There’s a tap on my door and I stop punching the pillow to look up as the door swings open.

He’s back. He’s been gone for most of the past three days, and I’ve wondered. I shouldn’t have, but I’ve found myself pulled back to him despite my best intentions.

“What did the pillow do?”

I smooth it and flush. “Nothing. It didn’t do—where have you been?”

He arches an eyebrow and grins at me, and I look away. He doesn’t answer immediately, stalking deeper into the room and dropping into the chair next to my bed. He sprawls there, ridiculously comfortable, and I almost want to dislike him for it. There’s a confident air that wraps around him. He’s covered in tattoos—I can see them more with the tshirt he’s wearing—and he smiles as if the world is waiting for him to grace it with his presence. “Did you miss me, sweetheart?”

The term of endearment confirms what I’ve begun suspecting—he isn’t a nurse.

“I don’t know. I don’t know you so I don’t suppose I could miss you,” I answer honestly. His smile falters, and I feel like I said the wrong thing. Like he is waiting for something from me. “Do I?” I blurt, suddenly. His eyes dart up to mine and his grin fails completely.

“Do you what?” he asks hoarsely.

I almost ask. I think he want me to. But there is something terrifying and deep in his eyes, something I’m not ready to face. So I make a face, and shake my head. Twitch my blanket over my cast.

The accident that stole my memory also shattered my leg, my left arm, and four ribs. I’m told I’m lucky. That the amnesia might pass, that the leg will heal, and my bruises will fade. I’ll walk, and I’ll lead a normal life.

“The girl who came in with me. Do you know anything about her?”

“She’s still touch and go,” he says, and something about his voice jerks my gaze up to him.

There’s grief there. Surprising.

“Why are you here?” I ask, abruptly.

For the first time, he looks nervous. He rubs his hands on his jeans, and then leans forward, digging into the bag he carried into the room.

“I brought you some stuff. Books. Music. A couple movies are loaded on the tablet. And you can google shit if you want. I know that it’s not your memory, but I want to help you. I want to do what I can to help you figure out who you are and where you come from.”

He’s staring at me, his face open and earnest, hopeful.

“What’s your name?” I whisper.

Why does he look so sad? “Rike. Riker Johnston.”

I smile and extend my hand, the one that is still hooked up to IVs, my fingers splinted and half-healed. For a moment, I feel a flash of embarrassment. But his hand, covering mine, is warm and impossibly careful, and I want to bask in the feel of it.

“I’m Peyton Collins,” I says softly. Almost shyly.

“Hi, Pey,” he murmurs, and it soothes me. I don’t want to think about why.

***

We watch a movie and it’s interesting, but when it’s over, that’s all it was. Interesting. Not a clue to who I am. But Rike laughs and it’s relaxing, just hanging out with him. There aren’t questioning stares from doctors and nurses, barely veiled sympathy that makes my stomach hurt.

He’s just present.

When the movie ends, the night is dark outside my window. He stretches and stands. “I should go. I’m surprised they haven’t kicked me out yet.”

“Do you have to go?” I ask, and then slap a hand over my lips. I shouldn’t have asked that. His eyes are watching me, assessing, and I make a half-smile, half-grimace. “Sorry. I appreciate you being here. That’s all. Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure, sweetheart. Would you like me to come back tomorrow?”

I want to say yes. Because there is nothing familiar, in my world. There is only him. He is becoming a touchstone of familiar.

“If you’d like to,” I answer, trying not to be demanding.

His head tilts to the side. “I’ll make a deal with you, Peyton. If you will tell me something you learned about yourself—I’ll come back. But you have to learn something. About who you are or who you were. Deal?”

I blink at him. Rike is staring at me, and there’s a wild hope in his eyes. He wants me to do this. It matters.

And it’s a helluva a lot better than trying dream therapy with an idiotic shrink.

“How do I tell you?”

A wide smile spreads across his face, and he pulls out a phone. “It’s cheap. Just a prepaid thing. I programmed my number in here. I want you to text or call when you’ve figured it out. One thing, ok?”

“What if you’re busy?”

His eyes darken, and my breath catches in my throat. “I won’t be. I won’t ever be too busy for you, Peyton.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I just bob a quick nod and his tension eases a little. He hesitates, and then hands me a small, leather-bound book. “This was in your purse when you were brought in. I wanted you to have it.”

I take it from him with numb fingers and he leans down, brushing a kiss over my hair. It takes everything in me to keep from shivering.

“I hope I see you tomorrow, Peyton,” he murmurs. Then he walks to the door. Pauses there and grins over his shoulder at me. “Knock, knock.”

A silly smile tugs my lips. “Who’s there?”

“Cows go.”

“Cows go who?”

He smirks. “Cows go moo, not who.”

I giggle, and he winks at me, and then he’s gone.

And I’m alone. With my thoughts and a tablet.

I could Google. I can’t imagine I was a girl who didn’t like social media. But I think using that to get a fact is cheating. The notebook is sitting in my lap, with the cell phone. It was mine. Why is that terrifying?

I take a deep breath and flip it open.

The pages are covered in neat, tiny script, looping little letters. I stare at it for a moment, my gaze skimming the page before I flip to the next. And the next. Page after page.

Poetry.

And it's gorgeous. I flip through the book slowly, reading the poetry. It's everything from Thoreau and Frost to people I've never heard of. I'm tempted to Google them, and I finally reach for my own notebook. Jot down a few things to look up tomorrow, before I settle into the pillows and read.

It’s hours later when the nurse comes in to check my vitals. Her gaze tracks over me and the array of books and the open notebook. Her gaze brightens and she gives me a smile. “Remember anything, Peyton?”

I make a face and shake my head. She clucks softly. “The doctor is talking to your parents tomorrow.”

I shift and straighten. “I would really prefer he didn’t.”

Her eyes widen, and I bite my tongue. Why the hell did I say that? I don’t know. But the mere idea of him discussing my medical condition with my parents makes me want to crawl into a hole and hide from everyone. And fire him immediately.

“Please let him know I want to be consulted before he reaches out to anyone. I’m sure that I’m protected by privacy laws.” I say it evenly, but I’m seething. Just because I’ve lost a chunk of my memory doesn’t mean I don’t remember basic privacy.

Her face goes white and she bobs a nod as she goes quiet and finishes taking my stats. Then she’s gone and I’m left staring at the notebook of beautiful words, and the unshakable feeling that I don’t—didn’t—like my parents.

The why is a lot harder to figure out.

I pick up the phone and text quickly:

Peyton : I know my one thing.

Rike : Tell me. Blow me away.

Peyton : Don’t be pushy. You said one thing. Not blow-you-away revelations.

I can hear him laughing even though he’s not here. I grin, and tap out quickly.

Peyton : I’ll tell you tomorrow. Thanks for keeping me company tonight.

I wait a moment for a response, but none comes. And I’m okay with that.

I lean back on the bed and lose myself in the words on the page, until my eyes are too heavy to stay open, and all I can see is beauty.