Neon Lights and Nervous Tics

The air inside the mall didn't smell like Christmas. It smelled like desperate people, wet wool, and that aggressive, cloying perfume they spray at you when you’re just trying to walk past the department store entrance without making eye contact. Martin hated it. He hated the noise, the heat cranking out of the vents, and the way the floor tiles were slick with melted snow from a thousand boots. But mostly, he hated that he didn't know if he used to like this.

That was the thing about losing two years of your life to a car crash and a coma: you didn't just lose the big stuff. You lost the user manual for your own personality. Did he like peppermint mochas? No clue, but he just spent seven dollars on one and it tasted like toothpaste mixed with regret. Did he enjoy shopping? Apparently not, because currently, his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, and he was sweating through his thermal shirt.

"Excuse me," a woman snapped, ramming a stroller into his shin.

"Sorry," Martin mumbled, stumbling back. "My bad. My ankles were totally in your way."

He retreated toward the safety of a pillar wrapped in scratchy silver garland. He checked his list. One item. He just needed one gift for Aunt Sarah. A scarf. How hard was a scarf? A rectangle of fabric. Yet, here he was, paralyzed by the sheer volume of choices in the menswear section, vibrating with anxiety.

He took a sip of the toothpaste-coffee. Gross. He looked around, eyes darting. The lights were too bright. The music was a warped version of 'Jingle Bells' played on a synthesizer that sounded like it was drowning. He felt that familiar slide in his brain, the tilt of the world that meant he was getting overwhelmed. The doctor called it 'sensory processing disorder secondary to TBI.' Martin called it 'The Glitch.'

He needed to leave. He turned sharply, aiming for the exit, and walked straight into a solid wall of black wool.

Impact. Hard.

The coffee cup exploded. The lid popped off, sending a wave of lukewarm, minty sludge cascading down the stranger's coat. Martin froze. The sound of the cup hitting the floor seemed to echo, cutting through the mall noise.

"Oh god," Martin gasped, his hands hovering uselessly in the air. "I am so sorry. I’m—I’m a disaster. I’ll pay for dry cleaning. Do they have dry cleaners in malls? I don’t even know."

The man didn't move. He didn't shout. He didn't even brush the coffee off. He just stood there, grounded and immovable, like a rock in a river of frantic shoppers. Martin looked up. And up.

The stranger was tall. Unfairly tall. He wore a high-collared black coat that looked expensive—the kind of expensive that made Martin’s wallet hurt just looking at it. His hair was dark, swept back but slightly messy from the wind outside. But it was the eyes that stopped Martin’s breath.

They were dark, intense, and focused entirely on Martin. Not with anger. Not with annoyance. They looked… wrecked. Shattered. And then, instantly, a shutter came down, masking it all behind a cool, bored expression.

"It’s fine," the man said. His voice was low, a rumble that Martin felt in his own chest. It wasn't just a sound; it was a physical sensation, like a bass line dropping in a quiet room.

"It’s not fine!" Martin insisted, grabbing a handful of napkins from his pocket—why did he have pocket napkins? Who was he?—and dabbing frantically at the man's lapel. "It’s sticky. It’s peppermint. You’re going to smell like a candy cane factory explosion."

The man caught Martin’s wrist. Just wrapped his fingers around it and stopped the motion.

The contact was electric. Not a spark—a shock. A jolt of heat that shot up Martin’s arm and settled heavy and hot in his stomach. Martin’s breath hitched. He stared at the man’s hand—large, pale, long fingers—encircling his own wrist. It felt… right. It felt terrifyingly familiar, like putting on a jacket that had molded to your shape years ago.

"Martin," the man said.

Martin froze. He yanked his hand back, clutching it to his chest. "How do you know my name?"

The man blinked, a micro-expression of panic crossing his face before he smoothed it over. He pointed a long finger at the plastic name tag clipped to Martin’s jacket—a remnant from the volunteer event his aunt made him do that morning.

"Tag," the man said. Deadpan.

"Oh." Martin flushed, feeling the heat creep up his neck. "Right. stupid. I forgot I was wearing that. I forget a lot of things. It’s kind of my brand right now."

The man didn't laugh. He just watched Martin with that intense, unnerving focus. "I'm Devon."

"Devon," Martin repeated. The name tasted weird on his tongue. Heavy. Important. "Well, Devon, I owe you a coat. Or a coffee. Or a kidney. Whatever the exchange rate is for ruining a stranger's day."

