Archive of Our Own

The first thing you noticed when you opened your eyes was that Roy looked like he’d been crying.

He’d been sitting beside your hospital bed for long enough that the chair had stopped feeling like furniture and started feeling like an extension of his body, one elbow braced against the mattress and his hand wrapped loosely around yours. He’d been awake through the scans, the stitches, the neurologist’s first examination, and the endless stretch of waiting while everyone tried to determine exactly what the blow to your head had done.

Your fingers moved beneath his before your eyes opened properly. Roy straightened so quickly the chair legs scraped against the floor, and for one unguarded second, relief hit him hard enough that he couldn’t speak.

Then you squinted at him. “Roy?”

His name had never sounded better.

“Yeah.” His voice cracked anyway. He cleared his throat and leaned closer. “Hey. I’m here.”

You stared at him for another moment, taking in whatever his face had betrayed before he could hide it. “You look terrible.”

Roy laughed, because apparently his body had decided the alternatives were laughing or breaking apart completely. “Good to see getting your skull rattled didn’t improve your personality.”

Your mouth twitched, and that was when Roy knew you remembered him. He bent over your hand and pressed his forehead against your knuckles for a second, breathing through the relief that followed. You knew his name and his voice, and you knew enough to insult him within thirty seconds of regaining consciousness.

He could work with that.

When he lifted his head again, you were looking around the room with growing awareness, taking in the machines beside you, the IV taped to your arm, and the hospital bracelet circling your wrist. Your expression tightened when you tried to sit up, and Roy was halfway out of his chair before the nurse came through the door.

“Easy.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve been conscious for forty-five seconds.”

“Still fine.”

Roy almost smiled. “She’s definitely fine.”

The nurse ignored both of you with the patience of someone accustomed to difficult people and checked your pupils, blood pressure, and orientation. You knew your name. You knew where you were once she told you the hospital. You knew the month, though you missed the date by two days, and you remembered the mission up until the collapsing section of warehouse ceiling had turned the entire operation into a rescue instead of an arrest.

You remembered Dick pulling two civilians clear and Dinah shouting through the comms. You remembered seeing Roy across the warehouse just before everything came down.

Then the memory ended.

“You were closer to the blast than I was,” you said.

Roy’s stomach tightened. “Yeah.”

“You weren’t hurt?”

“Barely scratched.”

You looked unconvinced until he turned his hands over for inspection, showing you the taped cut across one palm and nothing worse. The movement shifted the blanket over your lap, and when you lowered your gaze, the plain band around your own ring finger caught the light.

Your attention stopped there. For several seconds, you said nothing before lifting your other hand to touch the ring.

“I’m married.”

It wasn’t a question, and for a moment Roy couldn’t breathe.

The nurse looked toward him, and Roy knew she’d been warned. They’d already discussed what could happen when you woke: confusion, memory gaps, irritability, difficulty connecting people to events. He’d listened to every possibility because listening gave him something to do besides stare at your unconscious face and imagine what he would’ve done if you never opened your eyes.

Nobody had mentioned the possibility that you might remember being married without remembering him.

You kept staring at the ring.

“I’m married,” you repeated.

“Yes,” the nurse said carefully.

Your brow furrowed. “I know I am.”

Roy’s heartbeat kicked painfully against his ribs.

Of course you knew. He shifted forward, instinct already pulling him toward you, but when your gaze lifted to his, nothing had changed. You looked at him exactly the way you had before noticing the ring: like Roy, like your best friend. His hand stopped above the blanket before he could touch you.

Your attention returned to the wedding band.

“I can’t remember his face.”

Roy lowered his hand.

The nurse asked another question, but he barely heard it.

You closed your eyes and tried harder, your mouth pulling into a frustrated line. “I know there’s someone. I know I live with someone. I remember…” You stopped, visibly searching through something Roy couldn’t see. “I remember buying groceries and knowing I needed to get two kinds of cereal. I remember somebody complaining because I threw out a shirt that had a hole in it.”

Roy stared at you. You’d thrown away that shirt eight months ago, and he’d promptly rescued it from the trash.

“You said it was disintegrating,” he managed.

Your eyes opened. “Was I wrong?”

“Completely.”

That earned him a faint smile before the confusion returned.

“I remember being married,” you said. “I just don’t remember who I married.”

The neurologist was called back.

Roy sat through the examination with his hands clenched between his knees while you answered another round of questions. Your memory wasn’t gone in any clean or predictable way. You could recount missions from six months ago and forget a restaurant you’d visited last week. You remembered people, places, passwords, birthdays, the code to your apartment building, and exactly how much money Dick still owed you from a bet Roy couldn’t even remember making.

