I wake with a start, disoriented by sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains. The scent of coffee drifts from somewhere in the apartment, but that's not what alarms me. The warm body pressed against my back, the arm slung possessively over my waist—these are the immediate threats to my sanity.

"Morning, sleeping beauty," a voice murmurs against my neck, sending shivers down my spine. "You were tossing more than usual tonight."

I freeze. The voice is familiar yet unknown, like a half-remembered dream. I don't recall bringing anyone home, let alone sharing my bed. Panic surges as I glance down at our intertwined bodies—naked, marked with faint bruises that suggest activities I have no memory of.

The stranger nuzzles my shoulder, his hand sliding down to cup my hip. "Still disoriented? It's okay, it's normal." He presses a kiss to my spine. "I'm Gongxiu, your... everything."

Everything? My eyes dart around the room, taking in details that simultaneously comfort and horrify me. Books on the shelves I don't remember buying. Photos on the nightstand showing us together—smiling, intimate, obviously in love. This is my apartment, yet it's been transformed into the set of a life I can't recall living.

"I don't..." My voice cracks. "I don't remember you."

Gongxiu rolls me onto my back, his body hovering above mine. His face is beautiful—achingly so—with eyes that seem to see straight through me. A jagged scar bisects his chest, an ugly contrast to his otherwise perfect physique.

"You never do," he says softly, tracing a finger down my chest. "But you always remember eventually... with help." His hand continues downward, wrapping around me possessively. "Shall I remind you how good we are together? How well your body remembers what your mind forgets?"

My body betrays me, responding to his touch despite my mind's protests. I should push him away, demand answers, call the police. Instead, I find myself arching into his caress, my理智 crumbling before the evidence of a life I cannot access but clearly lived.

He lowers his mouth to mine, a kiss that starts gentle but quickly intensifies into something desperate and claiming. When he pulls back, his eyes burn with an intensity that makes me both afraid and aroused.

"Ten years we've been doing this dance," he whispers. "You wake up confused, you question everything, you try to escape... and then you remember." His thumb brushes my lower lip. "Or you choose to believe, at least for a little while."

I search his face for answers, for deception, for anything that might explain this impossible situation. What I find instead is a complexity I can't decipher—tenderness warring with calculation, love tangled with obsession.

Before I can formulate a response, he slides lower, his intentions clear and undeniable. My mind screams that this is wrong, that I'm submitting to a stranger. My body, however, remembers a decade of intimacy I cannot access, and it responds eagerly, traitorously, to his expert touch.

As pleasure builds, I close my eyes, torn between resistance and surrender. This stranger knows me better than I know myself. He holds the keys to my past, my present, and possibly my future. The question isn't whether I can trust him—it's whether I have any choice but to try.