Leo's hand rested on the doorknob. Two minutes ago, he'd found pants. Sweatpants, technically, though they strained across his thighs and stomach in ways that made him want to burn them immediately. The shirt situation was worse—he'd settled on what appeared to be the least disgusting option, a black t-shirt with some anime girl on it that at least covered his new gut.
He took a breath, the first one in this body that wasn't colored by panic or disgust. Time to face whatever waited on the other side.
He turned the knob and stepped out.
The contrast hit him like a counter-punch. The hallway stretched before him, a runway of polished marble that reflected a distorted, bloated version of himself back up. Ceilings soared overhead, easily twenty feet high. Light poured in through windows that rose from floor to ceiling, bathing everything in gold.
What the actual fuck.
His boxer's mind, used to calculating distances within the tight confines of a ring, couldn't process this much space. The ring was 20 feet square. This hallway alone could fit four of them, and it led to what looked like a proper mansion's worth of rooms beyond.
He felt like a rat that had somehow wandered into a museum after hours.
Then a scent cut through his visual overload. Roasted garlic. Herbs he couldn't name. Something rich and meaty that made his stomach rumble with a force that shocked him.
His feet moved on their own, following that smell like it was salvation. Which, in a way, it was. Food meant people. People meant answers.
The hallway opened into what had to be the main area of the house. A curved staircase swept upward to his right, the kind of thing he'd only seen in movies where the beautiful girl makes her entrance. To his left, sunken living space with couches that probably cost more than any car he'd ever owned.
Straight ahead, the source of that smell.
He approached what turned out to be the kitchen entrance, pausing at the threshold. The space before him was almost clinical in its perfection. Marble countertops gleamed under recessed lighting. Stainless steel appliances reflected the room back at him. An island in the center had four stools lined up like sentries.
Everything was clean. Pristine.
He looked down at his hands—greasy, grimy, the undersides of his nails black with God-knows-what.
No way I'm touching anything in there looking like this.
A memory from his old life surfaced. His trainer screaming at him for coming to the gym without washing his hands. "You respect the space or you get out of it!"
A door to his right caught his eye. Half-bath, small but just as spotless as everything else. He ducked inside, cranking the hot water and pumping soap into his palms three times. He scrubbed until his skin hurt, watching the water run black, then gray, then finally clear. He reached for a hand towel that felt softer than any shirt he'd ever owned.
That's when he heard it. A soft, sharp intake of breath from the kitchen doorway.
He turned.
She stood there, framed by the kitchen's light like some Renaissance painting. Honey-blonde hair fell past her shoulders in waves that caught the light. Her face—God, her face—had the kind of beauty that time had only made more interesting. Fine lines at the corners of blue eyes that watched him with visible surprise. High cheekbones, a soft jaw, full lips parted slightly.
His eyes moved down. A pale blue sweater draped over a full bust. A cream-colored apron cinched tight around a narrow waist, highlighting the flare of generous hips. Her legs were long, wrapped in well-fitted jeans that disappeared into simple house slippers.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
He forced himself to breathe, using techniques he'd learned to prevent cardiac arrest for an entirely different kind of heart attack.
"Leo." Her voice matched the rest of her—warm, melodic, with a note of genuine pleasure. "You're up. I was starting to worry the fever wasn't breaking."
She stepped closer. He could smell her now—vanilla and something floral, jasmine maybe.
"I'm so glad you're feeling better. Are you hungry? I made pot roast. Your favorite."
His brain short-circuited. She was looking at him expectantly, waiting for a response. His mouth opened, but only one confused word came out.
"...Mom?"
The atmosphere shifted immediately. Her smile faltered, replaced by a crease of concern between her eyebrows.
"'Mom'?" She repeated, moving toward him with increased urgency. "Leo, you've never called me that before. Are you feeling alright? Maybe we should call Dr. Patel."
Shit. Not mom. Who is she? Who am I to her? Brain, work with me here!
She closed the distance between them, raising one soft hand to his forehead. The touch sent electricity through him. It was the first kind contact he'd felt in this body. Maybe the first kind contact this body had felt in years.
"You don't feel hot anymore," she murmured, her face inches from his. From this close, he could see that her eyes weren't just blue—they had flecks of darker color near the pupils, making them impossibly deep. "But you're not acting like yourself."
His focus sharpened. This was his opening.
"Sorry, my brain's still a little foggy from being sick," he said, trying to sound sheepish. "Everything feels kind of... jumbled. Maybe some food would help my memory?"
The worry in her expression didn't completely disappear, but it softened. She lowered her hand, letting her fingers trail down his arm.
"Of course. You haven't eaten properly in days. Come sit down."
She turned back toward the kitchen, and he followed, watching the sway of her hips with an attention that would've been inappropriate if he'd been thinking clearly.
No way. No way this fat slob landed a woman like this. Stepmom? Has to be. What's her name? Think, damnit.