But memories involving your marriage had fractured strangely: you remembered having a husband and loving him, and sometimes you could call up pieces of things you’d done together, but you couldn’t attach a person to any of them.

The neurologist explained that memory after a traumatic brain injury didn’t always fail chronologically. Associations could be disrupted while facts remained intact, and trying to force recollection could increase stress without helping. For now, the recommendation was rest, familiarity, and time.

Roy heard every word, but you seemed to latch onto only one thing.

“This could be temporary?”

“It could,” the neurologist said. “Your scans are reassuring. I can’t promise when those memories will return, or whether they’ll return all at once, but there’s reason to be optimistic.”

You looked down at your hand again.

“Does he know?”

Roy nearly laughed, except nothing about the question was funny.

The neurologist glanced at Roy, and that was enough. Your gaze followed, and Roy watched as realization began, something viciously hopeful tearing through him.

Then you frowned. “You know him.”

Roy swallowed. “Yeah.”

“How well?”

His wedding ring suddenly felt impossibly heavy.

“Pretty well.”

You absorbed that quietly before looking toward the neurologist. “I don’t want anyone to tell me.”

Roy’s head came up. “What?”

You looked at him. “Who he is.”

The neurologist’s expression remained neutral. “That’s your decision.”

“I know it sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t.”

Roy wished somebody would say it did.

You rubbed your thumb over your ring. “If somebody tells me his name, then I’m going to know because somebody told me. Every time I see him, I’ll be wondering whether I feel something because I remember it or because everyone expects me to.”

Roy couldn’t argue with that.

He hated that he couldn’t argue with that.

“I know I loved him,” you continued. “I know that much. I want to remember why.”

You hesitated, looking down at the ring again. “But he knows I’m okay, right?”

Roy’s chest tightened. “Yeah.”

“And he’d really stay away if I asked him to?”

That hurt more than it should have, even knowing what you meant.

“He’s not okay with any of this,” Roy said carefully. “But you want the chance to remember on your own. If that means giving you space, he’ll respect that.”

You absorbed that for a moment. “Even if it takes a while?”

“As long as it takes.”

Something in your expression softened. Maybe that answer told you something about the man you’d married even if you couldn’t remember him yet.

You nodded slowly. “Then I’m asking.”

Then you looked at Roy, seeking the person you apparently still trusted enough to turn to when the rest of your life had tilted sideways.

“Will you help me?”

Roy stared at his wife.

“Yeah,” he said. “Of course I will.”

You were discharged the following afternoon with instructions to rest, avoid strenuous activity, limit screen time if it worsened the headache, and return immediately if any alarming symptoms appeared.

Roy read the paperwork three times.

You watched him from the bed while he did. “You know I can read, right?”

“Debatable.”

“You’ve seen me read.”

“I’ve seen you look at words.”

Your smile appeared automatically.

Roy hated how much he needed it.

He’d spent the morning working with everyone else to honor your request without turning your life into a staged set. The obvious photographs in your apartment had been moved, and Roy had replaced the anniversary photo on your lock screen with one of the city skyline before making sure nothing else immediately visible on your phone would give your husband away.

Your wedding ring stayed.

So did his.

Roy had considered taking his off.

He hadn’t been able to do it.

The ride home was quiet. You leaned your head against the passenger window and watched the city slide by while Roy drove, one hand resting loosely on the wheel. His entire body was aware of you in the seat beside him. Usually, whenever traffic allowed, his other hand ended up on your thigh without either of you thinking about it.

Now he kept it near the gearshift.

You directed him to your building without hesitation.

Roy parked in his usual space.

You got out, took three steps, then stopped. “Roy.”

“Yeah?”

“You have a parking space here.”

He looked at the number painted on the concrete as though it had personally betrayed him.

“I’m here a lot.”

“You have assigned parking at my apartment because you’re here a lot?”

“I’m here enough that it made sense.”

You stared at him.

Roy held your gaze.

Eventually, you shook your head and started walking again. “That was a terrible answer.”

“It was the best I had.”

That was dangerously close to the truth.

You remembered the code downstairs and which elevator button stuck and needed to be pressed twice, and you knew exactly which key opened the apartment door, although Roy had to take your bag when the headache made you wince halfway down the hall.

The moment you stepped inside, you stopped so abruptly that Roy nearly walked into you. The apartment wasn’t unfamiliar, which somehow would’ve been easier; instead, you looked around the home you’d shared with him for almost four years and recognized everything except the evidence of the life you’d built there with someone else.

The couch was yours. The coffee table had been yours before Roy moved in. You recognized the ugly ceramic bowl by the door because Dinah had given it to you as a housewarming gift years ago.

