SASHA ROSARIO'S POINT OF VIEW
The morning was perfect. I'd slept deep and heavy, no urge to wake pressing at my eyelids—my mat beneath me soft as anything I'd ever known. Outside the cottage walls, birds threaded their trills through the air, and far off a rooster crowed and crowed until its voice went rough and thin.
Country life really is the best.
My eyes stayed closed as I swiped at drool on my chin; I could feel where it had tracked sticky down my lip. I was curled on my side, arms wrapped tight around my pillow. It was so plush I wanted to burrow inside it and never leave.
"Wife…"
Wait—my pillow talks? Nice trick. Must still be dreaming.
I squeezed my lids shut tighter, nestling deeper into the warmth. My body felt slow and weighted down, and I was set on holding sleep close. A pretty girl like me needs all the rest she can get—waking up fresh is the only way to look presentable, even when every day pulls at you like water through fingers.
I pressed my face into the pillow and sighed. It was warm and shaped to me, like it had been holding my place all night long.
Then my brow creased. When did my hard, lumpy pillow get this smooth?
I frowned but kept my eyes closed, still drowsy. What a strange dream—my pillow feels stuffed with clouds. If only every night were like this I'd never notice how little I own.
I might have believed it all in my head if not for—
"You look ridiculous when you sleep."
I shot upright, eyes flying open. I stared down at the man beside me, his mouth set in that smart line, and my jaw went loose.
He was naked, curled on his side facing me, propped on one elbow with his head resting in his palm.
He's gorgeous. Is he an angel? The sky's barely light and his face shines bright enough to make me squint.
Eyes wide as saucers, I whipped around and slapped both cheeks before drawing in a deep breath. I must still be dreaming. I peeked back carefully—
Holy crap. He's still here. This beautiful man is actually lying next to me.
I grinned like a fool. He's so handsome he could be on a movie poster.
"Wife. I'm hungry."
My daydream shattered. I glanced at the broken window where bright sun poured over the dirt floor.
What time is it?
I turned back to the man I'd called Angelo.
"Angelo, put some clothes on. Those are the ones Andeng and Junior lent you." I pointed at the pile of fabric in the corner. "I'll start cooking. Just stay put."
Smiling like I'd lost my mind, I hurried toward the door and cracked my head on the makeshift frame. I'd forgotten we'd propped the broken wood there last night.
Ugh. I've never been like this before. I feel like I'm floating off the ground.
I rested my hands on the water drum, watching ripples move across the surface as I played back everything from last night.
I still can't believe it. A bleeding stranger fainted in my cottage. I took him in, cleaned his wound, helped calm him down. And told him I was his wife.
I slapped my forehead. "Dammit, Sasha. What are you doing?" I bit my lower lip until shame warmed my cheeks.
What if his memory comes back? What if he has a real wife somewhere else in the world?
My eyes went wide and I cupped my cheeks. "Then I'd be the other woman?"
I was lost in panic when strong arms wrapped around my waist. I froze, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. Is he going to hurt me? Pretending to hold me while he plans how to pay me back for lying?
"What are you doing? Are you going to kill me?" I stammered.
Instead he pressed his forehead to my neck and heat moved through me like butter melting on warm bread.
Don't do this to me, Angelo. I'm already undone just from looking at you.
"Cook for me, wife," he murmured, and I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper on my tongue.
I feel so guilty. Is it wrong to keep pretending? Is any of this okay?
Grandma. Tell me if I'm doing the right thing. Please give me a sign.
My thoughts stopped when a huge brown butterfly fluttered right in front of my face, landing soft on the cottage wall.
"Grandma," I whispered, my voice thick and tight. I pouted, staring at the patterned wings spread against the wood. Is this your sign? Does that mean it's all right?
Hope rose up in my chest and I covered his hands—locked firm around my stomach—with my own. I giggled nervously and cleared my throat.
"Ehem. Right. I'll start cooking now. You can go inside first." My voice cracked on the last word.
My cheeks burned when I heard him laugh, a short quiet sound before he let go. I glanced up shyly and met his heavy gaze.
"No. Can I watch you?" he asked. I nearly folded where I stood. Why does English sound so good when he says it? And he doesn't look Filipino at all but he speaks Tagalog like he's lived here his whole life.
Where have you been all this time, my angel?
Where on earth did this gorgeous man come from?
I scratched the back of my head, thinking fast—he had no interest in going back inside.
I snapped my fingers then ran in to grab my wobbly plastic chair. Please don't break. I can't afford another one.
"Here. Sit here if you won't go in. I don't want your wound opening up again." I sighed, fanning the air with my hand. "I can't take you to a hospital anyway. No boats are running. The wind and waves are too rough with a storm coming in."
He didn't answer, just walked over and sat down, arms crossed over his chest.
