Chapter 2

POV: Samantha

 

 

***

 

It wasn’t until I helped him into a taxi the next morning that the weight of it hit me.

 

He had no idea who he was.

And I had just told an entire hospital staff - and him - that he was mine.

 

“Careful,” I said, holding his arm as he bent into the back seat of the car. His movements were slow, careful, like he had forgotten what to do but they still moved. His brow was stitched and still red, his knuckles bruised hinting at a possible fight before I found him.

 

“You alright?” I asked as I climbed in after him.

 

He looked at me, almost… shy? “Yeah. I think so. My head’s still pounding a bit, but... I feel safe.”

 

That word caught me off guard. Safe. From me?

 

I gave the driver my address before I could overthink it. What else could I have done? He couldn’t exactly check into a hotel with no name, no ID, and no clue what city he belonged in. I had £13 to my name, a half-eaten protein bar in my pocket, and a man with no memory blinking at me like I was some sort of anchor.

 

Even though I had no choice but to go back to my former apartment, we'd make do.

 

“Thank you,” he said after a long silence. His voice had that slow gravel again, the kind that scraped against your skin in the quiet.

 

I glanced over. “For what?”

 

“For not leaving me.”

 

my breath hitched.

***

 

My old - well now my only flat was small - studio small. Just a kitchenette, some space, and one small window with rubbish bins, as a view. Everything smelled faintly of peppermint tea and broken dreams.

 

I pushed my box out of the way and waved around. “Home sweet home.”

 

He stepped inside slowly, as if unsure he was allowed to touch anything. “This is... yours?”

 

“Yep. All mine. I even have a toaster that only works on one side. Such premium luxury.”

 

Then he smiled, a simple curve of his lips that took my breath. It lit up his face beautifully. He turned toward me suddenly. “What’s my name?”

 

I froze.

 

I should’ve seen that coming.

 

“I... you don’t remember anything at all?”

 

He shook his head. “Nothing. No flashes, no faces. Not even what kind of food I like. Just a weird ache in my chest, like something’s missing.”

 

I nodded slowly and walked to the sink, mostly to give my hands something to do. “Well... at the hospital, you didn’t have anything on you. So there’s no way to know until something jogs your memory.”

 

He stepped closer. “But you called me something when we were at the hospital. The nurse said I asked for you by name.”

 

Oh god. I had. I had called him something.

 

I thought back to that moment, trying to remember what exactly had come out of my mouth. Some vague, desperate lie I’d made up on instinct.

 

“Right,” I said, feigning calm. “I called you... Levi.”

 

“Levi.” He said it slowly, testing it. “That feels... nice. Like it fits, almost.”

 

I turned away so he wouldn’t see the guilt in my eyes. “It suits you.”

 

He gave me a strange look then. “Is that what you really called me before? Or are you just naming me now?”

 

I opened the cupboard and pulled down two chipped mugs, pretending not to hear the question.

 

“I’ll make tea.”

 

 

***

 

We sat on the futon in awkward silence, sipping cheap chamomile like we were two strangers in a waiting room - which, I suppose, we were.

 

“You’re sure we were... together?” he asked after a while, his voice soft.

 

I nearly choked.

 

My lie was turning into a hot, sticky mess and I couldn’t get out of it without admitting that I had made it up just to get one over on my smug, cheating ex.

 

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” I said, and hated myself immediately for how easily it came out.

 

He nodded slowly, looking at his hands.

 

“But I think you should rest,” I added quickly, trying to shift the mood. “You’ve had a concussion. The doctors said sleep will help.”

 

He looked around. “Where should I...?”

 

I pointed to the futon. “You take the bed. I’ll make up a spot on the floor.”

 

“No,” he said, instantly. “I’ll sleep on the floor. I can’t kick you out of your own - ”

 

“You’re injured.”

 

“You’re a woman.”

 

“Don’t be sexist.”

 

His mouth curved once more into a blinding smile. “I might not remember who I am, but I know I was raised with manners.”

 

“You can keep your manners,” I said, tossing him a pillow. “And get some bloody sleep.”

 

“We can change it tomorrow.”

***

 

That night, I lay on the floor wrapped in a blanket, as I looked at the ceiling.

 

What the hell had I done?

 

I’d lied to an ex. Fine. People do that. But now I had a grown man with a head injury sleeping ten feet from me, thinking we were in love. That we had a whole history. That I knew his favourite colour and how he took his tea and what he dreamt about at night.

 

He didn’t know that I was broke. That I worked part-time at a café with a boss who never remembered my name. That I hadn’t spoken to my parents in six months. That sometimes I cried in the bath because the silence scared me.

 

Levi - if that was his name now - was trusting me with everything. And I was placing it all on lies.

 

A drop of water fell from the ceiling and hit my forehead.

 

Perfect. Even the roof knew I was full of it.

 

***

 

I woke up to the smell of burnt toast and the sound of someone humming.

 

Sitting up groggily, I stretched my aching and looked around.

 

Levi stood at the stove in nothing but his dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair messy and bathed in sunlight. He was flipping eggs like he’d done it a thousand times.

 

I rubbed my eyes. “You... cook?”

 

He looked over, and blushed “Figured I’d try. Something told me I used to do this a lot. Instinct or something.”

 

The eggs were slightly overdone, the toast a little charred - but my stomach growled all the same.

 

“You didn’t have much in the fridge,” he said as he plated the food. “But this should do for now.”

 

He brought it over and sat beside me.

 

“Thanks,” I muttered.

 

He took a bite and made a face. “Might’ve gone too heavy on the pepper.”

 

I laughed before I could stop myself. “We’ll call it gourmet.”

 

We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, eating. Then he spoke again.

 

“I’ve been thinking. If we were together... what did I do for work?”

 

My fork paused mid-air.

 

I had no idea.

 

“Something... stressful,” I offered, chewing slowly. “You always came home late. Wore suits. Had headaches.”

 

His eyes lit up a little. “Yeah? Sounds familiar.”

 

“Yeah,” I said, my voice smaller. “You were always tired. But you loved me anyway.”

 

He looked at me for a long moment, something unreadable behind his eyes.

 

“I still do,” he said simply.

 

My chest cracked open in five different directions.

 

I smiled.

 

And told myself I’d fix it. One day.

 

Just not today.