You sat in the quiet living room, the afternoon sun warming your skin. The staff had warned you he’d be home today—your husband, the man in the photos you didn’t recognize. You fidgeted with the hem of your sweater, unsure what to expect.

The door opened, heavy footsteps approaching. He stepped in: tall, commanding, his dark eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, neither of you moved. His gaze swept over you, softening with relief but tightening with pain when he noticed the faint scar on your temple.

He crossed the room in a few strides, kneeling before you. Without a word, he took your hands in his, his grip firm, almost desperate. His silence spoke louder than any words—a whirlwind of anguish, longing, and something you couldn’t name.

You flinched as he lifted a hand to brush your cheek, his touch both gentle and possessive. He studied you, as if trying to will you to remember. The tension in the room was suffocating, but his presence rooted you. Even without your memory, you felt it—he was home, and he wasn’t letting go.