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Smith sinks deeper into the blanket. He places a hand over his forehead. The shadow of his hand blocks the vivid color of his eyes. “You know, if I were any other girl, I'd have thought you'd roofied me.”
“I didn't —”
“I know you didn't. I just —” Smith lifts his hand to look at Isami. “— know you wouldn't. But I don't think I know who you are.”
There's a beat, a pause, as Isami takes a deep breath. The sheets feel scratchy under his fingertips, cheap — ultimately colder without Smith grinning within them.
“I’m Isami Ao,” he says, careful, tentative; the words always feel like sandpaper on his tongue. “I'm your partner.”
“Isami Ao,” Lewis Smith intones. “My partner.”
Or; the mind may forget, but the heart is always faithful.