Two jackets hung beside the entrance, and your eyes immediately settled on Roy’s red one. They’d left the less obvious pieces of your life alone, but Roy was beginning to think his jacket wasn’t particularly subtle.

“You keep clothes here?”

Roy set the bag down. “Sometimes.”

You touched the sleeve, your fingers moving over fabric he’d worn three days ago. “Is this yours?”

“Yeah.”

“You practically live here.”

Roy couldn’t find an answer that wasn’t a lie.

You let the jacket fall and moved farther inside.

His presence became harder to ignore once you started looking for it. A second set of shoes sat near the door, his spare bow case was tucked beneath the console table, and the oversized mug you’d bought him after he complained yours were too small occupied its usual place in the kitchen.

You didn’t comment on every discovery.

That somehow made it worse.

Roy stayed close enough to catch you if dizziness hit but far enough that you wouldn’t feel crowded. He made tea while you wandered through rooms you knew intimately, watching pieces of your own life refuse to fit together.

When you entered the bedroom, Roy remained in the doorway.

You opened the closet and stopped when you realized almost half of it belonged to him.

“Roy.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “Yeah?”

“You have half my closet.”

“Closer to forty percent.”

You turned around. “Seriously?”

“Sorry.”

“That was not the part I was questioning.”

Roy rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

You looked past him toward the bed. Two nightstands flanked it, a phone charger plugged in beside each, and a paperback lay face down on the side Roy apparently used. He’d been reading it three nights before the mission, right before you stole it from his hands and told him to go to sleep.

You picked it up.

“You hate this author.”

“I’m broadening my horizons.”

“You spent twenty minutes complaining about his last book.”

Roy stared.

You stared back.

Something flickered across your face.

“You remember that?”

“I remember you complaining.” You pressed your fingers briefly to your temple. “I don’t remember where we were.”

Roy did.

You’d been in this bed, your legs tangled with his beneath the blankets while he read sections aloud just to annoy you.

He kept that part to himself.

“You’re here constantly,” you said.

“Yeah.”

You looked around the room once more before noticing a sock near the foot of the bed. Roy knew exactly whose it was before you bent to pick it up.

“This isn’t mine.”

“No.”

“It’s yours.”

“Probably.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You leave laundry on my bedroom floor?”

Roy almost apologized, but something shifted in your expression as you looked down at the sock.

“I’ve complained about this before.”

His chest tightened. “Once or twice.”

“More than twice.”

“Maybe.”

“I threatened to start charging you rent.”

“You were bluffing.”

The words came out before he could stop them.

You froze, and Roy did too, convinced for one awful second that he’d pushed too far.

Then your brow furrowed as you looked around the room. “I knew you were here.”

Roy didn’t answer.

“I remember being annoyed that you leave socks everywhere.” Your voice softened, confusion replacing irritation. “I just thought you were visiting.”

Roy didn’t know what to do with that, so he took the sock gently from your hand.

“I’ll work on it.”

You gave him a tired look. “Apparently you’ve been saying that for years.”

He smiled despite himself. “Yeah, I have.”

Roy slept on the couch.

He didn’t tell you that the first night because you didn’t ask.

On the second morning, you found the folded blanket and pillow and stood over them long enough for him to know another interrogation was coming.

“You have a side of my bed.”

Roy looked up from the coffee he was making for himself. “What?”

“You have books on the nightstand, a charger plugged into the wall, clothes in the closet, and approximately twelve thousand arrows stored in my hall closet.”

“Closer to eighty.”

“That wasn’t an invitation to correct me.”

He handed you the tea he’d already made.

You took it automatically, then paused after the first sip.

Roy knew immediately what he’d done.

“You remembered how I take my tea.”

He leaned against the counter. “I’ve known you a long time.”

Your expression softened.

That was the problem.

Every piece of evidence had an explanation if you wanted one badly enough.

Roy had been your best friend before he’d been anything else. He’d had keys to apartments you no longer lived in. He knew your orders at restaurants, the songs you skipped halfway through, and the exact temperature you wanted the thermostat at night. Most of those things had been true long before he ever kissed you.

Love hadn’t replaced the friendship. It had grown out of it so gradually that neither of you had realized things had changed until you were already something more.

You sat on the counter stool, curling both hands around your tea. “What’s he like?”

Roy’s fingers tightened around his mug. He didn’t need to ask who, but he asked anyway. “Your husband?”

You nodded.

Of all the questions he’d prepared himself for, that one still hurt.

Roy looked down at his coffee. “Annoying.”

You smiled faintly. “That tells me nothing.”

“He talks too much when he’s nervous.”

“That sounds familiar.”

“Terrible habit.”

You watched him expectantly, and Roy searched for a way to describe himself through your eyes without giving himself away.