Junior's clothes fit him perfectly. Every muscle in his chest and abs showed clear through the thin fabric, not to mention his biceps that looked strong enough to snap wood in two.
Damn. Beautiful!
I snapped out of it when he cleared his throat then rushed to get to work. As usual I started a fire in the stone hearth before setting the rice pot to boil over the flames.
I kept my back to him, too shy to turn around until I heard Burog barking. Panic shot through me. What if he bites Angelo?
"Burog!" I called out then grimaced at what lay in the dirt yard.
I want to crawl into a hole and die. Right in front of Angelo my little dog was tied to another dog, hips moving in quick circles.
I slapped my forehead.
"Burog. You idiot. Did you really have to do this right now?" I rubbed my face in frustration. "We can't afford puppies if she gets pregnant." I pointed at the other dog, my eyes wide with worry.
I was so mad I thought steam would rise from my ears until I heard Angelo's laugh. It was warm and rich and I turned to find him grinning wide.
I meant to be embarrassed but the world seemed to slow down. He's even more beautiful when he smiles.
Lord. Is this my punishment? This man is going to be the end of me.
I pressed my hand to my mouth without thinking. Please don't let me drool again.
My cheeks burning, I looked away and tried to think of something to say. Thank god I'd found a topic but Angelo had other ideas.
"Hey, should we go—"
"Have we done it yet?" he cut in suddenly.
My brow furrowed. What is he talking about?
"Huh? Done what?"
"You know. That."
I frowned harder. "Know what?"
"You know. That. Have we done that yet?" He repeated himself and my head started to throb.
"What that are you talking about?" I raised my voice a little. This was driving me crazy.
He won't just say it plain and my brain's never sharp first thing in the morning.
Angelo laughed and pushed his lower lip out in a pout. I grimaced but saw him pointing somewhere so I followed his gaze.
My eyes nearly popped out of my head when I realized what he meant.
Heaven help me. He's asking if we've slept together. What do I say?
My mouth went dry and I stared at him in shock. I saw a vein standing out in his forearm and panic squeezed my chest.
Is he waiting for me to admit we're not really married so he can hit me?
I swallowed hard before answering in a shaky voice.
"Ah. Yeah. Hehe. Last month."
He nodded slowly and I let out a huge breath of relief. But then—
"We'll do it later."
"Huh?" I gasped.
"I said we'll do it later."
Son of a bitch. This is it. My stupidity is going to get me into trouble all over again.
—
My head swims light as driftwood, carried along since morning. We sit on the floor with plates spread between us—stew Aling Minda gave me yesterday, now warm between Angelo and me. I steal glances when I think he won't notice, trying for casual. Even with amnesia, I figure a body remembers what it rejects.
Two minutes pass and his spoon hasn't touched the bowl. I press my tongue to dry lips before I speak.
"Do you not like it?" No sense dancing around it. He's been staring at the ceramic like it holds secrets.
His gaze shifts to mine and I swallow again—those gray eyes pull at me like tide over sand.
"No. I was waiting for you to eat first before I did." He laughs soft. "Were you waiting for me to eat first before you eat?"
There it is again—his English so crisp it makes my cheeks burn. He can't recall his own name but talks like he learned it in a palace. Is he rich? Some businessman washed up here in the Philippines?
"Yeah, I was." I laugh too. "So we were just waiting for each other?"
We eat then, but my eyes track his face, watching for any flicker of distaste. When none comes, I smile and let my shoulders loosen into the meal.
It feels good to share a table. I can't remember the last time—not for months, maybe longer.
Joy blooms warm in my chest, easy as sunlight through leaves. I know it won't last; soon enough his memories will find their way back. But please—let it be later. Let me hold this feeling a little while more.
"Why are you smiling? Did you hit your head or something?"
The question pulls me out of my thoughts. I press my lips together to hold back a snort, then give him a sharp look.
Hit my head? Really? Says the man who doesn't know his own name.
I don't answer—just giggle and keep eating.
Would he get angry if I told him what I was thinking? Probably not. I think.
Ugh. This is why I never wanted marriage—things get tangled too fast.
We finish soon after. I clear the plates and carry them to wash, moving quick so he won't see our sponge: small, worn thin as paper, way past its time.
"Oh my god! I really need to replace some of the stuff here at home." I mutter while stacking clean dishes.
I'm at the back of the house, by the water drum. We have a bathroom—walls are just holes covered with burlap sacks, but we've got a toilet. Don't judge.
When I go back inside, he's on the floor again. Like I said—our place with Lola is one room. Not big either; living space, bed, kitchen and table all in the same square. Tight as a fist when you think about it.
Plywood covers the ground but splinters at the edges. Word from the next barangay says a storm's coming—boats can't make their runs to town.
