The morning after Kevin's discovery about Gerald Henderson, I woke up to find Lucas standing in my kitchen holding a textbook.
Not a tablet. Not his usual leather-bound schedule. A physical, spiral-bound, laminated textbook. With a title page.
I blinked. Rubbed my eyes. Looked again.
The title page was still there.
Microwave Operation: A Comprehensive Guide for Vivian Chen — Illustrated Edition — 32 Pages.
"Is that a joke?" I asked.
Lucas's expression didn't change. "I don't make jokes."
His left ear twitched. Pink.
"You made me a textbook," I said. "For a microwave."
"The model in your kitchen has forty-seven functions. Most people use three. This is statistically inefficient. I prepared educational materials to address the gap."
I walked over to the kitchen island and picked up the textbook. It was beautiful, in the most Lucas way possible. Table of contents. Numbered pages. Diagrams from the manufacturer's manual annotated with handwritten notes. A glossary of terms. An index.
"You illustrated it," I said.
"The diagrams are from the manual. I added clarifying annotations."
"Lucas." I held up page fourteen, where a diagram of the microwave's control panel had been labeled with arrows and tiny, precise handwriting. "Is this your handwriting?"
His ears went from pink to red. "Yes."
"You labeled every button."
"Forty-seven buttons. Yes."
"Function twelve is labeled 'optimal for soup.'"
"Function twelve provides even heating for liquids without creating hot spots. It is objectively the best setting for soup."
I stared at him. He stared at a point two inches above my left shoulder. Behind me, Mrs. Nguyen was wiping the same section of counter for the fourth time, clearly listening.
"Lucas," I said. "Did you stay up all night making me a microwave textbook?"
"I had some available time. Your schedule was clear after 9 PM. I utilized the hours productively."
"You utilized the hours." I flipped to the back of the textbook. There was a quiz. A ten-question, multiple-choice quiz with a scoring rubric. "There's a quiz."
"Self-assessment is essential for knowledge retention."
"I'm going to fail this quiz."
"You won't fail. The material is comprehensive."
"Lucas. I tried to reheat pho three nights ago and nearly activated the fire alarm."
The corner of his mouth did the thing. Almost. Barely. There. "Function twelve would have prevented that."
I set the textbook down on the counter very carefully. "You are the most ridiculous person I have ever met."
His ears went burgundy. "I prefer 'thorough.'"
"Thorough is preparing a schedule. Thorough is color-coding my wardrobe. Thorough is not writing a thirty-two-page illustrated textbook about a kitchen appliance."
"The microwave is a complex piece of technology that you have repeatedly demonstrated an inability to operate."
"I've had amnesia for less than two weeks!"
"Your difficulties with the microwave predate the amnesia." He paused. "By approximately four years."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. "The old me couldn't use the microwave either?"
"The old you never attempted to use the microwave. You considered appliances 'beneath your executive priorities.' You ate cold takeout over your desk at midnight rather than learn how to reheat it."
Past me was indeed a disaster. A cold-takeout-eating, microwave-ignoring, emotionally-repressed disaster.
"What else did I refuse to learn?"
Lucas considered this. "The smart home system. The television remote. The coffee machine, until Mrs. Nguyen programmed it for you. The car's GPS. The—"
"Okay. I get it." I held up my hand. "I was technologically incompetent."
"You were technologically unwilling. You told me once that learning to use appliances would distract you from 'more important things.'"
"What was more important than knowing how to feed myself warm food?"
"Acquiring your fourth company. Negotiating a hostile takeover. Firing an executive for using incorrect margins on a quarterly report."
I blinked. "I fired someone for margin errors?"
"One-point-five-inch margins instead of one-inch. You said it demonstrated a fundamental disregard for standards."
"That's... very specific."
"You were a very specific person."
"And yet you stayed."
His ears went from burgundy to something softer. "Yes."
---
We spent the next hour learning how to use a microwave.
This was not how I had imagined spending my morning when I woke up as a billionaire with no memories. I had imagined dramatic revelations. Car chases. Maybe a confrontation with Alexander on a rooftop somewhere. Instead, I was standing in my kitchen in my pajamas while Lucas Grey explained the difference between Function Twelve and Function Seventeen.
