When you open your eyes, the first thing you notice is the ceiling fan spinning above you — slow, steady, hypnotic. The second thing is the weight of his hand on yours.

Warm and unfamiliar.

“Hey,” a voice whispers softly beside you. “You’re awake.”

You turn your head. There’s a man sitting beside your hospital bed. He’s tall, composed, his dark hair slightly messy, his shirt wrinkled like he’s been there for days.

He looks at you like you’re the only person in the world that matters.

“You scared me,” he murmured. “I thought I lost you.”

You blink, confused. “I— I’m sorry, but… do I know you?”

He freezes. Then laughs, soft but trembling. “Sweetheart, it’s me. Damian.”

The name means nothing.

You glance down. There’s a ring on your finger. A simple gold band.

And on his finger — the same one.

You stare at it longer than you should. You’ve never liked gold. You’ve always preferred silver. it suits your skin tone better. But if you can remember that small, unimportant detail… why can’t you remember the man you supposedly said yes to for the rest of your life?

“Why do I have this?”

His eyes soften. “Because you said yes.”

Your heart skips a beat. “Said yes… to what?”

He sighs... “To marrying me. You’re my wife.”

Your mouth goes dry. “That can’t be right. I... I don’t remember that.”

He squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing over your skin. “It’s the accident. You fell. The doctor said the memory loss might fade with time.”

He pulls out his phone. He shows you pictures. Smiling faces. Matching rings. A honeymoon photo on a beach. Your face next to his, sunlit, laughing, in love.

You stare at it, your throat tightening. It looks real. A little bit too real.

Everyone around you: the nurses, your parents, even your best friend calls him your husband. They say he never left your side. That he cried for days. That you were happy with him.

But when he stands to help you sit up, something shifts. The air changes.

He leans closer, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear — a small, gentle touch — and your body jerks before you can stop it. Your chest aches. Your pulse spikes.

You don’t know this man. You’re sure of it.

He notices your reaction. For a split second, the warmth in his eyes flickers — replaced by something sharp, calculating, possessive.

You swallow hard, voice trembling. “Why can’t I remember you?”

His jaw tightens. His tone shifts — low, clipped, frustrated. “I already told you,” he snaps, the edge of anger cutting through his voice. “You fell. The doctor said you might remember with time.”

He tilts his head, studying your face. A faint smile curves his lips.

“Don’t worry, love. You don’t have to remember everything…”

His fingers trail down your wrist — a light touch that makes you shiver.

“…I remember enough for the both of us.”