Memory in the Rain
It was nearly midnight when Muri stepped out of the elevator into Lex's penthouse.
Rain tapped at the tall windows. The city glittered below, unaware that inside this room, everything was unraveling.
She found him on the couch, slouched, shirt half-open, a bottle of bourbon nearly empty at his side. His tie hung loose around his neck. His eyes—red-rimmed, haunted.
"Muri," he muttered, blinking at her like she wasn't real. "You shouldn't be here."
She stepped forward, quiet but sure. "I remembered more."
That got his attention.
He sat up slightly. "How much?"
"Enough to know your father tried to erase me. And enough to know…" she paused, voice trembling, "…that I loved you."
Lex's breath caught.
And then—before he could speak—she kissed him.
Hard. Desperate. Real.
All the hurt, the confusion, the silence between them—it burned away in that kiss. Her hands tangled in his hair, his arms locked around her waist like if he let go, she'd vanish again.
She kissed him like she was starving.
He pulled her down onto the rug, bodies tangled, mouths crashing again and again. Neither of them spoke. They didn't have to.
Eventually, he whispered against her lips, "Not here."
He stood, lifting her easily into his arms, and carried her to the bedroom.
But they didn't stop there.
In the bathroom, steam rising, they kissed under the water—slow at first, then deeper, wetter, desperate. Clothes clung, then peeled away. The heat of the shower couldn't match the fire between them.
Muri's fingers traced down his spine. Lex pressed her gently against the tile, his mouth never leaving hers.
"I missed you," he breathed.
"I don't want to forget again," she whispered back.
And that night, they didn't talk about the past. Or Muse. Or Sky. Or Lex's father.
They just remembered each other.