My eyes widen, shoulders slumping as I set the basin on our tiny counter.
Will we flood again? It's never catastrophic, but our houses sit at the slope's bottom—all rain runs straight here.
I sigh deep before turning to him. I don't expect to find his eyes already on me, face smooth as still water.
I stop where I stand. Is this what we do now? Just look at each other?
I break first. "You okay?" My gaze sweeps over him, checking for trouble.
No fresh blood from his wound. Good.
"I want to take a bath."
My jaw goes slack. Oh no—he wants to bathe? Where would I even put him?
"What? Your wound—it could get infected."
He furrows his brow. "Infected?"
I scratch the back of my neck. "Yeah. Water gets in there, Lola says new cuts need care."
He nods slow. "Okay. Tomorrow then."
I let out a breath so big my chest deflates. Thank god he doesn't push.
By one o'clock I'm getting ready to leave—I should tell him first.
I tie back my hair to keep it from tangling. It's long and wavy, catches every gust of wind. The air's picking up with the storm; we need supplies before rain falls.
"Where are you going?" He asks—my handsome… husband. I mean, Angelo.
Oh. Saying it feels like honey on my tongue. My stomach flutters, butterflies beating soft against my ribs.
"Just nearby. I need to work so we have food tomorrow—and get materials to raise the floor a little. No place to lie down if water comes in."
He looks like something out of a magazine right now—hair messy, lips slightly parted as he worries the lower one between his teeth. They look soft as ripe fruit. I don't know what he's thinking, but it's nice he asks questions now, even with no memory.
"I see… be careful—"
He stops mid-sentence, staring like he's waiting for something. It takes a moment to understand, then I laugh so hard my sides ache.
"Right! I'm Sasha—Sasha Rosario, twenty-four years old, and I'm your wife." I bite my own lip. Am I really doing this? Pretending with this beautiful man?
But it could be worse. If he finds out we're not related at all, he might run off and get hurt again.
"Your name's Angelo. Angelo Duque."
"Khorosho," he says quietly, and the Russian word hangs in the air between us like warm smoke.
"Well well well—why are you so fired up today? You've done more work than usual even though you came in so late!" Aling Minda's voice pulls me back to the present.
I wince at her teasing. "Oh, it's nothing—I just got a burst of energy. Weather's nice enough." I match her playful tone, keeping my eyes on the baskets I'm mending.
"Nice weather, huh? Seems like you're just real focused, Sasha."
I stop, frowning as I turn to her. She has her hands on her hips, grinning wide as the sky.
"Of course! Gotta earn money so we have food tomorrow."
"Oh please—don't lie to me! Andeng told me all about it this morning!"
Andeng! I'll give her a piece of my mind later.
I wince and scratch my head. I didn't think word would jump to the next barangay so fast.
That girl has a mouth like an open window—nothing stays inside.
"Next time you come, bring him by so I can meet my lucky boy, huh?"
I just laugh and wave as I head for home. The path is dark but familiar; it doesn't scare me.
As I walk, I wonder if I'm doing right by him. This must be God's will. It's crazy and stupid and—argh!
I shake my head to clear it, but Angelo's face pops up anyway.
I bite my lip, heat spreading through me from chest to thighs. I can't help it—I keep thinking about his abs, his sharp jaw… not to mention what's hidden under his shorts, thick and solid as a tree branch.
My mind's all tangled by the time I reach our door. It's still broken open, and I'm smiling until I see what's inside.
"Jesus Christ! What are you doing?!" I shout, heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my ears.
I want to disappear into the floor. It's mortifying—completely mortifying.
"What? I'm just looking at it." He says it like it's normal, like he didn't just stop my heart.
"But! Ahhh!" I scream as I march over, snatching my underwear from his hand—the one with a hole right in the middle.
Oh my god! How did he even find this?
"Why is there a hole?" He asks, smirk playing at his lips.
I have no words. Humiliation burns so hot I could melt into the wood.
"I mean—"
"You did this on purpose, didn't you?" I grimace at his question. On purpose?
He chuckles low and short. "You poked a hole so it'll be easy to slide this in later, right?"
What? Is he crazy? What is he talking about?
I can't move, can't speak. But then I see him bite his lip to hold back a smile, and I feel my own underwear dampen against my skin.
My eyes drift down to his hand, resting over the front of his shorts. I stare, eyes wide as plates, at the thick shape pushing against the fabric.
"Let's do it, right now—Sasha."
"What?! We haven't even eaten yet." I stammer, grasping for an excuse.
"What's the use? We'll be tired afterward anyway. We can just do it now, and eat later."
Oh god—am I really going to let this happen?
I can't form a single thought, but then he speaks again and some of the panic eases.
"Don't worry… just one round, wife."
Okay then. Just one round, he said.