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.

POV: Samantha

***

I woke up to find his side empty, for a second, I thought he'd left. My hand stretched out to the space beside me, still warm, but empty. My heart kicked - too fast, too hard.

Then I heard it.

The creak of floorboards. The soft pad of bare feet.

I sat up slowly, eyes adjusting to the early morning sun. Levi was standing by the window, shirtless with his arms folded, as he stared out in thought.

He didn’t turn when I spoke. “Couldn’t sleep?”

A pause. Then: “I did. Then I woke up.”

I stood up and walked to him, wrapping the throw blanket from the end of the bed around my shoulders. I didn’t ask if he was alright. He wasn’t. That much was obvious.

His knuckles were white around his arms. His jaw clenched tight. And there was something haunted in his eyes - a shadow I hadn’t seen before.

“I was in a car,” he said suddenly, voice hollow. “Rain was hammering down. I was on the phone. I think... arguing. Or desperate. And then everything went black.”

My breath caught.

I hadn’t asked about his past - not once. Not because I wasn’t curious. But because I was afraid. And now, hearing him talk about it made me see how close it was.

“It felt real,” he added, voice low. “Too real.”

“It probably was,” I said gently, stepping beside him. “Dreams can be memories, sometimes. Fragmented, but there.”

He turned to me, confused. “What if I don’t want to remember?”

That hit more that i felt that it should.

I should’ve said something smart. Something soothing. But all I could manage was: “Then don’t. Not yet.”

He looked at me for a long time. As if I was the only solid thing he could still hold on to.

***

Later, I made tea. Because tea fixes everything. Or at the very least, it gives you something simple to do.

He sat at the kitchen table, one hand holding the mug, the other circling the tip. I tried not to watch him. Tried not to feel the ache curling behind my ribs at the sight of him so still. So lost.

“You tied that blanket around you like it’s armour,” he said after a while.

I glanced down and laughed softly. “It is. My battle cloak.”

That earned a ghost of a smile. “Do you always use humour when things get too heavy?”

“Only when I’m not emotionally equipped for actual feelings.”

“Right. You’re a professional deflector.”

“Exactly.”

He took a sip of his tea and gave me a sidelong glance. “You’re not what I expected.”

I raised a brow. “Expected how?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But you’re... kind. And brave. And funny. I was really lucky to be your boyfriend.”

Something in me cracked.

Because for a moment, I almost wished he had been. That this whole story I made up was real. That I’d found someone who could see me - really see me - and still choose to stay.

But this wasn’t a fairytale. It was a borrowed illusion. And I didn’t know how long I could keep it going before the weight of it crushed me.

***

Later that day, I left him in the flat with a few books and told him to relax. I had to head to the shop.

When I returned, the flat smelled faintly of toasted bread and fabric softener. And there he was - wearing one of my dad’s old button-downs I’d kept at the back of the wardrobe for years, tucked in loosely like he’d done it a thousand times before.

I froze.

Because it wasn’t just that he looked good - it was the way he moved. Confident. Unbothered. Like someone used to dressing well, like he didn’t feel strange wearing quality.

“No offence,” I said slowly, “but most people don’t tie their cuffs like that.”

He looked at his wrist. “Must’ve picked it up somewhere.”

“And you folded that pocket square.”

He looked down, startled - as if he hadn’t even realised what he’d done. “Habit, I guess.”

I nodded, heart pounding. He wasn’t doing this consciously. That was the scary part.

It was embedded.

This wasn’t just some posh upbringing. This was learned grace. Groomed, probably. Practised from birth.

But I said nothing.

Because even though I noticed, I still wasn’t ready to know.

***

That night, he beat me to bed.

I found him curled up on the left side - my side - with the blanket up to his chest, eyes already closed.

“You’re stealing my side now?” I teased, slipping under the covers.

He cracked one eye open. “Didn’t realise sides were assigned.”

“Only if we’re playing domestic.”

He smiled faintly and murmured, “Feels almost natural.”

That silenced me. Because he wasn’t wrong.

I didn’t expect to get used to having him around. But I had. Too easily. I noticed when he wasn’t in the room. I caught myself looking for him first thing in the morning. And when I laughed, it was always because of something he’d said.

I’d built this lie to protect myself.

But somehow, it had become the safest place I knew.

***

I dreamt that night.

Not of faceless men or flashbacks - but of him. Sitting across from me at some elegant restaurant, laughing at something stupid I’d said, wearing a suit that looked like it cost more than my rent.

It was blurry around the edges, but vivid enough to feel real. Like a memory. But it couldn’t be.

Because this wasn’t our story.

He wasn’t mine.

Not really.

***

I woke up covered in the sheets. Levi was still asleep beside me. Peaceful again and beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.

I reached out, brushing a loose hairfrom his forehead.

He didn’t stir.

And in that moment, I knew something I hadn’t dared admit until now.

I didn’t want him to go.

I didn’t want this to end.

Even if it was built on lies. Even if the truth could burn it all down.

I wanted to keep him.

Even if it meant breaking my own heart.