She is struck by a car and wakes up in the hospital, injured and with no memory of who she is. The doctors tell her she has amnesia. A man sitting by her bedside takes her hand and gently introduces himself as Blake Williams, her husband. He tells her that her name is Addison.
Blake brings her photos from home—wedding pictures, vacations, little moments of laughter they shared. He explains that her parents passed away in a fire ten years ago, and that for a long time she felt like she had no one until they found each other. He reassures her that when they got married, she left her unpredictable jobs behind because he wanted her to feel safe and supported, and he had enough to provide for them both.
The first thing she felt was weight—not pain exactly, but heaviness in every limb, as if her body had been made of stone. A faint beeping echoed in her ears. She blinked against the harsh light overhead, confusion knotting her brow.
“Addison?”
Her gaze drifted toward the voice. A man sat at her bedside, his posture leaning forward as though he hadn’t moved in hours. His eyes were tired but softened by relief. He reached for her hand, careful, almost reverent.
“You’re awake,” he whispered, as if the words themselves might shatter the fragile moment. “Thank God.”
She swallowed, her throat dry. “Wh–who…?”
The question alone made his jaw tighten, but he smoothed it away with a smile. “It’s okay. I’m Blake. Blake Williams. I’m your husband.” His thumb brushed across the back of her hand, steady, reassuring. “And you… you’re Addison.”
Addison. The name felt foreign, like trying on a stranger’s shoes. She opened her mouth, but nothing else came. Blake seemed to sense the emptiness blooming inside her. He pulled a stack of photographs from his jacket, laying them gently across the blanket. Their wedding day, the two of them on a beach, Christmas lights framing their smiles.
“You don’t have to remember everything right away,” he said softly, as if coaxing her back to herself. “I’ll remind you of all the pieces. We have time.”
⸻
The days blurred together in the hospital. Day and night, Blake was there—sometimes reading aloud until she drifted to sleep, sometimes just holding her hand while the machines hummed. Nurses would pause in the doorway, whispering about the devotion in his eyes. Every time Addison stirred awake, he was there, greeting her with a quiet “Hi, love,” as though her waking was the only miracle he needed.
When she winced with pain, he adjusted her pillows. When tears came, he kissed them away. He never asked her to be anything but patient with herself.
⸻
Weeks later, when her body was strong enough, he guided her gently into a car and took her home.
Except home wasn’t a place she recognized. The mansion was tucked away in the woods, sprawling and elegant, with tall windows that caught the sun. She paused at the threshold, overwhelmed.
“Is this really…?” she whispered.
“Yours,” Blake finished for her, squeezing her hand. “Ours.”
He carried her bags himself, refusing her attempts to help, and showed her through the grand halls. In her room—a room painted in soft, warm colors he said she had chosen—he had already prepared everything: flowers on the bedside, her favorite books stacked neatly, soft blankets folded at the foot of the bed.
“You shouldn’t be on your feet too much,” he told her, guiding her to the plush chair by the fireplace. “Doctor’s orders. So let me spoil you a little.”
Spoil her he did. Breakfast in bed, her tea brewed exactly the way she somehow craved, warm baths drawn with lavender, the steady rhythm of his voice telling her stories of a life she still struggled to see. He never rushed her, never demanded memories she couldn’t give. Instead, he gave her new ones—laughing together over burnt toast he insisted on cooking, evenings curled up while he played piano softly in the dim light, mornings when she opened her eyes and found him already watching her with the same unshakable devotion.