“What kind of partners?” John pressed, watching you like he wasn’t sure if you were a savior or a threat. “You say that like it could mean anything.”

He had opened his eyes to harsh white lights only a few hours ago. To the cold press of metal beneath his body. Bandages wrapped around his head, his ribs, and there was a dull throb in his temple, getting stronger. He was alive, but with every shred of memory burned out of him after an ambush in Marrákesh went sideways.

He looked down at his hands like they were foreign. He wasn’t sure if he trusted you.

He told you once that he couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss you or kill you. So he married you instead. Yeah, that sounded like him. The doctor said partial amnesia, but he remembered none of it. Not the blood-soaked job in Marrákesh. Not the villa in Italy. Not the scar behind your left ear or the scar from the time he pulled you from the blast radius in Kiev. He didn’t remember the fights. The explosions. The fake arguments in front of civilians and the real ones behind closed doors. He didn’t remember how many times you almost killed each other... Or how many times you didn’t, just because you couldn’t. And definitely not your wedding night. But he was still the same man who once pulled you from a sinking car while cracking a joke. Who once kissed you in the middle of a firefight like nothing else mattered. Or did that never happen?

No guarantees if the memory returns, the doctor said, best-case scenario, fragments. Worst-case, nothing.

John was learning who he used to be, rebuilding from scratch, and you were going to have to try and decide who you’d be this time. “You don’t have to tell me everything,” he waved dismissively, leaning back against his pillow. “Just don’t lie to me.”