Chapter 13
Caroline Atkins?
Okay. So… sex happened.
And holy fucking hell—it was not just sex.
It was religious. It was back-arching, breath-stealing, toe-curling, I-saw-the-face-of-God kind of sex.
Like, I’ve had orgasms before—sure. But that?
That was some top-tier, soul-snatching, memory-rewiring cock.
The kind that ruins you for other men. The kind that makes you stare at your ceiling after and reconsider every poor life choice that led to you not fucking him sooner.
And that’s not even the wild part.
The wild part is he’s… nice. Like genuinely, absurdly good.
He does the dishes now. Tries to fold laundry—badly, hilariously, adorably.
He’s working—working, can you believe that?
A man with no name, no past, no goddamn Social Security number out here hustling a morning shift at a 7-Eleven, just so he doesn’t feel like a freeloader.
Meanwhile, I know plenty of men with three degrees, five dating apps, and one working limb who’d take full advantage of cooked meals, fresh laundry, and free rent and still have the audacity to leave the toilet seat up and ask if I’ve “ever considered going red.”
Crash? He thanks me every damn day. Says my name like it’s a fucking prayer. Like I saved him. And maybe I did. But what he doesn’t get is that he’s been saving me right back.
With that wrecked little smile.
With those stupid beautiful eyes.
With that dick that should probably be licensed.
Fuck.
I think I’m in trouble.
Our little life has taken shape. Somehow, without either of us planning it, it’s become a rhythm—a soft, messy, ridiculous, weirdly sweet kind of rhythm.
Cracked mugs in the sink. A sock always missing.
Meal preps that devolve into makeout sessions and sex on the kitchen stool. It’s chaos, but it’s ours.
And today? Today marks one month since a six-foot-something mystery man with a concussion and no fucking name moved into my life and started stealing my heart like it was loose change in a cab seat.
I’m tossing off my shoes when the door flies open with a bang.
“Babe!” he yells, bounding inside like a golden retriever on espresso. His grin’s too wide. His hair’s wind-wrecked. His cast knocks into the doorframe, and he doesn’t even flinch. “Look! Look! Look!”
I barely get out a, “What the hell—?” before he’s right in front of me, waving an envelope like it’s a medal of honor.
He slams it down on the kitchen island with a reverent kind of drama. “First payment!” he declares, chest puffed, proud like he just bought us a goddamn house.
I blink. “Wait… is this—?”
“My paycheck,” he says, beaming like he just landed a Wall Street bonus instead of ringing up hot dogs and scratch-offs at 7AM. “All one hundred and seventy-two dollars and thirty-six cents.”
He could not be prouder if he tried. Shoulders squared. Smile weaponized. And then—he leans in, lowers his voice like he’s sharing state secrets.
“Also… I bought more condoms.”
I arch a brow, mouth twitching. “Are you saying we’re celebrating?”
He grins, full teeth, full danger. “I’m saying I’m a responsible adult now. A working man. Fully capable of dicking you down without putting you on accidental pregnancy watch.”
“Oh wow,” I say, crossing my arms, “is this what financial maturity looks like? Buying bulk rubbers at CVS?”
“Damn right,” he says, tugging me by the hips until I’m pressed against that annoyingly solid chest. “Also, the cashier gave me a thumbs up, so I think I’m thriving.”
I snort, shaking my head. “You’re a menace.”
“I’m your menace.”
“And what exactly does this celebration entail?” I ask, voice dropping just a little, lips ghosting over his.
He looks smug. Dangerous.
“I was thinking… something that works up a sweat. Uses all the muscles. One arm optional.”
I laugh. “So, you want me to ride you like a mechanical bull while your cast waves around like a drunk cheerleader?”
His eyes go hot. “...Yes.”
“Well,” I murmur, dragging my nails lightly down his chest, “You did bring home the bacon.”
“And the Trojans.”
“Then fuck it,” I say. “Let’s celebrate.”
He scoops me up so fast I yelp, but I’m laughing the whole way to the bed, paycheck long forgotten, but those condoms? About to be very well used.
----
Crash
Man, it is fucking glorious to have both arms again.
I feel like a goddamn superhero. No more weird one-armed shirt tucks. No more awkward “let me help you with that, sweetie” from old ladies at the gas station. No more Carol giving me that amused little smirk every time I tried to open a jar like I wasn’t about to have a hernia.
Doc says I healed up nice. Bones knitted like a champ. Cast off. No more meds. Carol asked about that twice, of course—because she’s thorough, and a bit of a control freak when it comes to painkillers, and also because she gives a damn, even if she pretends not to.
