4

JACKSON POV

The shower started and I forced myself to move. Clothes. Right. He needed clothes. I went to my bedroom and started digging through my drawers.

I stumbled upon some dark gray sweatpants, a black t–shirt and a Gary hoodie to match. I smiled in satisfaction as I looked back at my selection.

“These would suit him,” I muttered as I folded them carefully, thinking about how he would look on my clothes.

I left the stack outside the bathroom door then retreated to the four corners of the kitchen. “Ah—”

I had completely forgotten that the grocery bags were still by the front door. When I peeked out the door, I sighed to see them surrounded by a puddle of molten snow.

“The milk’s definitely warm now,” I picked everything up and started putting them away in the kitchen almost on auto-pilot.

Putting the cans and bags of food away helped, it made everything feel almost normal again.

My phone was on the counter, still showing no signal. Sigh. I continued putting away things when something struck me.

I had a landline!

“How could I forget something so important?”

The building was an old one and the previous tenant had kept it, and I'd never bothered to disconnect it either. I scurried over to a section in the living room where it hid under piles of books.

I picked up the receiver and my heart jumped when I received a dial tone.This was perfect, I could finally call someone—but that sinking feeling in my stomach returned.

I let out a huff of air.

Give or take, even if I was calling with the intention of evacuating him into better hands, what was I supposed to tell them?

That I witnessed a hit-and-run but couldn't identify the car, and oh before I forget, the victim healed instantly and doesn't remember his own name? They'd think I was insane. Even I was starting to think that I was insane.

I heard the shower shut off and I almost jumped out of my own skin.

I practically flew back to the kitchen and kept myself busy by making tea—chamomile tea that was apparently supposed to be calming. I was pouring the second cup when the bathroom door opened.

The man emerged in my clothes, toweling his dark hair and I swore to God that I almost choked.

The sweatpants fitted perfectly, the hoodie was slightly tight across his shoulders, emphasizing just how wide they were and his hair, now clean and damp, fell into eyes. They were longer than I'd realized.

And without the blood and grime, he was even more striking—almost beautiful, in a way.

The thought hit me like a slap in the face, and I nearly dropped the teapot. Why the hell would I think that a guy was beautiful?

He glanced over at me while I was still staring and my heart almost leaped out of my chest. I turned away quickly, heat crawling up my neck.

I felt his feet shuffle as he started moving forward, I focused hard on the tea that I was pouring. My hands were shaking again.

‘That didn't mean anything,’  I tried convincing myself. Our eyes just happened to meet. Right, that kind of thing happened all the time, it didn't mean anything.

He took a seat on the couch, the scent of shampoo filling the space between us.

“Better?” I asked, trying to sound normal and probably failing.

“Yes. Thank you.” He said in that same controlled graceful tone, like every single syllable was deliberate. He looked uncomfortable in the clothes I gave him, tugging at the hoodie like it didn't quite fit right even though it did.

“I found these in my pocket,” he said suddenly.

I looked up and he was holding out his hand. In it were three objects; a smooth black stone, polished to a shine, a strip of leather cord with strange symbols burned into them and a small shard of something crystalline that caught the light like ice.

I stared at them, not quite sure what I was looking at exactly. Just what the heck were those?

“Do you know what they are?”

“No,” he responded, frustration etched in his voice, sharp and bitter. “I keep trying to remember, but it's like reaching through a fog. I know these mean something, but I can't—” He cut himself off, his jaw tightening.

His hand closed around the objects, his knuckles going paler than they already were. I positioned the teapot on the coffee table, just in case he needed more. I lifted a cup and gestured for him to take it.

After a moment’s hesitation, he did, wrapping his fingers around the cup. Our skin brushed mildly and his were still cold to the touch.

I wanted to ask about that but I knew for a fact he wouldn't have the answer either. He stared down at the swirling tea in the cup and I took a seat on the arm chair, maintaining distance.

“Okay,” I breathed, trying to organize my scattered thoughts into something coherent. “Let's start with something we do know, shall we?”

He nodded, taking a small sip. I couldn't tell whether he liked it or not.

“You were hit by a car around 9:45, if I'm not mistaken. Dark sedan, I didn't get the plate number unfortunately but what we do know is that he didn't stop.” My voice came out more infuriated than I intended. “You were unconscious when I found you, bleeding from a head wound that—”

I stopped. How did you say it? How did you tell someone that their head injury…just healed itself?

“That healed,” he finished quietly, setting the cup down. “I know, I can feel it. That something’s…wrong. That I'm not—” He struggled for the word. “Normal.”

The way he said it made my chest ache. Could it be that he was some sort of human experiment and managed to get away?

Sigh.

I watched too much Stranger Things.

“Do you remember anything before the accident?” I asked. “Even fragments? Feelings, images…anything?

He closed his eyes, and I watched his face tighten with concentration. His jaw clenched, his breathing slowed.

After a long moment of silence, his eyes shot open and there was something gleaming in them.

Then he spoke.