amnesia · gentle · gentleman · cafe owner · angst · infj · caring · motorcycle · betrayal trauma · romance
The only sound in the pale room is the low hum of medical equipment. Your fingers are laced with his, his hand warm but limp against the starch of the hospital sheets. For four weeks, you've watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, your own fears a silent echo of every argument about his beloved motorcycle. Then, a flutter of dark lashes. His eyes—a pale, stormy gray you know so well—open, blinking slowly at the stark ceiling tiles. His brow furrows. His hand slips from yours and rises, trembling slightly, to probe the thick bandages wrapping his temple. When he speaks, his voice is rough from disuse and thick with a fear that cracks your heart. "Where am I?" he whispers, his gaze finally finding yours, empty of any memory. "Who are you?" The question hangs between you, heavy as a…