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.

POV: Samantha

***.

The rain kept us in for almost three days, it felt while the world was ending. Either way, my world had shrunk down to the walls of my tiny flat - and the man who occupied it like he’d always belonged.

“Levi,” as I continued to call him, was adjusting to the small routines of life with surprising ease. He didn’t complain about the scratchy towels or the temperamental kettle or the fact that we didn’t have proper heating and relied on a space heater I’d bought second-hand off Facebook Marketplace.

If anything, he seemed... grateful.

And given the fact that it was all a lie made my tummy ache.

“Do you want sugar in your tea?” I asked that morning. I was barefooted and the floor felt cold from the weather.

He looked up from the floor, where he sat reading one of the few books I had.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Let’s try it both ways. Maybe one of them will feel... right.”

“His voice had this low, calm quality. Like even without his memories, he wasn’t easily shaken. Everything he did was deliberate - graceful, even. The way he stirred his tea. The way he carried himself. The way he folded the throw blanket when he stood up from the futon, even though I never asked.

He was... composed.

More composed than anyone I knew, especially someone who’d literally just lost their entire identity.

And yet, he laughed at the awful reality shows I put on to fill the silence. He didn’t seem to judge me for living above a takeaway with chip grease permanently baked into the hallway walls. He didn’t recoil from the unglamorous truth of my life.

He just... existed here. With me. Like it made sense.

I handed him his tea and sat down beside him. Close. Maybe closer than I needed to be.

He took a sip and made a soft noise, somewhere between surprise and thoughtfulness. “That’s... sweet.”

I tilted my head. “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that.” His smiled curved at the corner

And just like that, I felt a butterfly in my tummy.

I looked away quickly. “Right. Well. Good.”

He watched me for a beat longer than necessary. “Thanks for looking after me.”

I gave a half-hearted shrug. “You looked like a half-drowned ghost out there. What was I supposed to do - just leave you to haunt the sidewalk?”

His smile slipped for the briefest moment. “You could’ve... called the cops.”

I straightened, the air shifting between us. I tried to use the normal voice I could muster. “On my boyfriend?”

He opened his mouth, paused. Then shook his head without looking at me.

***

Later that afternoon, I watched him fix the dodgy handle on my bathroom door like he’d done it a hundred times before. Not just like a guy who was good with his hands - though he clearly was - but like someone used to solving problems. Quietly. Without fuss.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” I asked, crouched a few feet away, towel wrapped tight around my damp hair.

He froze for a second, brows knitting. “I don’t know. I just... did. My hands knew what to do.” He looked at his hands, flexing his fingers as if trying to make sure it was his. “It’s strange, isn’t it?

“Like I'm living someone else’s life - and my body remembers even more than I do.”

His words met heavy silence.

I shivered, but I wasn’t sure if it was from what he said… or the cold in the hair.

I leaned against the wall. “You really didn't tell me much of your life but I guess you were someone really useful. Like a handyman. Or... a spy.”

He laughed, and it made me stupidly happy. “A spy?”

“Sure. You’ve got the posture for it. The voice, or being secretive.”

I let out a sigh of relief, that should cover for all the times I couldn't answer basic questions that a girlfriend was meant to know. If Levi suspected my hint, he didn't show it.

“Oh? What’s spy posture like?”

“Exactly what you’re doing now,” I said, gesturing. “Standing like you're about the choke someone or beat them raw.”

His eyes glinted with a mischievous light “Which would you prefer?”

The air went still between us.

My throat went dry. “Well I'd rather be choked than beaten, no that's what I meant… depends. No, no, forget I said anything.”

Why the fuck was I still talking…

He grinned again, but this time his eyes darkened. And I felt my body heat up in a way I couldn't explain.

My heart beat faster. I pushed off the wall and moved toward the kitchen. “You hungry?”

“Always,” he called after me. “Especially for those burnt toast masterpieces.”

I smiled.

***

I stood in front of the mirror again, brushing out my hair for the third time.

I didn’t know who I was trying to impress. Maybe it was just habit. Or maybe it was something else. Something I didn’t want to name.