The kitchen island had already been set for two. She guided him to one of the stools, moving with the easy confidence of someone who owned the space. A large pot roast sat on a serving platter, surrounded by carrots and potatoes. She cut several thick slices, placing them on his plate along with generous sides.
"Don't try to eat too much at once," she cautioned. "Your stomach might still be sensitive."
He nodded, picking up his fork. The first bite hit his tongue, and he nearly groaned. The meat was tender, falling apart with barely any pressure. The flavor was rich, complex, better than anything he'd ever tasted.
He'd been on a specialized diet in his old life—lean proteins, minimal fats, carefully measured carbs. Even before the heart condition, he'd eaten for function, not pleasure.
This was pleasure.
He ate without speaking, each bite better than the last. Halfway through his plate, he realized she wasn't eating. Her own plate sat untouched as she watched him with a small, almost wistful smile.
"Aren't you going to eat?" he asked between bites.
The question seemed to surprise her. She blinked, glancing down at her food as if she'd forgotten it was there.
"Oh. Yes, of course." She picked up her fork, spearing a small piece of carrot. "It's just... it's been a while since I've had company for dinner."
Something in her voice made him pause. There was a loneliness there, a resigned acceptance that didn't match the rest of her. Before he could pursue the thought, his brain finally supplied a name.
Evelyn.
He was about to use it, to test if his memory was correct, when the back door swung open with a bang.
A girl stormed in. She looked about his age, with dark hair cut in an asymmetrical style that somehow managed to be both chaotic and deliberate. Her outfit—frayed denim shorts and a band t-shirt he didn't recognize—screamed rebellion. Multiple piercings lined her ears, and a small stud glinted in her nose.
She stopped dead when she saw him, her face contorting into an expression of pure disgust.
"Why are you out of that little rat hole of yours?" she spat, addressing him directly. "Did the Wi-Fi finally go out, or did you run out of tissue for your jack-off sessions?"
"Noel." Evelyn's voice sharpened, though it still carried that underlying gentleness. "That's enough. Leo's been sick. He's just now feeling well enough to join us."
The girl snorted. "Sick? Yeah, I bet. Probably caught something from one of those disgusting sites he's always on."
Her eyes narrowed as she looked at his plate. "And of course he's eating. When is he not?"
Leo set his fork down slowly.
Amateur hour.
He'd faced opponents who tried to psych him out before matches. Guys twice her size with actual murder in their eyes. This little girl thought she was scary?
Cute.
"Sorry, I didn't catch your name," he said, his voice deliberately casual. "Do you work here or something?"
Her mouth dropped open. Even Evelyn looked shocked.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Noel sputtered. "I'm Noel, you brain-dead waste of space. I've only lived here my entire life!"
He looked at Evelyn, raising his eyebrows in a show of confusion. "I'm sorry, I'm still a little confused from the fever. Noel is...?"
Evelyn's shock transformed into something like alarm. "Leo, Noel is my daughter. Your... she's Arthur's daughter. You've lived with us for seven years."
Daughter. Not stepmom then. This is getting interesting.
"Right," he said slowly. "Sorry, everything's just... jumbled. Like I can't quite connect faces to memories."
"Bullshit," Noel hissed. "You're faking it. This is just another pathetic attempt to get Mom to baby you."
Evelyn turned to her daughter, voice firmer now. "Noel, that's enough. Leo's been very ill. If he's having memory issues, we need to take that seriously."
"Oh my God, he has you completely fooled." Noel rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful. "Fine. Whatever. Play nursemaid to the charity case. I'm going upstairs."
She grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl, deliberately bumping Leo's shoulder as she passed—hard enough that he would have stumbled if he'd been standing.
"This isn't over," she whispered, too low for Evelyn to hear. Then she was gone, stomping up the curved staircase he'd admired earlier.
Leo looked back at Evelyn, whose face had crumpled into an expression of embarrassed apology.
"I'm so sorry about that," she said. "Noel has been... difficult lately. More than usual."
"How many daughters do you have?" he asked, testing the waters. If he played the amnesia card, he needed to know how much information to pretend to be missing.
Evelyn's worried look intensified. "Three. Victoria is the eldest—she's at work. Noel you just met. And Chloe, the youngest, is at volleyball practice." She hesitated. "Leo, if you're truly having trouble remembering basic things, we should call Dr. Patel."
He waved her off, making himself smile. "No, it's coming back. Just slowly. Like waking up from a really deep sleep, you know? I remember... Arthur. Your husband?"
"Yes. He's in San Francisco for business. He'll be back... when his meetings conclude."
She looked down at her plate, pushing a piece of potato around with her fork. "We should probably let him know you've been ill, though I hate to bother him during negotiations."
"Don't worry about it," Leo said, returning to his food. "I'm feeling better already. Especially with food this good."
Her smile returned, small but genuine. "I'm glad you like it. I wasn't sure if your appetite had changed."
Lady, you have no idea how much has changed.