Chapter 25 What feels real

Chapter 25 What feels real

SAMARA – POV

The cough tears through my throat, leaving it raw and burning.

There is warmth on my skin.

Not the violent fire that burned through me before. This is quieter. Closer. Steady in a way that makes my body hesitate before trusting it.

Hands.

Holding me.

My breath stutters as I drag in air that feels too sharp, too cold, too real. My chest aches with it, like I have forgotten how to breathe properly and my body is forcing itself to remember.

My eye lids feel heavy as I try to force them to open.

Everything swims.

Light fractures into blurred shapes. The ceiling stretches and bends like I am still underwater, like I have not fully surfaced.

I blink.

Once.

Twice.

The world slowly pulls into place.

And then—

Derrick fills my entire vision.

His hands are on my face, firm but careful, like he is holding something fragile that might break if he lets go. His thumbs brushing away tears I hadn't realised were flowing.

His eyes lock onto mine.

I have never seen them like this.

Worry and fear blowing out his pupils that the bright blue I've always knows is nearly gone.

But there is something else there, in the way his brow pulls together. The way the corners of his eyes crinkle just a little.

“Sam,” he breathes, like the word has been dragged out of him. “Sam, stay with me. Look at me.”

His voice shakes under the control he is forcing into it.

Before I can react, he pulls me closer, his forehead brushing mine for the briefest second.

Then he kisses my forehead.

My cheek.

My temple.

Quick, uneven, desperate touches like he is trying to prove I am real.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

My thoughts stumble.

This feels too real. But it can't be. Derrick would never..

“I…” My voice cracks. “You’re not—”

I shake my head weakly, trying to pull back, but my body does not listen. My fingers lift just enough to brush against his wrist.

“You’re not here,” I whisper. “This isn’t real.”

Because I have seen him.

Over and over.

In fire.

In blood.

In places that felt too real to be dreams.

“You’re not real,” I say again, softer now. “You’re just another—”

His grip tightens slightly.

Not enough to hurt but enough to stop me from drifting away again.

“I’m here, baby,” he says quietly. “I’m real. You’re safe.”

Safe.

The word feels distant.

Because nothing feels safe.

Not my body.

Not my mind.

Not the way looking at him makes something inside me pull tight, like I am trying to remember something I am not supposed to know.

I study his face. Really looking at him and something shifts.

Images flicker behind my eyes.

Sand.

Blood.

Light.

His face—

always his face.

The same eyes.

The same voice.

The same—

“I know you,” I whisper.

The words slip out before I can stop them.

Then he nods quickly, like he has found something solid to hold onto.

“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “Yeah, you know me. It’s me. It’s Derrick.”

His hands slide down to my arms, steadying me.

“You’re here. You’re safe. Everything’s okay.”

But something inside me resists that.

I shake my head again, more urgently this time.

“No,” I whisper. “Not like that.”

My fingers tighten in his shirt.

“I know you from before.”

The room goes quiet.

He doesn’t interrupt or correct me.

He just watches.

I swallow, trying to pull the pieces together.

“I saw you,” I say, my voice trembling now. “I saw you.”

The words come faster now, more certain.

“You were a soldier,” I continue, breath catching. “There was sand and blood and you were hurt and I—”

My chest tightens sharply. The memory pressing in too close.

“And then—” I shake my head, trying to hold onto it before it slips away. “And then you had wings.”

The words fall into the room.

“You had wings,” I repeat, quieter now.

Derrick goes completely still. Something flickers behind his eyes.

Too fast to understand.

“Sam—”

“You fell in the forest.”

Catherine’s voice cuts in, steady and immediate.

I turn my head slightly, disoriented, and find her standing near the foot of the bed.

Calm as ever. Like she has already decided what this moment is supposed to be.

“Derrick found you and brought you back,” she continues. “You’ve been unconscious for two days.”

Two days.

The words don’t land properly.

They just… sit there.

“You most likely have a concussion,” she adds. “That can cause confusion. Vivid dreams. Memory distortion.”

Dreams.

My gaze drifts back to Derrick.

He has pulled his hands from my arms now.

Slowly.

Carefully.

But he hasn’t moved away.

His eyes are still on me.

Still searching.

Still watching like I might disappear if he looks away.

“They didn’t feel like dreams,” I say quietly.

My voice sounds small.

Uncertain.

“They felt… real.”

Catherine steps closer, her tone softening just slightly.

“That’s what head trauma does,” she says.

“It pulls things together. Memories, imagination, things you’ve heard before. It can make them feel completely real.”

Fragments. That’s what it felt like.

Pieces that didn’t belong to me.

Except— in a way they did.

“I saw things,” I whisper. “Places. People. I—”

My throat tightens.

“I knew things,” I whisper. “Things I’ve never—”

My voice breaks.

“This doesn’t make sense.”

“No,” Catherine says. “It doesn’t. But you’ve been through something traumatic. Your body is still catching up. So is your mind.”

It makes sense.

But something in me pushes back.

Because when I look at him—

it isn’t confusion I feel.

It is recognition.

“Why do I feel like I know you?” I ask.

“You do,” Catherine answers quickly. “You’ve known Derrick your whole life. He helped raise you. Of course your brain is going to anchor to something familiar.”

The explanation fits too neatly.

I look back at him.

Still searching.

Still trying to match the feeling in my chest to the words I am being given.

“I don’t think that’s it,” I whisper.

Silence fills the room again.