Levi - or whoever he really was - had folded his blanket neatly on the futon and was now standing by the window, looking out at the wet, orange-lit street below.

“I don’t recognise any of this,” he said softly. “Not the buildings. Not the sounds. But the rain feels familiar.”

I came to stand beside him.

“Do you think your memories will come back soon?” I asked.

“Honestly?” He exHayesd. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel close. Like it’s right there, behind a locked door. But then it’s gone again.”

I nodded, because I didn't know what to say.

He turned to me. “Does it scare you? Having a stranger in your flat?”

I studied his face. The soft frown, the vulnerability he didn’t try to hide. I could’ve said yes. I could’ve told him the truth - that some nights, I lay awake wondering if this was the dumbest thing I’d ever done.

But I also remembered the way he looked when I found him. The lostness. The storm in his eyes, dangerous yet beautiful.

“No,” I said after the moment passed. “You don’t feel like a stranger.”

He looked at me then - really looked. And I even though I wasn't sure what he was seeing, I could feel a slight shift.

***

We didn’t talk much the rest of the night. He stayed up reading again, and I pretended not to watch him from the corner of my eye.

But as I lay on the bed, pulling the blanket up to my chin, I let myself admit something - silently, in the dark.

I didn’t want him to leave.

Not just because I felt responsible. Or because I was scared of what would happen when his memories returned.

But because for the first time in ages, someone saw me. Sat in my cramped little flat, drank my terrible tea, and made me laugh like it wasn’t impossible.

Because when he smiled at me, it didn’t feel like pity or politeness. It felt like presence. Like I was there - and enough.

I closed my eyes, trying to ignore how my heart beat louder than the rain on the window.

Levi might’ve lost everything.

But I was starting to wonder if I’d just found something I wasn’t ready to let go of.

POV: Samantha

It’s weird, really, how someone can slip into your life without warning.

Like... one minute you’re dragging some rain-soaked stranger off the pavement, lying through your teeth about being his girlfriend—and the next, you’re making two cups of tea without even thinking.

That’s what I did this morning. Kettle on, two mugs out - sugar in mine, none in his.

It wasn’t until I handed him the cup that I realised I’d done it exactly how he likes it. Automatically. Like I’d known him for years instead of just... what, four days?

He looked at the mug, then at me, those sharp eyes narrowing slightly. “You remembered.”

I gave a shrug that felt way too casual. “Probably just... muscle memory or something.”

He didn’t say anything else. Just took a sip and turned back to the window.

The early light poured in like a soft grey filter across his face, and he stood there with that ridiculous posture - tall, quiet, composed. Like a painting or a dream.

I told myself not to stare. Not to care.

I failed at both. Again.

***

He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. Not even close.

It’s in the small things, the kind of stuff you wouldn’t notice unless you were paying attention... which apparently I am.

Like how he fixed the wardrobe door again without being asked. Or how he folds the dish towels so precisely - perfect thirds, every time. And then there’s the way he eats: back straight, napkin in lap, elbows in. Like he was raised in a manor house and not in front of a telly with a plastic tray like the rest of us.

There’s no way we grew up the same.

But I didn’t ask.

Because asking means answers, and I’m not sure I want them. Not yet.

***

“You should go out today,” I said while pulling on my coat. “Bit of air might help... jog something.”

He frowned, glancing towards the window like the street might bite him. “What if someone sees me?”

I hesitated with my keys halfway into my pocket. “Then... we deal with it. Together.”

He didn’t seem convinced. “I’m not ready to be found.”

I gave a small nod. “That’s okay. Just... don’t get lost.”

He smiled faintly, and - God help me - I felt it in my stomach.

***

When I got back, carrying way too many groceries because I refused to bring the trolley again.

Shit,I cussed to no one in particular.

I found him already inside.

Barefoot,cross-legged on the futon with a notebook open next to him like a uni student mid-essay.

“Where’d you get that?” I asked, eyeing the leather cover.

“Kitchen drawer,” he replied carefully, glancing up.

“Hope that’s alright.” he asked hopefully.

“Yeah.....no,it’s fine,” I said, dumping the shopping bags right on the counter.

