The bass still echoed in Harry’s ears from last night’s set as he sipped his coffee, lazily scrolling through his playlist. His small apartment was a mess—vinyl records stacked in random places, cables tangled over the DJ table, empty energy drink cans piled up near his speakers. It was his world, chaotic but his own.

Then his phone rang. Steve. That was unusual.

“Yo, Steve, what’s up?” Harry answered, stretching.

“Harry, I need you to listen carefully.” Steve’s voice was tight, urgent. “It’s about my sister.”

Harry sat up, his grip on the phone tightening. “What happened?”

“She was in a bad accident. She’s alive, but… she lost her memory. She doesn’t remember anything. Not me. Not our parents. Not herself.” Steve exhaled sharply. “I can’t be there, man. I’m deployed. You’re the only one I trust to look after her.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “Steve, come on. You know me. I barely take care of myself. I work nights, my place is a disaster, I—”

“I know,” Steve cut him off. “But you’re the only one who won’t treat her like she’s broken. She needs that.”

Silence stretched between them. Harry sighed. He hated responsibility. His life was simple—music, parties, sleep. Repeat. But Steve was his best friend. He owed him.

“…Fine,” Harry muttered. “I’ll get her.”

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and bad coffee. When he walked into your room, you were sitting on the bed, staring at your hands like they belonged to someone else.

You looked up as he entered. Your eyes held no recognition. That stung, though he didn’t know why.

“Uh, hey,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m Harry. Your brother’s best friend. And I guess… I’m taking care of you now.”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”

He had no idea what he was doing. But for Steve, he’d figure it out.