Heavy.

I swallow hard.

“If it wasn’t real,” I say slowly, my voice unsteady, “then why does it feel like I lost something?”

The question hangs there, but even I don't know what I mean.

But I feel it.

Deep.

Like grief without a name.

My fingers tighten in his shirt again.

“I knew you,” I whisper. “Before this. I know I did.”

No one answers.

And for the first time, I don’t know which version of the truth I am supposed to believe.

I only know one thing.

When I look at him, something inside me remembers.

Something inside me wants to reach out, crawl into him and stay there until the ache behind my ribs fades.

His hand comes up, brushing my cheek, pushing my hair behind my ear.

"Just take your time with it mouse. It'll come back to you."

\---

Derrick pov

She remembers.

Maybe not everything. Not clearly. But enough to fracture the illusion we’ve been holding together.

The realization does not come as a shock. It settles slowly, like something inevitable finally catching up to me. A soldier. Wings. Those are not things the mind invents from nothing. Not with that kind of certainty. Not with that look in her eyes.

I turn away before I let myself react to it. Before hope shows too plainly on my face. Before I reach for her and say too much.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Catherine says, her voice gentle, steady in a way that fills the space I am trying not to unravel in.

Sam nods, still unsteady, still caught somewhere between this world and whatever she just came out of, and lets herself be guided away.

I don’t follow.

I want to.

Every instinct in me pulls in that direction, but I force myself to stay where I am until the sound of their footsteps disappears down the hall. Only then do I move, and even that feels deliberate, like I am containing something that wants to break loose.

The kitchen gives me something to do with my hands. The kettle. The quiet routine of it. Familiar movements I do not have to think about.

I grip the counter as I fill it, watching the water rise, focusing on the sound so I do not have to focus on anything else.

It doesn’t work.

My hands are shaking.

More than I would like to admit.

If she remembers, even a fraction of it, then everything changes.

The way she looks at me.

The way she understands what exists between us.

Not as something built in this life.

Something older. Deeper. Something that has survived loss and time and every attempt the world has made to tear it apart.

My chest tightens as the thought takes hold.

She would see me differently.

Not as the man who raised her. Not as the one who stood between her and everything that could hurt her.

She would see me as I was.

As I am.

The possibility settles into me with a dangerous kind of weight.

We could finally be us again.

I close my eyes briefly, drawing in a slow breath that does nothing to steady me.

I have imagined this moment too many times. Every version of it shaped by hope and fear in equal measure. I thought I would be ready for it when it came. That I would know exactly what to say, how to guide her through it without losing her in the process.

But standing here now, with the truth brushing so close to the surface, I realize how fragile it still is.

She came back to me.

And now she is remembering.

The urge to tell her everything rises sharp and immediate. To take the truth and place it in her hands before it can slip away again. To finally stop pretending this is something smaller than it is.

But I remember the way she looked at me.

Unsteady. Searching. Not sure what was real.

Too much, too fast, and I lose her anyway.

I cannot risk that.

Not again.

So I force the thought back, contain it, reshape it into something manageable.

Small pieces.

Careful truths.

Enough to guide her without breaking her.

The kettle clicks, pulling me back.

I don’t remember turning it on.

I pour the water anyway, letting the simple motion ground me, even as my mind continues to circle the same impossible possibility.

When I finally leave the kitchen, the cup in my hand is more for something to hold than anything else.

I sit on the couch and let the quiet settle around me.

For the first time in two days, I am not moving.

And somehow that feels worse.

Every second stretches.

Waiting.

Then I hear her.

Soft, I uneven footsteps.

I look up and the breath and every other thought I had simply leaves me.

She stands in the doorway for a moment, like she is still orienting herself to the room, to the world, to me.

Her hair is damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends. Her skin is still too pale, her movements too careful, like she has not fully returned to her body yet.

And she’s wearing my hoodie.

The sight of it hits me harder than it should.

Two days ago I thought I had lost her.

Again.

Now she is here.

Alive.

Close enough to reach.

And looking at me like she is trying to remember why that matters so much.

Something in my chest shifts.

Not relief.

Something quieter.

Stronger.

Hope.

Real this time.

She crosses the room slowly and lowers herself onto the couch beside me, close enough that her shoulder presses lightly against mine.

The contact is small but it feels like everything all at once

I don’t move.

I don’t trust myself to.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intend.

“I’m okay,” she says, though there is hesitation in it. “Catherine has been trying to explain the visions I had.”

Visions.

Not dreams or memories.

My gaze drops briefly before returning to her.

“How they match the story,” she continues, glancing up at me. “About the soldier and the healer. The one you always told me.”

Our story.

Of course Catherine would frame it that way. Something safe. Something contained. Something that can be explained away.

Easier than the truth.

Easier than what it actually means.

“Would you tell it to me again?” she asks softly.

When I look down at her, she is already watching me.

Those impossibly green eyes are searching, not just for the story, but for something beneath it. Something she cannot name yet.

My chest tightens.

There is no version of me that could refuse her.

“Of course,” I say.

The words come easily.

They always do when it comes to her.

She shifts closer, her head resting against my shoulder like it belongs there, like it has done this a hundred times before.

For a moment, I go completely still.

Then something in me settles.

My heartbeat slows for the first time in days, no longer racing ahead of everything else.

I allow myself to breathe.

To exist in this moment without trying to control what comes next.

And then, quietly, carefully—

I begin.