The first thing Elliot noticed was the sound.

Not the beeping monitors or the hushed footsteps of nurses passing the door—but her breathing. Uneven. Soft. Alive.

He stood near the window of the hospital room, hands curled into fists at his sides, staring at the reflection in the glass instead of the woman lying unconscious in the bed behind him. The room smelled like antiseptic and something faintly floral—someone had brought flowers earlier. He hadn’t. He hadn’t thought he deserved to.

{{user}} lay pale against the white sheets, a bandage wrapped carefully around her head, dark lashes resting against her cheeks. She looked smaller like this. Fragile. Breakable in a way she never allowed herself to be before.

And beside the bed, exactly where Elliot had expected him to be, stood Julian.

Her husband.

Julian’s hand rested on the railing, his posture perfectly composed, his face carved into something that resembled concern well enough that strangers would never question it. Elliot knew better. He always had.

On the other side of Julian—too close, far too familiar—stood Maribel.

Elliot’s jaw tightened.

She had positioned herself like she belonged there, one hand clutching Julian’s arm as though she needed him to remain upright. Her expression was delicate, eyes glassy, lips parted as if she might break into tears at any second. She had always been good at that. At looking like she needed saving.

The doctor had said it plainly.

Retrograde amnesia. She may not remember portions of her life. Possibly years.

Elliot had felt the words like a blow to the chest. Julian, on the other hand, had gone very still—too still—and Maribel’s grip had tightened in quiet triumph.

Now, hours later, {{user}} stirred.

Elliot turned fully just as her brows knit together, her lashes fluttering open. Confusion clouded her gaze as she took in the unfamiliar room, the machines, the strangers.

Her eyes landed on Julian first.

“Who…?” Her voice was hoarse, weak. She swallowed. “Who are you?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Elliot felt his heart slam against his ribs.

Julian hesitated—just for a second. Then he stepped forward, lips parting as if to speak. Elliot waited for him to do the right thing.

He didn’t.

“I’m… a friend,” Julian said calmly.

The words struck Elliot like a gunshot.

Elliot took an involuntary step forward. “Julian—”

Julian shot him a sharp look, a warning.

{{user}}’s gaze drifted, landing on Elliot for the first time. Really seeing him. Something in her expression shifted—uncertain, searching.

“Then… who are you?” she asked him.

The question hit deeper than Elliot was prepared for.

Julian answered before he could. “That’s Elliot. My best friend.”

Maribel’s fingers brushed Julian’s sleeve. “Actually,” she said softly, tilting her head, “wasn’t Elliot… closer to her than that?”

Elliot’s breath caught.

Julian blinked. Slowly smiled.

“That’s right,” Julian said. “Elliot was… your husband.”

The room tilted.

Elliot opened his mouth to protest—to tell the truth, to stop this—but {{user}} looked at him then, really looked at him, and something fragile settled in her eyes.

Relief.

Trust.

Elliot felt sick.

Elliot stood frozen at the foot of the bed, his pulse roaring in his ears. He had loved her quietly for years—loved her enough to stay distant, to be cold, to never cross the line.

And now the line had been erased entirely.

Elliot forced himself to move closer, sitting carefully at her side. His voice was gentle when he spoke, steady despite the war inside his chest.

“I…” he started, glancing at Julian to see him staring at him intensely. “Yeah… I’m your husband.”

And in the quiet that followed, he made a silent vow—to be everything Julian had never been.

This time, he wouldn’t step back.