And yeah, I did another MRI. Same result.
Brain’s fine. Still no fucking memory. Two months out, and nada.
Zilch. My past is still locked behind some door that refuses to fucking budge.
But honestly? I’ve stopped looking over my shoulder expecting it to slap me in the face.
At this point, I don’t care what version of myself is back there—because this version?
He’s got a job. A shitty, minimum-wage, sugar-fueled, neon-lit gas station gig, but still.
It’s mine. My name might be made-up, but that paycheck is real.
I’ve got a toothbrush in Carol’s bathroom.
My own shampoo, okay? That shit smells like pine and mint and doesn’t have a pink label or glitter in it.
I’ve got a drawer that’s actually mine—and now that I’ve got two working arms, I can fold shirts like a semi-functioning adult instead of looking like I lost a fight with a towel.
Also, not to brag, but after some very passionate pleading—and maybe eating her out one or two times—Carol let me pay the water bill. Yeah. That’s right. I contribute now. I’m no longer just the guy eating leftovers and rearranging the couch pillows. I am the proud co-payer of H2-fucking-O.
And let’s not forget: I’ve got the hottest, snarkiest nurse in New York melting under me at night, whispering my name like she’s sure it’s real. And if that’s not a life worth living, I don’t know what the fuck is.
Normal-ass Wednesday.
Nothing wild, no revelations, no sudden flashbacks to a mysterious life or long-lost brother—just steak and mash for dinner because Carol felt like spoiling me and she was off shift early.
And listen, I don’t know what the fuck she does to her mashed potatoes, but they taste like heaven, childhood, and orgasms had a secret meeting and conspired to ruin all other food for me.
After that it’s The Crown, which she’s way too into for someone who calls everyone in power a “useless twat” on the regular.
But I sit there on the loveseat anyway, because I get to hold her, and honestly?
I’d sit through a six-hour documentary on British bricks if it meant her curled up under my arm, blanket over our legs, her hand absentmindedly running across my thigh like she doesn’t know she’s driving me insane.
And then comes bed time.
Which is no longer innocent.
At all.
“Bed time” is now code for: “we’re about to rock this mattress into early retirement.” Because we can’t keep our hands off each other. It’s primal. It’s desperate. It’s full of filthy murmurs and gritted teeth and that perfect moment right before she moans my name like she’s about to forget her own.
Carol, turns out, is very enthusiastic about blow jobs—like, Olympic-level committed.
Like, she’ll look up at me with those brown eyes, one hand on my thigh, the other wrapped around my cock, tongue fucking ruthless, and I’m left gasping like she knocked the wind out of me.
Every time. She acts like it’s dessert. Like my dick owes her rent and she’s collecting in full.
And then there’s doggy.
Fucking hell.
Her ass is… padded. Decadent. Made by whatever divine force was in a slutty mood that day. And the way she arches when I get behind her? That slow, teasing shift of her hips, hands braced on the mattress while she looks over her shoulder with that smug little smirk—it ends me.
Slapping against her, dragging moans out of her throat, hands gripping that ridiculous curve like it’s my lifeline. Her back dips. Her thighs tremble. And when she starts chanting “right there, don’t stop, don’t stop—” I black the fuck out.
So yeah. Just a normal-ass Wednesday.
Steak, The Crown, and Carol choking on my cock before I rearrange her guts.
10/10. Would repeat forever.
We collapse on the bed, both of us slick and spent and humming with the afterglow.
She’s so fucking soft afterward—always is.
Hair damp, cheeks flushed, body curled into mine like it was made to fit there.
My arm slung over her waist, nose buried in her neck, inhaling the warm-skin-sweaty-sweet scent of her.
That post-sex skin-to-skin high, where you just want the world to stay exactly like this.
And for a minute, it’s perfect. Quiet. Her breathing evens out, body loose in sleep.
I close my eyes, hoping to follow her into something blissfully blank. Just dark. Just nothing.
But no.
Not tonight.
Not this time.
----
“Alex, we need to be sure of the strategy…”
The voice comes sharp, smug, like he knows too much.
The man speaking is older—white hair, thick-framed glasses, and a cigar tucked between his fingers like it’s an extension of his soul.
His suit is expensive. Perfect. The kind of tailored that only comes with obscene money and a personal assistant named Charles.
I can see him—see the room too. Boardroom. Glass walls. Manhattan skyline out the back. Hardwood floor that clicks under leather soles. There’s tension in the air, thick and vicious.
