Chapter 10
Caroline Atkins?
I wake up Sunday morning to swearing.
Loud, panicked, persistent swearing.
“Shit, shit, shit—fuck!”
And smoke.
Actual smoke.
Not the sexy kind, not incense or whatever the hell Gwyneth Paltrow sells in overpriced jars—no, this is burnt food smoke. The kind that makes your eyes sting and the fire alarm scream like it’s being murdered.
I jolt upright, heart hammering, and scan the room like I’m mid-code-blue. There’s no fire—yet—but what I do see is Crash, shirtless, half-dressed, jeans unzipped and clinging to his hips like they’re afraid to fall, waving a kitchen towel at the ceiling like he’s trying to disarm a bomb.
His casted arm is bent at an angle that definitely wasn’t doctor-recommended, and his whole face is scrunched like he’s battling a goddamn dragon.
“What the hell is going on?” I bark, already stumbling out of bed.
He doesn’t look at me, still fanning for dear life. “I was trying to make pancakes—ow—and I might’ve forgotten how stoves work!”
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.
The smoke detector’s going apeshit, and there’s a skillet smoking on the stove like it owes someone money.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, stomp into the kitchen, grab a broom handle and jab the reset button on the alarm until it finally shuts up with one last pathetic beep like it’s offended by the chaos.
Silence.
Smoke hangs in the air.
A blackened, sad pancake is stuck to the pan like roadkill.
Crash turns to me, sheepish, breathless, chest rising and falling—and did I mention shirtless? Because, yeah. Abs. Sweat. Morning scruff. He looks like a fireman calendar if the fireman was also an idiot.
“I was trying to surprise you,” he says, still holding the towel like it’s going to save him. “Y’know. Breakfast. For letting me crash here.”
I cross my arms. “And instead, you almost crashed the apartment.”
He winces. “In my defense… I didn’t know pancakes could catch fire.”
“They can’t,” I say, walking over to the stove and flipping the burner off. “You just have to possess the basic instincts of a raccoon to cook one.”
He groans. “Fuck’s sake.”
I look at him—hair a mess, cheeks flushed, jeans half open, chest still dusted with sleep and smoke—and sigh.
“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” I mutter, grabbing the skillet and tossing it in the sink.
“That’s what they tell me,” he says, grinning like an idiot.
“Go put on a shirt before I strangle you with that towel.”
He walks over to his drawer—yes, his drawer, in my dresser, like that’s a normal fucking sentence to say about a man I found in a hospital gown three days ago—and pulls out one of the shirts I got him at the thrift store.
Pulls it on, arms awkward with the cast, fabric catching on the bandage, and I just stand there watching the world’s hottest trainwreck get dressed like he’s never encountered sleeves before.
And here’s the thing—Crash?
Zero domestic instincts.
None.
I don’t know who this man was before the universe dropkicked him into my life, but I can guarantee he wasn’t doing laundry or scrubbing pans or meal-prepping jack shit.
He’s like one of those beautiful houseplants people forget to water—stunning, tragic, and barely surviving by sheer fucking luck. A walking, talking functional disaster. Gorgeous, sure. A jawline carved by war gods? Absolutely. But life skills? Negative five.
Laundry? Nope. Thought separating whites from colors was optional.
Folding clothes? Might as well have handed him a Rubik’s cube made of fabric.
Dishes? Put a fucking knife handle-up in the dishwasher and acted like it was a life hack.
Cooking? Let’s just say the man tried to flip a pancake with his cast and caught the edge of the pan on fire. I had to use tongs to pry his shame off the skillet like it was part of a failed ritual sacrifice.
He gets the shirt on, finally, dragging it down over his abs, and turns around like he nailed it. Like we’re not standing in a kitchen full of smoke and failure.
“I meant well,” he mutters, running a hand through his stupidly perfect hair.
I squint at him. “Yeah, and arsonists mean well when they light candles.”
He grins, sheepish and way too fucking charming for a man who just tried to cook me breakfast with chaos and hope.
And god help me—I almost smile back. Almost.
He’s a beautiful disaster.
Emphasis on disaster.
I make us breakfast, because who the fuck else is going to?
Certainly not Mr. Set-Off-the-Smoke-Detector over there, still smelling faintly like charred pancake and good intentions.
And honestly? It is kinda cute—the way he tried.
