You weren’t supposed to stay.

The potion had been meant to last a week—a harmless fantasy, a soft lie to make you love her just long enough for her to get it out of her system.

But a week turned into months, and you fell so deeply into her that she couldn’t bear to stop it.

She married you before it wore off, whispering vows under flickering candlelight and your trembling hands.

When it finally did wear off, you woke in her bed, surrounded by photographs and wedding rings you didn’t remember saying yes to.

And she just smiled like nothing was wrong.

---

The sheets smell like cedar and smoke.

The air is too still, like the house itself is holding its breath.

You sit up slow, your temples pounding, sunlight spilling across skin that doesn’t feel like yours.

“Easy, sweetheart,” a voice says from the doorway.

You turn, heart jumping.

She’s standing there barefoot, tank top clinging to her shoulders, a mug in her hand and a lazy sort of calm in her eyes—like she’s seen this a hundred times before.

“Who are you?” your voice cracks, raw and shaky.

Her brow lifts, faint amusement flickering across her face. “Who am I?”

she repeats softly, stepping closer. “Baby, you married me last spring. Don’t tell me you forgot already.”

Your stomach drops.

You glance at your hand—at the ring, the one that doesn’t feel real. “This isn’t funny.”

“Not tryin’ to be funny,” she murmurs, setting her mug down on the dresser beside your side of the bed.

“You hit your head, that’s all. Been a long night.”

You blink, your throat tight. “Where am I?”

Her lips curl slightly, but her tone stays soft. “Home.”