"Function seventeen is for defrosting. Never use Function Nine—it creates hot spots that can cause burns. Function twenty-three is for popcorn, but only if you use the pre-programmed weight settings."
"How do you know all this?"
"I read the manual."
"When?"
"Six years ago. When you first purchased the microwave. You asked me to review the specifications for energy efficiency. I memorized the functions in case you ever needed to use them."
I stared at him. "You memorized forty-seven microwave functions six years ago on the off chance I might someday want to reheat soup."
"I also memorized the dishwasher settings. And the oven settings. And the washing machine—"
"Of course you did."
"It seemed prudent."
"Lucas." I set down the textbook. "Have you ever used any of that information? In six years?"
"Not until today."
"Six years of memorized appliance settings. Just waiting."
His ears went crimson. "I wanted to be prepared."
"For what? A household emergency?"
"For you." He didn't look at me when he said it. His eyes were fixed on the microwave display, which was currently blinking 12:00 because no one had ever set the clock. "I wanted to be useful. If you ever needed something—anything—I wanted to be able to provide it. Even if it was just knowing which microwave setting to use."
The kitchen was very quiet. Somewhere in the distance, Mrs. Nguyen had stopped pretending to clean.
"Lucas." I waited until he looked at me. "You have been useful every single day for six years. Not because you memorized microwave functions. Because you stayed. Because you paid attention. Because you knew when I needed coffee and when I needed space and when I needed someone to throw away flowers from people who might hurt me." I paused. "The microwave textbook is ridiculous. But it's also the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me. Even if I don't remember the old thoughtful things."
His ears were purple now. A deep, glowing purple that I was beginning to recognize as overwhelmed by an emotion I cannot name.
"You don't have to prepare for everything," I said. "You don't have to memorize every setting and count every day and stand near doors in case I need an exit strategy. You're not just my assistant anymore. You're—" I paused. What was he? Friend was too small. Family was too vague. "You're Lucas. That's enough."
"Just Lucas?"
"Just Lucas is everything."
We stood there in the kitchen, the microwave still blinking 12:00, the textbook open to page twenty-two, Gerald the ficus watching from the windowsill with his plastic, unblinking leaves. And Lucas's ears cycled through every shade I had ever seen—pink, red, burgundy, purple—before settling on something new. Something soft and luminous and completely unguarded.
"I should tell you something," he said quietly.
"You don't have to."
"I want to." He took a breath. "I count everything. The days. The hours. The microwave functions. You asked me once why I count, and I didn't answer. I'm answering now."
"Lucas—"
"My father had early-onset dementia. I was sixteen when he was diagnosed. Eighteen when he forgot my name. Twenty when he forgot my face." His voice was steady, but his ears had gone still. "I started counting because I was afraid. If I could track everything—every moment, every detail—then maybe I wouldn't lose anything. Maybe I could hold onto the important things."
"And me?"
"You were important from the first day. You walked into the conference room, looked at my résumé, and said—" He paused, the corner of his mouth almost twitching. "'Anyone with grades this annoying deserves a job.' You were the first person who looked at my counting and saw value instead of strangeness. You never asked me to stop. You never made me feel like I was too much."
I thought about the red notebook. The way past-Vivian had documented everything—her fears, her loneliness, her rare moments of happiness. She had been counting too. Counting the things she couldn't say out loud.
"We're the same," I said. "You and me. We both kept track of things because we were afraid of losing them."
"I know."
"Except I stopped writing when I fell. And you never stopped counting."
"No." His ears softened. "I never stopped."
The microwave beeped. Function Twelve had finished reheating my soup. The textbook was still open on the counter. Somewhere outside, the city was waking up, and Alexander Kane was still in prison, and Gerald Henderson was still teaching financial literacy in Queens, and Sophie was probably making a PowerPoint about this exact conversation.
But none of that mattered right now.
"Thank you," I said. "For the textbook. For the six years. For telling me about your father."
His ears went pink again. Soft pink. "You're welcome."
"And Lucas?"
"Yes?"
"I'm going to pass that quiz."
The corner of his mouth did the thing. Almost. Barely. There. "I know."