She Writes Her Own Heartbeat

POV: Samantha

It’s weird, really, how someone can slip into your life without warning.

Like... one minute you’re dragging some rain-soaked stranger off the pavement, lying through your teeth about being his girlfriend—and the next, you’re making two cups of tea without even thinking.

That’s what I did this morning. Kettle on, two mugs out - sugar in mine, none in his.

It wasn’t until I handed him the cup that I realised I’d done it exactly how he likes it. Automatically. Like I’d known him for years instead of just... what, four days?

He looked at the mug, then at me, those sharp eyes narrowing slightly. “You remembered.”

I gave a shrug that felt way too casual. “Probably just... muscle memory or something.”

He didn’t say anything else. Just took a sip and turned back to the window.

The early light poured in like a soft grey filter across his face, and he stood there with that ridiculous posture - tall, quiet, composed. Like a painting or a dream.

I told myself not to stare. Not to care.

I failed at both. Again.

***

He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. Not even close.

It’s in the small things, the kind of stuff you wouldn’t notice unless you were paying attention... which apparently I am.

Like how he fixed the wardrobe door again without being asked. Or how he folds the dish towels so precisely - perfect thirds, every time. And then there’s the way he eats: back straight, napkin in lap, elbows in. Like he was raised in a manor house and not in front of a telly with a plastic tray like the rest of us.

There’s no way we grew up the same.

But I didn’t ask.

Because asking means answers, and I’m not sure I want them. Not yet.

***

“You should go out today,” I said while pulling on my coat. “Bit of air might help... jog something.”

He frowned, glancing towards the window like the street might bite him. “What if someone sees me?”

I hesitated with my keys halfway into my pocket. “Then... we deal with it. Together.”

He didn’t seem convinced. “I’m not ready to be found.”

I gave a small nod. “That’s okay. Just... don’t get lost.”

He smiled faintly, and - God help me - I felt it in my stomach.

***

When I got back, carrying way too many groceries because I refused to bring the trolley again.

Shit,I cussed to no one in particular.

I found him already inside.

Barefoot,cross-legged on the futon with a notebook open next to him like a uni student mid-essay.

“Where’d you get that?” I asked, eyeing the leather cover.

“Kitchen drawer,” he replied carefully, glancing up.

“Hope that’s alright.” he asked hopefully.

“Yeah.....no,it’s fine,” I said, dumping the shopping bags right on the counter.

“What were you writing?”

He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure whether to lie. “Just... trying to make sense of things.”

I moved closer, curiosity getting the better of me. The pages were filled with tight, slanted handwriting - clean, consistent. Not the frantic scrawl you’d expect from someone with a scrambled brain.

“Your handwriting’s... really nice,” I said before thinking.

He looked up again. His gaze fixated on me, unreadable. “You notice a lot.”

I scratched the back of my neck. “Maybe I’m just nosy.”

“Maybe,” he murmured. “Or maybe you’re not just some stranger who helped me.”

I didn’t say anything to that.

Couldn’t, really.

***

The next day, I came home from the Cafe and nearly tripped over myself. The flat was... spotless.

I don’t mean tidy. I mean clean like deep clean. Shelves dusted, the crusty old grime behind the cooker knobs that has been there since forever was gone and even the moles I've ignored for months. Stuff I hadn’t touched in months.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I said silently, trying to act like my jaw wasn’t on the floor.

He stood there in the kitchen like it was no big deal. “Needed something to do. You were gone a while.”

“I work at a café” I reminded him, tossing my bag on the sofa. “Time slows down in there.”

He smiled. “Any good ones come in today?”

And the thing is - he meant it. It wasn’t polite chit-chat. He genuinely wanted to know.

So I told him about this man who bought three espressos, and asked me for my number each time. He laughed - honestly. Not that forced, polite laugh people do, but warm and real.

And that’s when I felt it. The quiet, terrifying realisation:

I liked coming home to him.

***

Dinner was just spaghetti. Tinned sauce, dry noodles, nothing special. But he ate it like it was some gourmet masterpiece. Even folded his napkin into a neat little triangle when he was done.

“Thank you,” he said, sincere and soft.

I blinked at him. “You’re really... proper.”

“Proper?”

“Tidy. Polite. Like - posh but not annoying about it.”

He tilted his head slightly, thoughtful. “Wasn’t that how I was?”

“No, it’s just... people who wind up passed out in the rain don’t usually fold napkins.”

His gaze met mine. Calm. Steady. “Maybe I’m not most people.”

I swallowed. “Yeah. I don’t think you are.”

The silence after that felt loaded. But not heavy. Just... full.

***

That night, I couldn’t help myself.

I watched him sleep.

Yeah, I know. Creepy. But he looked so peaceful, stretched out on the futon, one arm flung above his head like some boy who’d never had to stress about anything.

But he had. I knew it.

I saw it in how his body tensed at sudden noises, how he checked the front door twice even though it was locked.

He was running from something. Or someone.

Maybe even himself.

But for now... he was here. And I didn’t want that to change.

***

Next morning, I was brushing my teeth when he called from the kitchen.

“What do you usually have for breakfast?”

I spat into the sink. “Coffee. Maybe toast. Mostly regret.”

He laughed. Like, really laughed. “I can’t cook, but I can try toast. Maybe even a very sad omelette.”

When I stepped out, he was at the stove, sleeves rolled up, whisking eggs in my chipped old mixing bowl like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“You really don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he cut in, gentle.

So I let him.

We ate in silence again, but it wasn’t the same. It felt like something new. A pattern. A rhythm.

Something dangerously close to... normal.

***

As he cleared the plates, I blurted it out before I could second-guess myself.

“You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

He paused. “Where would I sleep, then?”

I hesitated, heart thudding. “The bed’s big enough. Just - sleeping, obviously.”

His eyes flicked to mine. And for a second, I braced for a joke or a smirk or something cheeky.

But he just said, “Only if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

***

That night, we laid side by side in the dark, not touching.

Not speaking at first. Just... there.

Outside, the rain pattered softly—same as the night I found him.

Only this time, I wasn’t alone.

After a while, he whispered, “Thank you.”

I kept my eyes on the ceiling. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“Yes, I do,” he said. “You saved me, Samantha. Even if I don’t know who I was... I know I was lost before I met you.”

My chest tightened.

Because deep down, I knew the truth.

Maybe I was a little lost too.

And maybe saving him was the closest I’d come to saving myself.