Chapter 7
"So... why are you staring at me like that?" I ask, while he sat beside me on the couch while I read a book.
He didn’t respond immediately. Just kept watching me with those intense eyes, eyes that made me feel like I was the most important person in the room... in the world.
I tried to act normal, flipping the page of my book even though I hadn’t read a single word from the last one. My heartbeat was loud in my ears. His stare wasn’t creepy it was consuming. Like he was trying to memorize every detail of my face.
Lorenzo leaned back against the couch, still gazing at me. A soft smile curled on his lips, and I could feel the air shift around us. The quiet hum of the fan, the gentle chirp of birds outside, the distant sound of a honking horn all faded into a blur. All I could focus on was him. And those eyes.
He didn’t know who he was. He didn’t remember his name or his past, but somehow, he was sure about one thing me. It was terrifying and comforting all at once.
I closed the book and placed it gently on the coffee table. My fingers nervously toyed with the hem of my kurti as I glanced at him.
"You’re making it hard to focus," I mumbled, trying to lighten the tension that hung thickly between us.
His smile deepened, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Sorry… I just like looking at you.”
My breath hitched.
I quickly looked away, standing up as an excuse to hide the blush creeping up my neck. “I-I should start preparing dinner.”
Before I could take a step, his hand gently wrapped around my wrist. "Stay. Just for a little longer."
My heart skipped a beat. There was something in his voice so soft, so sincere it made it impossible to say no.
So I sat.
We didn’t speak much after that. The silence between us wasn’t awkward. It felt... warm. Like we were two souls sharing space, and that was enough.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head on the backrest, and I allowed myself a moment to admire him. The curve of his jaw, the softness of his dark lashes against his skin, the slight crease between his brows as if he was lost in thought.
I don’t know when things changed. When he stopped being a stranger I had lied for, and started becoming someone I was growing attached to.
Maybe it was when he called me his wife in front of the doctor.
Or maybe when he cooked lunch and waited for me to come home like it was the most normal thing in the world.
He didn’t remember who he was, but he was slowly becoming a part of my world.
And I didn’t know how to stop it.
I stood up quietly, not wanting to disturb him, and walked to the kitchen. Cooking always helped clear my mind, but today, even the familiar smell of spices and the rhythm of chopping vegetables couldn’t distract me from the whirlwind of emotions inside.
What was I doing?
He would remember one day. And when that day comes, will he hate me for lying?
Will he leave?
My hands stilled over the cutting board. The thought twisted painfully in my chest. I wasn’t ready to let him go. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I shook the thoughts away and focused back on preparing dinner. I decided to make something simple dal, rice, and aloo bhaji. Comfort food. Familiar, warm, safe.
While the food simmered on the stove, I set the table. Plates, glasses, spoons... every small action felt heavy with meaning.
As I placed the last plate down, I felt a presence behind me.
"Smells amazing," he murmured, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
I stiffened. His touch was gentle but firm. Not demanding. Not pushy. Just there. Like he belonged.
"Lorenzo..."
"Hmm?"
"You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"You looked lost in thought. Wanted to bring you back," he replied, resting his chin on my shoulder.
My heart felt like it would explode.
His breath was warm against my skin, sending shivers down my spine. I didn’t move, didn’t breathe, afraid the moment might break if I did. My hands stayed frozen over the table as if grounding myself would keep me from floating away into whatever this was this strange, fragile connection.
“You’re always thinking so hard,” he whispered, his voice a gentle tease laced with concern. “What goes on in that pretty little head of yours?”
I gave a shaky laugh, trying to play it cool, but I knew he could feel the way my body tensed under his touch.
“Just… life,” I muttered.
“Life,” he repeated, tasting the word like it was foreign. “Funny thing. I don’t remember mine. But somehow, with you… I feel like I’m living again.”
I turned around slowly in his arms, facing him. His hands didn’t drop from my waist; instead, they tightened just a little, pulling me closer. I looked up, eyes meeting his—searching, intense, open.
“You don’t even know me,” I whispered, the words trembling with truth and fear.
He tilted his head, studying me like I’d just said something absurd. “I don’t need memories to know how I feel around you.”
I blinked, throat tightening. I should say something. Push him away. Tell him this isn’t real. That I’m not his wife. That I lied.
But instead, I whispered, “Dinner’s getting cold.”
He smiled, like he knew I was running, but wasn’t going to chase me. Not yet.
He stepped back slightly but reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Then let’s eat. But just so you know… cold food won’t make me stop warming up to you.”
I rolled my eyes and turned away quickly so he wouldn’t see the blush creeping up my cheeks again.
We sat down at the table, and I tried to focus on my plate. He took a bite of the dal and made an exaggerated moan of satisfaction.
