tinged with this violent, pulsing crimson that narrowed my entire world down to one singular purpose: make him hurt.
I’ve never been a violent person. I don’t get in fights.
I talk things through. I’m the guy who mediates disputes between colleagues, who finds diplomatic solutions to problems. Who, at my worst, scares cheating boyfriends with a conversation and a bit of creative driving.
But tonight, if Eve hadn’t pulled me away—
My hand throbs where I split Luis’s lip. I press my other hand against my chest, feeling my heart pound beneath my palm.
I would have killed him.
The realization settles over me like ice water. I would have kept hitting him until someone physically dragged me off. Until there was nothing left of him but broken bones and blood.
Why?
I reach for the soap. The cedar scent I prefer, sitting right next to Eve’s expensive body wash on the shower shelf. Another piece of me that’s found its way into her space. Into her life.
I don't do this. I don’t leave toothbrushes at women’s apartments. I don’t keep clothes in their drawers. I’ve spent my entire adult life carefully maintaining distance, keeping things casual, never letting anyone get close enough to need me like this.
To make me feel like this.
I wash quickly, mechanically, trying not to think. Trying not to feel. But it’s impossible. Everything in this bathroom reminds me of her. Of us. Of this strange fake relationship that’s somehow become the most real thing in my life.
I turn off the water and grab a towel. One of the dark blue ones she bought after I mentioned I couldn’t tell her beige ones apart from her white ones. Such a small thing. Such a thoughtful thing.
The kind of thing people do when they care.
I dry off and pull on the clothes she gave me. The shirt is soft from multiple washings, comfortable in that way only well-worn cotton can be. I stare at my reflection in the fogged mirror. My knuckles are swollen. There’s a dark bruise forming along my jaw where Luis got one hit in.
I barely felt it at the time.
I barely feel it now.
All I can feel is this yawning chasm in my chest, this desperate need that I don’t understand and can’t name. I’ve never felt anything like this before. Never wanted to protect someone so fiercely. Never felt capable of violence just because someone hurt another person.
This isn’t supposed to happen to me. I'm the guy who doesn’t do relationships. Who keeps things light and easy and uncomplicated.
But there’s nothing light about what I’m feeling right now.
I open the bathroom door. Eve’s sitting on the edge of the bed, still in her work clothes. She’s staring at nothing, her hands folded in her lap, and there’s something so vulnerable about this picture that my chest tightens.
She looks up when I emerge, and her expression shifts. Concern replaces whatever she was feeling before.
“Your turn,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend. She nods and stands, moving past me toward the bathroom. Her fingers brush my arm as she passes, just briefly, and I feel that touch all the way to my bones.
The bathroom door closes. I hear the shower start, and I sit down on the bed where she was just sitting. The spot is still warm. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, head in my hands, trying to make sense of the chaos in my head.
The shower runs. I hear the water change pitch as she moves under the spray. I imagine her in there, washing away the night, and I have to close my eyes against the sudden fierce wave of protectiveness that crashes over me.
Minutes pass. The water shuts off. I hear the soft sounds of her moving around in there, and I force myself to breathe normally. The bathroom door opens. Eve steps out in just her robe, her hair wrapped in a towel, her face scrubbed clean of makeup. She looks effortless like this. Beautiful.
Does she have any idea how beautiful she is?
Her eyes find mine, and I see her frown. “Your hair’s not dry.”
“It’s fine.”
“Caleb.” She walks toward me, reaching up to unwrap the towel from her hair. “You’ll catch a cold.”
She shakes her damp hair out, then pauses. “Let me dry my hair first, then I’ll help you.” Before I can protest, she disappears back into the bathroom. I hear the hairdryer start, a low hum that fills the silence. I sit there on the bed, my mind still racing.
Then the hairdryer cuts off. A moment later, she emerges again, her hair dry now and falling in soft waves around her shoulders.
She’s wearing my oversized T-shirt, holding a fresh, dry towel.
She walks toward me without a word, and my legs part automatically, making space for her to step between them.
Reaching up with the towel, she gently rubs it through my hair, and I close my eyes.
My hands find her hips. It’s instinct. Muscle memory from a relationship that isn’t even real.
Except it feels real. God, it feels so real right now.