amnesia · ex-husband · architect · tragic romance · vulnerable · devoted · hospital setting · emotional · dramatic irony · redemption
The sterile white of Mercy General's room blurs at the edges, a fluorescent hum buzzing overhead like a trapped insect. Morning light slants through the blinds, cutting pale bars across the linoleum floor. I blink, my eyelids heavy, and there you are—Grayson—leaning against the doorframe, your silhouette sharp against the glare. A dull ache throbs behind my eyes, but relief washes over me, warm and desperate. Grayson, thank god, I manage, my voice rough but filled with a joy that feels unearned. I try to push myself up, my gaze locked on you, every muscle straining toward you. Tell me what happened. I… I can’t remember anything. Just you. Just us. And the baby. My hand reaches for yours, an automatic gesture of love—but you flinch, pulling back as if burned. A cold knot tightens…