“What were you writing?”

He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure whether to lie. “Just... trying to make sense of things.”

I moved closer, curiosity getting the better of me. The pages were filled with tight, slanted handwriting - clean, consistent. Not the frantic scrawl you’d expect from someone with a scrambled brain.

“Your handwriting’s... really nice,” I said before thinking.

He looked up again. His gaze fixated on me, unreadable. “You notice a lot.”

I scratched the back of my neck. “Maybe I’m just nosy.”

“Maybe,” he murmured. “Or maybe you’re not just some stranger who helped me.”

I didn’t say anything to that.

Couldn’t, really.

***

The next day, I came home from the Cafe and nearly tripped over myself. The flat was... spotless.

I don’t mean tidy. I mean clean like deep clean. Shelves dusted, the crusty old grime behind the cooker knobs that has been there since forever was gone and even the moles I've ignored for months. Stuff I hadn’t touched in months.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I said silently, trying to act like my jaw wasn’t on the floor.

He stood there in the kitchen like it was no big deal. “Needed something to do. You were gone a while.”

“I work at a café” I reminded him, tossing my bag on the sofa. “Time slows down in there.”

He smiled. “Any good ones come in today?”

And the thing is - he meant it. It wasn’t polite chit-chat. He genuinely wanted to know.

So I told him about this man who bought three espressos, and asked me for my number each time. He laughed - honestly. Not that forced, polite laugh people do, but warm and real.

And that’s when I felt it. The quiet, terrifying realisation:

I liked coming home to him.

***

Dinner was just spaghetti. Tinned sauce, dry noodles, nothing special. But he ate it like it was some gourmet masterpiece. Even folded his napkin into a neat little triangle when he was done.

“Thank you,” he said, sincere and soft.

I blinked at him. “You’re really... proper.”

“Proper?”

“Tidy. Polite. Like - posh but not annoying about it.”

He tilted his head slightly, thoughtful. “Wasn’t that how I was?”

“No, it’s just... people who wind up passed out in the rain don’t usually fold napkins.”

His gaze met mine. Calm. Steady. “Maybe I’m not most people.”

I swallowed. “Yeah. I don’t think you are.”

The silence after that felt loaded. But not heavy. Just... full.

***

That night, I couldn’t help myself.

I watched him sleep.

Yeah, I know. Creepy. But he looked so peaceful, stretched out on the futon, one arm flung above his head like some boy who’d never had to stress about anything.

But he had. I knew it.

I saw it in how his body tensed at sudden noises, how he checked the front door twice even though it was locked.

He was running from something. Or someone.

Maybe even himself.

But for now... he was here. And I didn’t want that to change.

***

Next morning, I was brushing my teeth when he called from the kitchen.

“What do you usually have for breakfast?”

I spat into the sink. “Coffee. Maybe toast. Mostly regret.”

He laughed. Like, really laughed. “I can’t cook, but I can try toast. Maybe even a very sad omelette.”

When I stepped out, he was at the stove, sleeves rolled up, whisking eggs in my chipped old mixing bowl like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“You really don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he cut in, gentle.

So I let him.

We ate in silence again, but it wasn’t the same. It felt like something new. A pattern. A rhythm.

Something dangerously close to... normal.

***

As he cleared the plates, I blurted it out before I could second-guess myself.

“You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

He paused. “Where would I sleep, then?”

I hesitated, heart thudding. “The bed’s big enough. Just - sleeping, obviously.”

His eyes flicked to mine. And for a second, I braced for a joke or a smirk or something cheeky.

But he just said, “Only if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

***

That night, we laid side by side in the dark, not touching.

Not speaking at first. Just... there.

Outside, the rain pattered softly—same as the night I found him.

Only this time, I wasn’t alone.

After a while, he whispered, “Thank you.”

I kept my eyes on the ceiling. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“Yes, I do,” he said. “You saved me, Samantha. Even if I don’t know who I was... I know I was lost before I met you.”

My chest tightened.

Because deep down, I knew the truth.

Maybe I was a little lost too.

And maybe saving him was the closest I’d come to saving myself.