The way he wanted to do something for me, even if the result was a near-death experience via cast-wielded skillet.
So I take over like always, because I’m the only adult in this two-person sitcom, and whip up toast, eggs, and bacon. Real breakfast. No fire. No disaster. No sirens.
He sits at the counter, shirt finally on, arms braced awkwardly, cast cradled like it personally insulted him.
“Med time,” I say, sliding over two pills and a glass of water. “Do not argue with me.”
“I wasn’t gonna,” he mutters, popping them without hesitation. Good boy.
We eat in comfortable silence for a bit—him wolfing down bacon like it’s a drug, me sipping coffee like it’s therapy—and then, mid-chew, he says, “I wanna try walking around today.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You do?”
He nods, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like a goddamn heathen. “Yesterday with the movie? It did something. Felt like… something cracked open in my brain, y’know? Like I was close to remembering, even if it didn’t land.”
I nod slowly. “Okay. And walking’s your next big plan? You gonna just stroll down 5th Ave until your life flashes back in HD?”
He gives me that crooked little grin—the one that makes my blood pressure spike and my bullshit tolerance drop. “Could work. Maybe I pass a place or a face or a smell, and boom—instant backstory.”
“Crash, this isn’t The Bourne Identity.”
He shrugs. “Still worth a shot. I feel... better. Clearer.”
And goddammit, he does look better.
Still got that edge of lost-puppy trauma around the eyes, still has no idea who the fuck he is or how not to nearly set my kitchen on fire, but there’s light now.
Focus. That spark of “I wanna figure this shit out,” even if the plan is basically “walk aimlessly until my memory pops out of a manhole.”
He finishes the last bite of toast like it personally offended him and wipes his hands, and I sigh, already grabbing my keys.
“Alright,” I say. “We walk, then.”
His eyebrows lift. “You’re coming with me?”
I stare at him like he just asked if I knew how to breathe. “Of course I’m coming with you. You’ve got the street sense of a paper towel. I bet you don’t even know where the closest subway station is.”
“I could guess,” he says, looking deeply unconvincing.
“You’d end up in the Hudson,” I deadpan. “And probably thank the ferry driver for the ride.”
He chuckles, grabs his jacket—the one I found, thank you very much—and zips it up like he’s heading into battle.
“Fine,” he says. “But if I remember anything during this walk, I’m taking full credit.”
I’m already slipping my boots on. “You can take credit for not getting hit by traffic. We’ll count that as a win.”
He grins, and for the first time, it’s not heavy. It’s easy. Real.
God help me.
I’d walk this whole damn city with him if it meant he’d smile like that again.
We walk. Like, really walk.
It starts with just wandering my neighborhood, but before I know it, we’re subway-hopping, hitting a half-ass route through midtown, then Chelsea, then all the way up through the Upper West like we’ve got tourist passes and something to prove.
The city’s buzzing with Sunday energy—slow joggers, coffee clingers, families pretending they like each other—and Crash is taking it all in like he’s trying to drink the whole damn skyline.
And it works. Kind of.
When we pass certain spots—gallery storefronts, slick little restaurants with overpriced wine and velvet chairs—his brows furrow.
He pauses, like something tugged him sideways.
He’ll mutter “I’ve been here” or “This looks familiar” with this haunted tone, like he’s hearing his own ghost whisper back at him.
Wall Street makes him stop cold. Just standing there in front of the Charging Bull statue like it insulted his mother. His mouth tightens, and I see it—something clicking. Something important. But when I press, ask what, he just shakes his head. “Don’t know. But I was here. A lot.”
So now I’m piecing together a puzzle of a man with no fucking box to check the edges against.
By the time we hit Central Park, we’re both half-dead from walking. I bribe him with hot dogs from a cart—New York’s finest cuisine if you enjoy nitrates and regret—and we sit on a bench, watching dogs with better coats than us prance by.
He bites into his hot dog like he’s never tasted processed meat before. Maybe he hasn’t.
“So let’s see,” I say, wiping mustard off my fingers and giving him a side-eye. “You don’t know how to clean, cook, fold, or survive without setting shit on fire.”
“Correct,” he says around a mouthful.
“You do, however, recognize at least three high-end art galleries, two restaurants with three-dollar-sign Yelp listings, a boutique gym, and Wall Street like it’s your old haunt. And on top of all that?” I point the hot dog at him like a lawyer with evidence. “You look like that.”