"Coffee," Devon said. He stepped closer, invading Martin’s personal space in a way that should have been threatening but instead made Martin’s knees feel like water. "You owe me a coffee. And you need a new one."

"I don't even like coffee," Martin blurted out. "I think. I just bought it because everyone else was buying it."

"I know," Devon said softly. Then he cleared his throat, stepping back slightly, though his eyes never left Martin’s face. "You look… you look like you don't know what you're doing."

"Observant," Martin laughed, a nervous, high-pitched sound. "Is it the frantic sweating? The stained shoes? The fact that I’ve been staring at scarves for forty minutes without picking one?"

"The scarf section is that way," Devon said, nodding toward the left. "You were staring at the socks."

Martin covered his face with his hands. "Kill me. Just end it now. I’m trying to buy a gift for my aunt and I have the decision-making skills of a squirrel in traffic."

"Come on," Devon said. He turned and started walking. He didn't check to see if Martin was following. He just assumed he would. That arrogance—it was annoying. It was magnetic.

Martin followed. Obviously.

They ended up in a quieter coffee shop on the second floor, away from the screaming kids and the terrifying Santa display. Devon ordered for both of them before Martin could even look at the menu.

"Earl Grey, hot, vanilla, extra foam," Devon told the barista. "Black coffee for me."

Martin frowned as they waited at the pick-up counter. "I’ve never had an Earl Grey in my life."

"Try it," Devon said, leaning against the counter. He had taken off the coffee-stained coat, revealing a charcoal sweater that fit him perfectly. He looked like a model who had taken a wrong turn into suburbia. "Trust me."

"Trust a guy I just assaulted with peppermint sludge? bold strategy."

"You didn't assault me. You fell into me. You’ve always been clumsy," Devon murmured, almost to himself.

"What?" Martin asked, the noise of the espresso machine drowning out the last part.

"I said, it’s busy," Devon said, louder this time. He grabbed the cups. "Table."

They sat in a booth by the window. Outside, snow was starting to fall, thick wet flakes sticking to the glass. The grey light filtered in, casting shadows across Devon’s sharp cheekbones. Martin took a sip of the tea. The flavor hit him—floral, sweet, warm. It was perfect. It felt like… home. Like a rainy Sunday he couldn't quite place.

"Okay, spooky," Martin said, cradling the cup. "This is actually good. How did you know?"

Devon shrugged, tracing the rim of his cup with a thumb. "Lucky guess. You look like a tea drinker."

"I look like a mess," Martin corrected. "I have amnesia, you know. That’s not a joke. I literally have no idea what I like. I’m just winging it. Fake it ‘til you make it, except I’m not making it. I’m mostly just apologizing to strangers."

Devon went very still. "Amnesia."

"Yeah. Car accident. Boom. Blank slate. Woke up in a hospital room a year ago with a headache and a stranger telling me she was my aunt. It’s been… weird."

Devon looked down at his black coffee. His jaw was tight, a muscle feathering near his ear. He looked angry. No, not angry. Pained. "You don't remember anything? Before?"

"Nope. Just feelings sometimes. Like, I know I hate math. And I know I’m scared of dogs. And sometimes..." Martin trailed off, looking out the window at the snow. "Sometimes I get this feeling that I’m forgetting something important. Someone important. But the doctors say that’s normal. Phantom limb syndrome for memories."

"Phantom limb," Devon repeated, his voice barely a whisper.

"Anyway!" Martin forced a smile, the mood getting too heavy. "Comedy of errors, right? So now I have to buy a scarf for the woman who has been saint-like enough to re-raise me, and I’m failing."

"I’ll help you," Devon said suddenly. He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto Martin’s again. The intensity was back, burning hotter than before. "I’m good at gifts."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." Devon stood up. "Drink your tea. We’re going."

The next hour was a blur. Devon moved through the mall with military precision. He didn't browse; he hunted. He steered Martin away from the cheap acrylics and toward the cashmere. He held fabrics up to Martin’s neck, his knuckles brushing against Martin’s jawline, sending shivers racing down Martin’s spine.

"This one," Devon said, holding up a deep burgundy scarf. "Soft. Warm. Classic."

"It’s expensive," Martin winced at the tag.

"It lasts," Devon countered. "Quality lasts. Even if you forget about it, it’s still there."

Martin looked at him sharply. There was a double meaning there, hanging in the air like smoke. Devon didn't back down. He just held the scarf, offering it like a peace treaty.

