Sunlight spills in through the window like it has no mercy.
Golden. Too warm. Too real.
I blink awake slowly, muscles sore, lips still swollen from him.
The sheets smell like skin and sex and regret trying to stay quiet.
He's still asleep beside me.
Hair messy.
One arm thrown over my waist like he belongs there.
Like he never left.
And for a second—just a second—I let myself enjoy it.
His chest rising steady.
The faint stubble burn on my inner thighs.
My heart still pounding like it's echoing the night before.
But then it hits me.
The emptiness.
That hollow part of my memory where they used to live.
I swallow hard.
And whispers, "You were saying… last night. About our first time?"
His eyes open slowly. Groggy. Beautiful.
He blinks at me, smile soft. "Yeah…"
I sit up, wrapping the sheet around myself like it's armor.
"I don't remember it. Not really," I say. "That whole version of me—the girl you kissed first, touched first—it's like she's gone."
He just watches me. Quiet. Letting me say it all.
"I don't want to lie to you," she continues, eyes shining. "Last night was… God… but I still feel like I'm faking it. Like I'm trying to fit into shoes that don't belong to me."
A pause.
Then I whisper, "You should go. You deserve someone who remembers."
His jaw clenches—but his voice is calm. Dangerous-calm.
"No."
I blink.
"I'm not leaving," he says, steady. Like stone. Like truth. "You can push me. You can fight me. You can say it's over a thousand f***ing times. But I'm not walking away from you."
"Bright—"
"No," he repeats, moving closer, voice lower now. Intimate. "You don't remember our first kiss? Fine. I'll give you a new one. You forgot the first time I touched you like I'd die without it? Good. I'll make you feel it all over again."
His hand comes up to my face, fingers tracing my jaw like a prayer.
"You don't have to be her," he murmurs. "I love this version of you. The one still here. Still fighting. Still wild as hell."
Tears are threatening, but I bite my lip, trying to stay strong.
"You're not sad?" I ask.
He leans in, nose brushing mine, eyes full of fire and heartbreak.
"I'm in love. yes, I am sad, but you are here, that's what I want, you don't need to force yourself for it."
And then?
He kisses me.
Not like last night.
Not like lust or heat or urgency.
But like a promise.
A slow, quiet kiss that says I'm still here.
I'm not letting go.
And I'll remind you every f**ing day if I have to.*
Lying on his side, arm draped over my waist like he never left. Like we didn't spend half the night tangled in each other—lips, hands, whispers—and the other half pretending none of it meant everything.
I swallow.
I sit up, wrapping the sheet around her. "So… about last night—was that part of the therapy too?"
A smirk touches his mouth, lazy and lethal.
"Our sessions aren't over yet," he says, propping himself on his elbow. "Turns out physical memory is strong. Might help jog the rest."
I scoff, but her cheeks flush.
"Do all your patients end up in your bed?"
"Only the ones I'm in love with."
My heart skip. But I recover fast.
"So you're in love with someone who forgot your birthday," I tease, brushing hair out of her face. "Which is…?"
'9th feb," he says, eyes still on my mouth.
"And your hobby?"
"Many. But I like one thing doing a lot and that is watching you,'
I stare at him.
And damn it, something flickers.
"Stop saying things like that," I say, voice quieter.
"Why?" he leans in. "It's true."
I shake my head, but it's weak. , My fingers are gripping the sheet too tightly. He notices.
He kisses me then, softer this time, not rushed, not claiming—but like reminding me of something I forgot. Like leaving pieces of himself behind for me to find.
I breathe against his lips. "Tell me more. About us. About me."
He smiles.
"You were stubborn. Too smart for your own good. You hated mornings but loved stealing my hoodies."
I laugh, surprised.
"You used to dance in the kitchen when you thought I wasn't looking. And when you kissed me for the first time… you tasted like cinnamon gum and danger."
I blush.
Our therapy?
Yeah—it's just getting started.