He licks some ketchup off his thumb, smirking. “What’s your conclusion, Sherlock?”
“I’m thinking you’re either a model,” I say, counting on my fingers, “a hedge fund baby with a six-figure skincare routine, or one of those mysteriously rich assholes who only wears black and talks about passive income.”
He laughs, full and real. “Not ruling any of those out.”
I take another bite. “Honestly? Wouldn’t be surprised if you have, like, a million-dollar condo somewhere you forgot about.”
“Great,” he says, leaning back, “Let’s go break into it.”
“If we find it, we’re robbing it. I’m not letting you off the hook for rent just because your memory’s on vacation.”
He grins at me sideways, and it’s dangerous—the kind of grin that makes you forget you’re technically housing an amnesiac stranger you found in a trauma ward.
But for now, I keep eating my hot dog.
And keep watching him try to find himself.
One overpriced gallery at a time.
We drag our asses home at the end of the day, legs sore, feet screaming, brains fried. It’s that perfect kind of exhaustion—the one that comes from being out in the city too long, sun setting, body sticky with sweat and street dust, too tired to talk but not quite ready to sleep.
I beeline for the shower first because I earned it. My feet are killing me, my shirt is clinging in all the wrong places, and I smell like hot dog water and city air. A delightful blend of sodium, asphalt, and existential crisis.
Water’s hot, glorious, and I stand under it until I’ve washed away every gallery, train ride, and overpriced latte whiff that drifted past us. I towel off, throw on a tank and shorts, and step back into the apartment—
—and freeze.
Because there he is.
Crash.
Standing by the edge of the bed, fighting his shirt like it insulted his mother.
He’s halfway undressed, the cotton bunched over his face and shoulders, one arm caught in the sleeve, the other—casted and wildly unhelpful—flailing like he’s stuck in a straightjacket.
He’s grunting under his breath, tugging, twisting, losing the battle to a basic article of clothing like it’s a fucking boss fight.
And without thinking, I move.
“I got it,” I mutter, already stepping in, towel still slung over my own neck, hair damp and dripping down my back.
He freezes mid-struggle. “Wait—no, I can—”
“You can fuck it up, yeah. Hold still.”
He does, reluctantly, arms stiff, chest rising with embarrassment or exertion—probably both.
The shirt’s twisted so tight it looks like a cotton noose.
I reach up, fingers brushing his bare skin as I gently tug the hem up and over his cast, maneuvering slowly until it slides free with a soft, annoyed fwump.
And then he’s shirtless.
Again.
And holy shit, it still hits like a truck.
Golden skin, taut muscles, bruises faint now, but still there like faded fingerprints. His chest heaves just a little, probably from the struggle—or maybe it’s my proximity. My fingers linger too long on his wrist, my eyes maybe dip a little too low.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, voice rough.
I look up, and fuck me—our faces are stupidly close.
Like, nose-brushingly close. Breath-sharing, eye-locking, pulse-spiking close. And I’m standing there like an idiot, one hand still on his wrist, the other practically pressed to his ribcage, and he’s just looking at me like he has no idea how pretty he is.
Which is the most dangerous kind of pretty.
His eyes flick to my mouth—briefly, but I catch it—and every nerve in my body lights up like I stuck a fork in a socket.
Goddammit, why does he have to look like this?
Like a walking wet dream with amnesia and a cast.
Like I didn’t just see him lose a full-on deathmatch with a cotton T-shirt two seconds ago.
“Yeah,” I say—meant it to sound chill, sarcastic, me—but it comes out breathy. Weak. A fucking whimper of a word.
Smooth, Carol. Real fucking smooth.
He tilts his head, slow, curious, like he’s trying to figure out if that was a yes, a no, or an open invitation. His lips part like he’s gonna say something—but I don’t give him the chance.
I step back. Fast. Like he’s dangerous.
Because he is.
I clear my throat, real loud, real fake. “Right. Well. You’re shirtless and now officially no longer a hazard to yourself. Congrats. I’m gonna… do something else. Like not ogle you.”
His grin is slow. Shit-eating. Pure sin in human form.
“You were ogling?”
“Shut up, Crash.”
He chuckles, low and smug as I escape to the kitchen like it’s gonna save me.
It won’t.
Not from that.
Not from him.