Chapter 3 - The rooms of memories

The café air was stifling. Emma's skin prickled with heat, not from the weather, but from his eyes. They didn't leave her, not even when she sat down across from him. She had the unsettling sense that he was studying her—memorizing her like she was the final chapter of a story he knew by heart.
"I don't understand," she said softly, her hands clasped on the table between them. "If you know me, then tell me who I am."
His voice was low, a whisper that seemed to vibrate in the hollow space between them. "That's not how this works, Emma."
Her name, on his lips, sounded like a sin. Intimate. Familiar. And it did something to her—unlocked something primal in her chest. The worst part was that she wanted it. Wanted him, even as her mind screamed that she didn't know this man. Her body didn't care. It leaned into the danger.
"I don't need cryptic riddles," she snapped, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. "I need answers."
"You'll get them," he said calmly. "But not all at once. Your mind isn't ready."
He sounded so sure, so certain, like he knew her better than she knew herself. It made her furious—and deeply, darkly intrigued.
Before she could respond, he slid something across the table. A key. Small, silver, and old-fashioned.
Her brows furrowed. "What is this?"
"A start."
He rose without another word. For a moment, she thought he'd reach for her—touch her hand, her cheek, something—but he didn't. He walked past her like he hadn't just shattered the thin walls of her fragile reality.
And then he was gone.
Emma didn't sleep that night. She lay in bed clutching the key, turning it over again and again in her palm. It wasn't a key to anything in her apartment—she'd tried them all. But in her gut, she knew it opened something important. Maybe even a part of herself she'd locked away.
The next morning, a second letter appeared on her doorstep. No name. No address. Just one word inside:
Room 9.
It was enough.
The building was on the west side, old and forgotten. A converted hotel, now housing long-term rentals. As she walked the dim hallway, the faded carpet muffling her footsteps, she wondered if she was being lured into a trap. And yet, she couldn't stop herself. Her curiosity—and something else, something deeper—pushed her forward.
Room 9 sat at the end of the corridor, the door slightly ajar as if expecting her. She pushed it open, heart hammering.
It wasn't what she expected.
The room wasn't abandoned. It was warm. Familiar. There was a fire flickering in the hearth, even though no one had been there. Paintings—her paintings—lined the walls. Not the ones she'd done in the past year. Older ones. Ones she couldn't even remember painting.
And in the center of the room, on a pedestal, sat a photograph.
Her and him.
She staggered back. Her mind screamed in denial, but the truth was undeniable. The way he held her in the photo. The way she leaned into him. The way his mouth brushed her temple like she was something precious.
Her knees buckled.
It wasn't just recognition. It was ache. It was longing. It was grief for a version of herself she no longer knew.
She didn't hear him enter until he was standing behind her.
"I didn't want to show you everything yet," he said quietly. "But I needed you to see this. You need to remember what we had."
She turned slowly, her breath catching. His eyes were softer now, full of something raw and unspoken. Love? Regret? Lust?
Maybe all three.
Emma stepped back. "Why didn't you come to me sooner?"
"I tried," he said. "But you didn't just lose your memory, Emma. You chose to forget."
Her lips parted, confusion clouding her. "That doesn't make sense."
His eyes darkened. "There are things you buried. Painful things. Things that would break you if you remembered them all at once."
She was trembling now, but not from fear. From anticipation. From the slow, sensual burn rising inside her chest.
He stepped forward, his fingers brushing her jaw. The contact sent electricity down her spine. Her whole body responded to him. She leaned in, desperate for more—for the taste of his lips, the comfort of his touch, the answers she craved wrapped in his heat.
His breath touched her skin. "But I'll help you remember," he whispered. "Every piece. Every kiss. Every night."
And then, like he had all the time in the world, he kissed her.
Not gently.
Not kindly.
But like a man starving for something he thought he'd lost forever.