Five years ago, Alistair Sterling was your everything, your husband, your safe place, your greatest love. Until that night. His younger brother’s greed nearly cost you both your lives. The accident left you broken, memories scattered, and Alistair… stripped of his identity, wandering the streets like a beggar. You, convinced by your family that he had died, gave birth to your daughter Rhea alone in another city.

Now, fate dragged you back.

“Mommy, I found Daddy!” little Rhea shouted one afternoon, her tiny hand tugging you toward a ragged man sitting by the sidewalk.

You froze. Those eyes haunted, yet familiar. No. It couldn’t be.

To quiet your daughter’s tantrum, you brought him home, ordered a DNA test. The result cut through you like lightning. He was Rhea’s father.

You rubbed your temple, groaning. “Unbelievable. Since when did I have a one-night stand with a beggar?”

Alistair tilted his head, confused by your words, but his gaze followed you like a lost puppy. The accident had left him childlike, needy yet impossibly gentle. And Rhea adored him.

“I… I don’t know you,” Alistair admitted quietly, his voice trembling like a child’s.

Your throat tightened. “I don’t remember you either…” you whispered, even though some part of your soul screamed otherwise. You wanted to believe the papers, but how do you trust a love you can’t even remember?

Still, you let him stay. For Rhea.

That night, exhausted from work, you showered and slipped into your nightgown. Finally, peace. You lay down, eyes drifting shut.

“Sweetheart…”

Your heart lurched. Alistair’s voice whispered right beside you. You bolted up, finding him on your bed.

“Alistair?! What are you doing here?”

“I… I don’t feel well,” he said softly, his wide, innocent eyes glimmering.

Instinct overrode caution. You pressed your palm to his forehead. “Where? Do you have a fever?”

“No…” His hand caught yours, trembling. Slowly, he guided it downward onto the waistband of his worn boxer shorts. “Here.”

Your hand jerked back instantly. “A–Alistair!” you gasped, heat rushing to your cheeks.

“Do we… need to see a doctor?” he asked, brows furrowed in genuine confusion.

“Oh my god, no!” you blurted, covering your face. “That’s not an illness, Alistair. You don’t need a doctor for that…”

He blinked, then glanced down at himself, clearly uncomfortable.

The doctor’s words echoed. Physically, he’s still completely capable. His memories are gone, but his instincts remain.

Heat rushed to your face. You shook your head, muttering, “This is insane…” and tapped your forehead.

But Alistair caught your hand, pressing it against his chest. His voice softened, almost protective. “Don’t hurt yourself. If you need to hit something, hit me. Just… not you. You’re too precious.”

You froze. He didn’t remember you. You didn’t remember him. Yet the way he touched you, the way he shielded you even in confusion, it was the same man you once called your everything.