And then—I hear myself.
“I’m sure of it.” My voice. Confident. Clipped. Cold.
Like I’ve said this a thousand times before. Like I don’t fucking care what he thinks.
“You need to trust me more.”
And then the old guy—Reginald, apparently—he grimaces like he just bit into something sour. But it’s not me he’s afraid of. It’s the weight I carry. The power behind my name. He’s worried. He should be.
“I do,” he says, cautious, eyes sharp. “That’s not the issue, but Alex, you must see how this is concerning—”
I cut him off like a whip. “My word is fucking final, Reginald.”
And it echoes. Loud. Dominant. Absolute.
----
I jolt awake like I’ve been sucker-punched in the goddamn chest.
Alex.
That name—my name—is echoing in my skull, still ringing in the spaces trauma cracked open. I don’t even realize I’m holding Carol tighter until she shifts, warm skin pressed to mine, and I feel her sleepy breath against my throat.
“Hey,” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “You okay?”
She rolls over, sheets slipping low on her chest, blonde hair tangled and wild, eyes wide and already scanning me like she’s assessing a patient crashing in real time.
I can’t answer. I can’t even breathe. I just look at her, barely blinking, until her fingers push gently through my hair.
“Crash, you’re pale as fuck…” she whispers, and yeah, her voice is soft—but there’s panic curled under it.
“I—” My throat locks. My tongue is sandpaper. “I had a memory,” I manage, voice hoarse.
That gets her sitting up fast. “What? Baby, that’s good, that’s fucking great!” she says, hands on me now, smoothing over my chest, my jaw, trying to ground me. “What do you remember?”
I stare at her. And for a second, fuck me, I almost don’t want to say it. Not because it’s bad. Not because she wouldn’t understand. But because the second I say it out loud, it’s real.
“I… I know my name,” I choke out.
Carol goes still. Frozen like I just rewrote the laws of the universe.
“That’s huge,” she says, voice barely a breath, eyes searching mine like she’s waiting for something to explode. “That’s fucking huge.”
I nod, like a puppet with loose strings.
“I’m Alex.”
The word comes easier now. Solid. Mine. It feels weird in my mouth, like trying on a jacket you forgot you owned.
Carol blinks, then says it back, like she’s testing how it sounds in the air.
“Alex.”
She smiles, but there’s a crease between her brows. Her fingers are still running down my chest, trying to soothe even though her brain is definitely racing a mile a minute.
“Alex…” she repeats, tasting it. “It suits you. Do you… do you remember your last name?”
I shake my head slowly. “No. Just the first.”
She exhales, not disappointed—just bracing. “Well, fuck. That’s something. That’s great, babe.”
And it is. It’s terrifying and exhilarating and grounding all at once.
I’m Alex.
But fuck if I know who the hell Alex really is.
It sits heavy in my chest. Like it unlocked one door only to show me ten more, each darker than the last. A name’s not a life. It’s not answers. It’s not knowing what I did or who I hurt or loved or left behind. It’s just… a word. Four fucking letters and a pit in my stomach.
Carol pulls me into her arms, presses her body into mine like she can hold the pieces together. Her fingers slip into my hair, soft and steady, grounding me.
“That means your brain is healing, baby. That’s good,” she whispers.
I nod, but my hands fist into the sheets before sliding around her waist, pulling her tighter. Like if I don’t, the fucking gravity in this room might throw me straight off the planet.
“Yeah… I guess so.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are gentle, but sharp too—cutting through the panic setting in my ribs.
“It’s okay to feel weird,” she says, like it’s fact. Like it’s not a fucking storm inside my chest.
“It is?” My voice cracks halfway through the question. I sound like a lost kid and I hate it.
She nods. No hesitation. “Of course it is. You’ve been living without a name, without a history, for two months. And now some of it’s creeping back in, but not all of it? That’s a mindfuck, babe. Don’t try to logic your way out of that—just feel it. Let it sit.”
I laugh—shaky, dry, half-mad. “Christ. You make trauma sound like a meditation retreat.”
She smirks. “Only difference is I’m not charging you four thousand dollars to cry in a forest and eat vegan soup.”
I snort, but it fades just as quick.
She cups my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. “Let’s give it time, okay? No pressure. No expectations. Just you, and me, and whatever the fuck comes next.”
I nod. Swallow down the mess in my throat.
“Okay,” I rasp. “Time. I can do that.”
Because right now, she is the only thing I’m sure of.
Not Alex.
Not the past.
Just Carol.