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.

Levi 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. “Levi?!”

“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.

Levi 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.

POV: Samantha

***

I heard him before I saw him.

Low humming - quiet and tuneless - drifting from the kitchen like something half-remembered. Familiar, but not quite. I paused in the hallway, watching the flicker of early sunlight dance across the floor as if it were pointing me toward him.

He was rinsing out mugs. His back to me, shirt clinging slightly to his skin from sleep. And for a second - just one second - I let myself pretend we were something else.

That we’d done this a thousand times before.

That this was normal.

That we were real.

I hated how easy it was to lie to myself.

Even more, I hated how much I wanted the lie to last.

***

“Morning,” I said, stepping in and pretending I hadn’t been staring.

He turned, drying his hands on a dish towel. “You always wake up quietly.”

“Trauma from growing up in a creaky house,” I said, grabbing a clean spoon. “You learn to tiptoe or risk stepping on something that screams.”

His smile was soft, amused. “That why you’re always so... still?”

I froze slightly.

Still.

God. I didn’t realise he noticed that.

“Maybe,” I muttered, avoiding his gaze. “Or maybe I’m just sneaky.”

“Mm.” He passed me a mug without asking. “Still think you’re part-witch.”

I took it with a smile, my fingers brushing his. “Only the fun kind.”

***

We ended up sitting on the floor beside the heater, sipping tea and listening to the rain. It had returned like a familiar guest-soft and relentless, pressing against the glass.

“I like the sound,” he said suddenly.

“Of the rain?”

He nodded. “Feels like... breathing. Like the world isn’t rushing me.”

That made something tighten in my chest.

Because I’d spent so long fighting time - every second reminding me I wasn’t moving fast enough, doing enough, being enough.

And here was this man.

This beautiful, broken mystery.

Making silence feel like a gift.

***

I watched him later that afternoon, lying across the futon, one arm draped over his eyes.

The flat had gone still again.

I was meant to be reading, but my eyes kept flicking back to him.

He looked tired. Not physically - he had that same quiet strength - but somewhere deeper. Like he was fighting something in sleep, something behind his eyelids. Like his body still hadn’t caught up with his mind.

Then he mumbled something. Too quiet to catch.

I froze. “Levi?”

He stirred but didn’t answer.

I leaned closer. “What did you say?”

This time, just a whisper. “Don’t leave yet.”

I sat back slowly.

My throat tight.

I wasn’t sure if he was dreaming.

If he meant me.

But the ache it left behind didn’t care either way.

***

That night, I didn’t sleep.

I lay on my side, watching the ceiling, feeling the space between us stretch and shrink with every breath.

And I kept hearing those words.

Don’t leave yet.

Like a thread tying me to something I wasn’t sure I could hold.

I turned slightly. His profile was soft in the dark. Relaxed. The boyish part of him showing again.

I whispered into the space between us, “I’m not going anywhere.”

It didn’t matter that he couldn’t hear me.

I meant it.

Even if I shouldn’t.

***

In the morning, something had shifted.

He was at the tiny table with a stack of paper I didn’t even know we had. Doodling.

“Wow,” I said, stepping closer. “Are you a sketch artist now?”

He looked up, startled. “I... don’t know.”

But the pages said otherwise.

Loose lines, rough forms - a hand, a city skyline, a coffee cup, a man’s suit jacket.

Not perfect. Not polished. But practiced.

And not random.

Not instinctual.

These were memories.

Trickling out through his fingertips like ink.

I picked one up - the jacket sketch. Sharp lapels. A pocket square. Familiar somehow, but only to him.

“This looks expensive,” I said softly.

He nodded, eyes still on the page. “I think I wore something like this. I remember adjusting the collar. Tightening a tie.”

My breath caught.

That suit. That manner of sketching. That fold of the fabric - it wasn’t just from memory. It was from ownership.

And for the first time, I felt something deeper:

A fear I hadn’t let myself name until now.

This wasn’t just going to fade away.

He was going to remember.

And when he did... I might not fit in the world waiting for him.

***

Later, I caught him standing at the window again.

Same position. Same far-off look.

“What are you thinking?” I asked, leaning on the wall beside him.

He didn’t answer right away.

Then: “I don’t think I was happy. Before.”

That knocked me sideways.

I blinked. “What makes you say that?”

He shook his head. “I keep getting these flashes. People talking. Rooms that are too clean. Everything perfect. But I felt... trapped. Like I was performing.”

He paused. Then laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Maybe I’m not supposed to say that. Maybe I should be trying harder to remember it all. But part of me... doesn’t want to.”

The words wrapped around me like fog.

Because that part - the part that didn’t want to remember - it was the part I could fall in love with.

***

He offered to walk me to work the next day.

Just halfway. Just until the corner.

It was still drizzling, so we shared an umbrella. His arm brushed mine every few steps and I tried not to lean in. Tried not to make it mean something.

But then we stopped at the streetlight.

And he turned to me. Quiet. Focused.

“I had a dream again,” he said.

I kept my voice light. “The same one?”

“No. This one was... warmer. Quieter. There was a garden. A stone bench. I think someone was waiting for me there.”

“Do you remember who?”

“No. Just... their hands.”

A beat.

“Yours,” he said softly.

My breath caught.

He said it so simply. So sure. Like it wasn’t something that could break us both.

Like he meant it.

I opened my mouth, but the light changed.

And he just smiled, stepping back.

“I’ll see you tonight?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

And watched him walk away - tall, certain, and completely unaware of the storm he was carrying inside him.