She Writes Her Own Heartbeat

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.