“Oh my god. What is this? Did I marry a chef?”
“Stop,” I laughed, shaking my head. “It’s just dal.”
“Just dal?” he said dramatically, pointing his spoon at me. “This dal could bring peace treaties. This dal could end wars.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m your husband. It comes with the package.”
My spoon paused midway to my mouth. The word “husband” still hit me like a wave sometimes warm, sometimes cold. I looked up at him, expecting to see teasing in his eyes, but there was something else too. Longing. A kind of wishfulness that made my heart ache.
He didn’t know he wasn’t really my husband.
But he was trying to be.
And I didn’t know how much longer I could keep pretending it didn’t mean anything.
After dinner, we cleaned up side by side. He insisted on washing while I dried. I noticed how he kept sneaking glances at me, nudging me playfully with his elbow, humming off-key just to make me laugh. It was domestic. It was sweet.
It was dangerous.
Because I was falling for a man who didn’t even know himself.
And when his memories came back, he might walk away from me.
But for tonight… I let myself enjoy it.
One stolen moment at a time.
After we finished cleaning the kitchen, I wiped my damp hands on a dish towel and turned around.only to find Lorenzo still watching me.
Again.
Always watching.
He leaned casually against the counter, arms crossed, his hair slightly tousled and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. There was something effortlessly handsome about him, even in the simplest things. And he knew it, too.
“What?” I asked, narrowing my eyes with a suspicious smile.
He shrugged. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
He pushed off the counter and walked toward me, his footsteps slow, deliberate. “Food.”
That was unexpected.
“Food?” I repeated.
“Mmhmm,” he nodded, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes.
“I’ve been eating Indian food for days now.
Which.don’t get me wrong is amazing thanks to my stunning, goddess-level cook-slash-wife.
” He gave a dramatic bow, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“But I think it’s time I try cooking something Italian. ”
My brow lifted. “You remember Italian food?”
“I don’t know,” he said honestly, “but when you said ‘dal’ earlier, something in me went… where’s the pasta?”
I snorted. “So you feel Italian?”
“Exactly,” he grinned. “It’s in my soul. And stomach.”
I leaned against the dining table, arms crossed. “You sure you can handle the Indian kitchen for Italian cooking? No fancy ovens or shiny countertops here.”
He looked around dramatically, then back at me. “Ruhi, if I can survive an identity crisis, I think I can survive a pressure cooker and a gas stove.”
That made me laugh louder than I meant to, and he seemed ridiculously pleased with himself.
“Fine,” I said, raising my hands. “Chef Lorenzo, what do you need?”
He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Pasta. Olive oil. Tomatoes. Basil, maybe some cheese though the processed cubes in the fridge might get me arrested by Italian grandmas.”
“We have penne,” I offered. “And a tiny packet of oregano from last month’s pizza order.”
He clapped once like a child on Christmas morning. “Perfect. This will be my masterpiece.”
I watched him move around the kitchen with an odd sense of awe.
He was playful, but focused tasting, stirring, adjusting the flame.
There was a strange familiarity in his movements, like his hands remembered things his mind didn’t.
How to toss the pasta. How to season the sauce. How to hum softly while he cooked.
I stood quietly, pretending to check my phone, but I was watching him.
Really watching.
The lines of his jaw, the curve of his smile, the way he rolled his sleeves without even noticing. Every detail was etching itself into my memory, and I didn’t even realize how deep I’d fallen until he looked up and caught me staring.
“You’re doing it again,” he said, voice low and teasing.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like I’m a puzzle you want to solve.”
I shrugged, cheeks burning. “Maybe you are.”
He stepped closer, holding out a spoon toward me. “Taste.”
I leaned in and took the spoon. The moment the sauce hit my tongue, I froze.
It was good.
Really good.
“Whoa,” I muttered. “That’s actually—”
“Incredible? Life-changing? Better than dal?” he asked smugly.
“Don’t push it,” I said, though I couldn’t stop smiling.
Lorenzo placed the lid on the pot and turned to me with mock seriousness. “I think we should open a restaurant.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah. You’ll handle Indian, I’ll handle Italian. We’ll call it… ‘Spice & Sauce.’”
I burst out laughing. “That’s the worst name I’ve ever heard.”
He grinned proudly. “I know. But you laughed. Mission accomplished.”
And just like that, the heaviness of reality faded. For a little while, it felt like we were two normal people in a kitchen, making terrible puns and pasta, not a girl lying to a man who’d forgotten his whole life.
He remembered Italy.
Maybe tomorrow he’d remember more.
But tonight, we had pasta.
And laughter.
And the quiet illusion of something like love.
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