Six

POV: Samantha

***

The flat was quiet again.

The silence felt cold and full of anxiety, Like when you stretch a rubber band too far and just hope it doesn’t snap back in your face.

Noah was in the shower.

And I... was just sitting there. On the edge of the bed, staring at the corner where his body had been moments before. My fingers still feeling the warmth his body left behind. As if that would mean he was mine.

Which, of course, he wasn’t.

But that lie had started to blur at the edges.

***

The kettle clicked off, and I moved on autopilot.

Two mugs.

One with sugar. One without.

I stirred both without thinking. His went on the right, mine on the left.

And then I paused.

Because the person I was pretending to be-this girlfriend I’d imagined for him-wouldn’t know how he took his tea. Not unless he’d told her.

But he hadn’t.

I’d just started doing it that way.

Because it felt right.

Which meant… something in me already believed this story.

God, what was wrong with me?

***

He came out of the bathroom with a towel around his shoulders and wet curly hair. A little steam followed behind him, from the hot water he used. And I hated how easily my heart reacted to the sight of him.

“Tea?” I asked, trying to hide the slight hitch in my voice.

“Perfect,” he said, smiling as he crossed to the table. “You always get it right.”

I wanted to joke that I was a woman of many talents. That I was just good at guessing. That maybe I was a witch.

But instead, I said nothing.

Because I didn’t want to ruin the way his voice sounded when he said the word always like it was something he wanted to believe in.

***

We ate toast in silence. He buttered his so smoothly it looked like a still from a cooking video. Mine was lopsided. Crumb-covered. Bit burnt.

“You make breakfast like it’s muscle memory,” I muttered, not quite meaning to say it aloud.

He looked down at the knife in his hand, then flexed his fingers slowly-almost in surprise.

“I think I used to do this a lot,” he said quietly. “Cook. Prepare things. Not just for myself.”

“For someone else?” I asked, voice thinner than I meant it to be.

He nodded. “Maybe. Feels like I’ve done this before… every morning. Set the table. Made sure everything looked just right.”

A pause.

“But not here. Somewhere bigger. Brighter.”

The words knocked the air from my chest.

Of course.

Of course his memories would come back eventually.

I just didn’t expect it to start here-like this. So quietly. With toast.

***

Later that day, I came home to find the bathroom door open and the sink half taken apart.

My heart leapt. “Noah?!”

“In here!” he called from under the sink. “Don’t panic. The tap was leaking. I’m fixing it.”

“You what?”

I stood in the doorway, staring at him. There were tools laid out beside him-my tools. Ones I didn’t even know I still had, shoved under the kitchen sink from a brief IKEA DIY disaster three Christmases ago.

He didn’t just know how to use them.

He wielded them like he’d been trained.

Measured. Clean. Focused.

Like it wasn’t just instinct-it was discipline.

“You’re really good at that,” I said quietly.

He came out from under the sink, wiping his hands on a towel. “Yeah... It’s strange, right? I couldn’t tell you my last name, but I can rewire a sink drain.”

“Muscle memory again?”

“Or maybe this is who I was,” he said. Then frowned. “Am.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “You could’ve been a plumber.”

He laughed once, low and dry. “Not dressed like this.”

He pointed at the shirt he’d rolled up neatly at the elbows. A pale blue button-down, sleeves cuffed perfectly. Ironed by him, I was pretty sure.

I watched him tidy the tools-organize them, actually-into a neat row before slipping them back into the box like they were precious.

And that’s when I knew.

Noah wasn’t ordinary.

He wasn’t a plumber. Or a wanderer. Or some man who'd just forgotten where he came from.

He was someone.

Someone expensive. Raised, maybe not rich, but definitely... important. Precise. Educated.

And he was going to remember that.

Soon.

And when he did-

He’d leave.

***

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

He had fallen asleep quickly, like always. Calm. Breathing deep. Like nothing had changed.

But I couldn’t stop watching the light from the streetlamp hit his face.

It wasn’t fair.

The way he made my flat feel full. The way he made silence feel safe. The way he made me feel like I was worth staying for-even when I wasn’t.

And I hated how easily I could lie to myself.

Pretend this was ours.

Pretend I’d wake up beside him next week. Or the week after. Or in five years.

But the truth was already tugging at the corners.

He was remembering.

In small ways. Through gestures. Through movements. Through the way his hands knew how to fold and fix and function with purpose.

And sooner or later, his name would come back.

His life. His people. His world.

And I?

I’d be the footnote.

The stranger who took him in and made a home out of borrowed time.

***

The next morning, he found me sitting on the fire escape.

It was still cold, but I needed air.

He came out wrapped in my old hoodie-his now, really-and leaned against the frame.

“You okay?”

I nodded, eyes on the sky. “Just needed a minute.”

He didn’t push. Just sat beside me, letting our legs bump.

“I think I used to live somewhere high up,” he said suddenly. “Like a flat. A tall one. With a view. Maybe... in the city.”

My throat tightened. “You sure?”

“No. But it’s a feeling. Like déjà vu. Like I’m missing something I saw every day.”

I nodded, trying to keep my voice steady. “Maybe it’ll come back. Piece by piece.”

“Maybe,” he echoed.

We sat like that for a long time.

Just a girl with a lie

And a man on the edge of remembering who he really was.