"Okay," Martin breathed. "The burgundy one."

As they waited in line, the silence between them shifted. It wasn't awkward anymore. It was charged. Martin found himself watching Devon’s hands—the way he adjusted his watch, the way he tapped his fingers on his thigh. He felt a pull, a magnetic drag in his chest that terrified him.

"So," Martin said, trying to distract himself. "What are you doing here? Buying for a girlfriend? Boyfriend? Partner?"

Devon looked straight ahead. "No. I’m not buying for anyone."

"Oh. Just... hanging out at the mall on Christmas Eve? Sad."

"I was looking for something," Devon said. He turned his head, and for a second, he looked vulnerable. Open. "I lost something a while ago. I thought... I don't know. I thought if I came back to where I last saw it, maybe it would turn up."

"Did you find it?" Martin asked.

Devon looked at Martin. He looked at Martin’s messy hair, his flushed cheeks, the tea stain on his sleeve. His gaze dropped to Martin’s mouth, then back up to his eyes. The air between them crackled, heavy and thick.

"Yeah," Devon said hoarsely. "I think I did. But it’s... damaged."

"Oh." Martin felt a pang of sympathy. "Can you fix it?"

Devon reached out. He hesitated, then brushed a stray snowflake from Martin’s shoulder. The touch was light, but it felt like a brand. "I don't know if it wants to be fixed. Maybe it’s better off broken. Maybe it’s happier not knowing where it came from."

Martin frowned. "That sounds lonely."

"It is," Devon admitted. "It’s the loneliest thing in the world."

They bought the scarf. They walked to the exit. The sun had set, and the streetlights were buzzing on, casting long orange shadows across the snow. The cold air bit at Martin’s face, grounding him.

"Well," Martin said, clutching the bag. "This is me. My aunt is picking me up at the south entrance."

"I’ll walk you," Devon said.

"You really don't have to—"

"Martin." Devon said his name like a command. "I’m walking you."

They walked in silence. The snow crunched under their boots. The world was muffled and white. When they reached the curb, a silver sedan was idling. Martin’s aunt.

"So," Martin said, turning to face Devon. He didn't want to leave. Why didn't he want to leave? He didn't know this man. This was insane. "Thanks. For the tea. And the scarf. And... not yelling at me."

Devon stood with his hands in his coat pockets. He looked like a statue carved out of grief and beauty. "You’re welcome."

"Can I..." Martin fumbled with his phone. "Can I get your number? In case I need more fashion advice? Or to pay you back for the dry cleaning?"

Devon stared at the phone. He looked like he was in physical pain. He took a step closer, crowding Martin against the cold air. He leaned down, his face inches from Martin’s. Martin could smell him now—cedar, rain, and black coffee. It was the most familiar smell in the world. It smelled like safety. It smelled like a memory he couldn't catch.

"No," Devon whispered. The rejection hit Martin like a slap.

"Oh," Martin stammered, stepping back. "Right. Sorry. Weird. Too forward."

"Not weird," Devon said fiercely. He reached out, his hand hovering over Martin’s cheek, shaking slightly, before he pulled it back into a fist. "It’s not safe, Martin. You’re starting over. You have a clean slate. Don't smudge it with old ink."

"What does that mean?" Martin demanded, frustration bubbling up. "Why does everyone talk to me in riddles?"

"Because the answers hurt," Devon said. The car horn honked. Martin jumped.

"I have to go," Martin said, his voice cracking.

"Go," Devon said. "Be happy, Martin. Just... be happy."

Martin got in the car. He slammed the door. As his aunt pulled away, he looked back. Devon was standing under the streetlamp, watching him. He didn't wave. He just watched, a dark silhouette against the falling snow.

"Who was that?" his aunt asked, eyeing him suspiciously in the rearview mirror.

"I don't know," Martin said. He touched his chest, right over his heart. It was aching, a dull, throbbing pain that felt ancient. "Just a guy who helped me pick out a scarf."

But as the car turned the corner, Martin looked down at his phone. He hadn't realized it, but he had opened a new contact. He hadn't typed a number. He had just typed a name.

*Devon.*

And underneath it, his thumb had autocompleted a note he didn't remember writing, a ghost in the machine.

*Coffee: Black. No sugar. 6:00 AM.*

Martin stared at the screen, the white light illuminating his terrified face. He knew that order. He knew it in his bones. He looked back at the empty street, the snow swirling in the red taillights, covering tracks that were already disappearing.