Chapter 2

Bringing a blind amnesiac billionaire to my Brooklyn attic was officially the craziest thing I'd ever done.

And I once ate gas station sushi on a dare.

"How many stairs did we climb?" Alex panted, gripping my arm like his life depended on it.

"Five flights," I said, fumbling with my keys. "Sorry, no elevator."

"It's fine." He was definitely not fine. The guy was sweating through his hospital gown.

I shoved the door open. "Welcome to Casa de Chloe."

Alex stepped inside, his hand trailing along the wall. The bandages around his eyes made him look like a really expensive mummy. "It's... cozy."

"It's shit," I corrected. "But it's cheap shit. Six hundred a month, water included."

My "apartment" was basically a converted storage room on the roof. One twin bed, one folding table, one mini-fridge that hummed like a dying cat. The bathroom was down the hall—shared with three other tenants who never cleaned it.

But it had a skylight. So there was that.

Alex bumped into the table, then the fridge, then finally found the bed and sat down. The springs creaked ominously under his weight.

"Where do I sleep?" he asked.

Oh. Right. I hadn't thought that far ahead.

"Um... the floor? I have a sleeping bag somewhere—"

"This bed is tiny," he said, patting the mattress. "We can share."

I nearly choked on my own spit. "WHAT?!"

"I'm blind, not perverted." He tilted his head in that way that somehow made him look innocent despite being a six-foot-something man in my bedroom. "I promise I won't look."

"You CAN'T look!"

"Exactly my point."

I wanted to argue, but he was smiling—that small, genuine smile that made my stomach do stupid flips. And honestly? The floor was concrete. I wasn't that cruel.

"Fine," I said. "But you're sleeping on the edge. And if you snore, you're out."

"Deal."

The first night was a disaster. The bed was barely big enough for me, let alone both of us. I clung to the wall while Alex took up exactly half the mattress like a gentleman. But somehow, I kept waking up with my hand dangling off the side, and his fingers wrapped around mine.

The second disaster came the next morning.

"I need to shower," Alex announced.

"Cool. Bathroom's down the hall. Third door on the right."

He stood up, then hesitated. "I can't... see the doors."

Oh. Right. Blind.

I grabbed his hand—his very large, very warm hand—and led him down the sketchy hallway. Mrs. Chen from 4B gave us a look. I ignored her.

"Okay," I said, stopping outside the bathroom. "It's small. Shower's straight ahead. Towel rack on your left. Don't slip, the floor's always wet because Todd from 4C is an animal."

"Got it. Thanks."

I waited outside, scrolling through my phone. Three new shifts at the coffee shop. Two emails about Mom's medical bills I couldn't afford to open. One text from my friend Maya: [Did you really bring a strange man home?? GIRL.]

Then I heard a crash.

"Alex?!"

"I'm fine!" His voice was strained. "Just... slipped."

I burst through the door. He was sitting on the tile floor in nothing but boxers, looking embarrassed and somehow still devastatingly handsome. Water dripped from his hair onto his shoulders.

My face combusted. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I should've—"

"It's fine." He held out his hand. "Help me up?"

I grabbed his hand and hauled him to his feet, trying very hard not to notice his abs. Or his arms. Or literally anything about his body.

"Careful," I said, my voice way too high. "The floor's slippery."

"I noticed." He smiled—actually smiled—and I wanted to die. "Thanks for the rescue."

From that day on, I stood guard outside every time he showered. He'd call out when he was done: "Chloe, come get me." Like a kid. Like a very tall, very built kid who made my heart race every time he said my name.

The weirdest part? How quickly it became normal.

Alex insisted on helping around the apartment. He couldn't see, but his hands remembered things. He could dice vegetables perfectly, fold laundry without wrinkling anything, and somehow knew exactly where I'd left my keys even when I didn't.

"Where did you learn to cook?" I asked one night, watching him chop onions like a professional chef.

He frowned. "I don't know. My hands just... remember."

That happened a lot. Little flashes of muscle memory that made him pause, confused. Like his body knew who he was even if his mind didn't.

The nightmares were the worst part.

He'd wake up thrashing, shouting "Don't kill me" or "No, please" in this broken voice that made my chest ache. The first time it happened, I climbed down from the bed and grabbed his shoulders.

"Hey, hey, you're safe," I whispered. "I'm here."

He pulled me close, still half-asleep, his face buried in my hair. "Don't leave," he mumbled. "Please don't leave."

"I won't," I promised. "I'm right here."

He fell back asleep with his arms around me. I stayed there until morning.

Two weeks in, I came home from my shift at the coffee shop to find him sitting by the skylight, his face tilted toward the weak winter sun.

"Rough day?" he asked.

"How did you—"

"Your footsteps were heavier. And you smell more like coffee than usual."

I collapsed onto the bed. "Three espresso machines broke. My manager yelled at me for twenty minutes. And some guy asked for a 'skinny venti iced caramel macchiato upside down with extra whip' then got mad when it wasn't diet enough."

Alex laughed—that low, rich sound that always caught me off guard. "Come here."

"Why?"

"Just come here."

I sat down next to him. He turned toward me, his hand reaching out. His fingers found my face, gentle and careful.

"What are you doing?" My voice came out weird.

"I want to see you," he said quietly. "Is that okay?"

My heart stopped. "Okay."

His fingers traced my eyebrows, the bridge of my nose, my cheekbones. His touch was so light it almost tickled.

"You have long eyelashes," he murmured. "I can feel them flutter."

I couldn't breathe.

His thumb brushed my lower lip. "There's a scar here."

"Fell off a bike when I was seven."

"Cute." He smiled, his fingers lingering on the scar.

We were so close I could feel his breath on my skin. The air between us felt electric, charged with something I was too scared to name.

"Chloe," he said softly. "I don't know who I was before. But I know I want to be someone worthy of you."

My throat tightened. "You already are."

We stayed like that, frozen in the moment, his hand on my face and my heart in my throat.

Then my phone buzzed. Work emergency. The spell broke.

That night, I couldn't sleep. Alex's breathing was steady on the floor, but my mind was racing.

What if he got his memory back? What if he remembered he was a billionaire and left? What if he had a girlfriend, a fiancée, a whole other life?

I reached down, just to make sure he was still there.

His hand caught mine.

"Can't sleep?" His voice was soft in the darkness.

"I thought you were asleep."

"I'm always aware of you." There was something in his voice I couldn't quite read. "Every breath, every move. I'm always listening."

He brought my hand to his lips and kissed my palm—just once, barely there.

"Goodnight, Chloe. Sweet dreams."

My whole hand was burning.

Oh god. I was in trouble.

I was falling for him.