“He’s stubborn. Leaves his stuff everywhere. Thinks fixing something with duct tape counts as fixing it.”

Your smile grew. “He sounds terrible.”

“Yeah, well. You married him.”

“There must be something good in there.”

Roy looked at you.

You were teasing, but there was uncertainty beneath it.

There must be something good in there.

He remembered standing in front of you on your wedding day with his hands shaking. Roy had faced assassins, monsters, metahumans, and things from other planets without letting fear get the better of him, but promising you forever had somehow terrified him more than any of them. He remembered waking the morning after and staring at the ring on your finger because some part of him still couldn’t believe you’d chosen him.

Roy swallowed. “He loves you.”

Your amusement faded. “A lot?”

“More than anything.”

The room went quiet. You lowered your gaze to your tea, your thumb moving slowly along the ceramic handle. “Was I happy?”

Roy’s throat closed.

He set his mug down before he dropped it. “Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

You nodded slowly.

Roy wanted to close the distance. He wanted to kneel in front of you and put his hands on your knees the way he always did when you started disappearing into your own head. He wanted to tell you that you’d been happy three mornings before the mission when you complained that he’d used the last clean towel. You’d been happy while arguing with him about takeout that final night at home. You’d been happy when he returned from patrol after midnight and climbed into bed beside you, because you’d rolled toward him without opening your eyes and tucked your cold feet beneath his legs.

Instead, he stayed where he was.

“Do you like him?”

Roy blinked.

You were watching him.

“Your husband?”

“Yes, Roy. The husband I apparently have and can’t remember.”

His laugh escaped before he could stop it, and you smiled before waiting for an actual answer.

Roy looked toward the window.

“Yeah,” he said eventually. “I like him.”

“How reassuring.”

“He has his moments.”

You took another sip of tea. “Does he like you?”

Roy nearly choked on his coffee.

Your eyes widened. “Are you okay?”

“Fantastic.”

“You inhaled coffee.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“You shoot arrows for a living.”

“Exactly.”

You stared at him until his coughing subsided, but instead of letting the subject drop, your gaze drifted toward the wedding band on your hand.

“He really hasn’t tried to contact me.”

The humor left Roy’s face.

“You asked him not to.”

“I know.” You rubbed your thumb over the ring. “I just thought it might be harder for him than that.”

Roy stared at you for a moment. “It is.”

Something in his answer made you look up.

“He’s not staying away because he wants to,” Roy continued carefully. “You asked for the chance to remember him on your own. He’s respecting that.”

“Even if it takes a while?”

“As long as it takes.”

Your expression softened as you looked back down at your hand. “I’m starting to think I married someone annoyingly respectful.”

Roy looked away before you could see too much on his face. “Tragic.”

A small smile touched your mouth, but it faded as you turned the ring once around your finger. “I hope he knows I’m not trying to keep him away forever.”

Roy’s chest tightened. “He knows.”

You nodded, apparently satisfied with that, while Roy picked up his coffee again and stared into it as though it might contain instructions for surviving the rest of the conversation.

He was beginning to wonder whether lying by omission could actually kill a person.

By the fourth day, your headaches had faded enough that you repeatedly insisted Roy didn’t need to watch you like you might collapse every time you crossed the room. It had absolutely no effect.

“Stop hovering.”

“I’m sitting.”

“You’re hovering emotionally.”

Roy looked up from the opposite end of the couch. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is when you do it.”

You returned your attention to the television.

Roy tried to do the same.

You’d chosen a movie you’d both seen enough times that neither of you needed to pay attention. Roy remembered watching it with you on your third date, although neither of you had called it a date until six months later, when the argument about exactly when you’d started seeing each other became inconvenient enough that you finally admitted what had happened.

You remembered watching the movie with him.

You just thought you’d still been friends.

The distinction had begun wearing him down.

At first, he’d been grateful for every piece of yourself you retained. You remembered him, trusted him, and wanted him nearby.

Then Roy began to understand how cruel familiarity could be. You touched him constantly without seeming to notice, pushing your foot beneath his thigh when yours got cold, catching his wrist when you wanted his attention, and leaning around him in the kitchen with one hand against his back instead of asking him to move. Earlier that afternoon, you’d fallen asleep with your head on his shoulder and stayed there for forty minutes.

Your body still knew him; your mind simply kept assigning every instinct to friendship. Roy had never hated being your best friend before.

You shifted beneath the blanket and frowned toward the screen.

“What?” Roy asked.

“Nothing.”

“You made a face.”

“So?”

“So I know your faces.”

Roy looked over and found you already watching him. “What?” he asked again.

You hesitated, then your gaze dropped toward his left hand resting on the blanket between you and settled on his wedding ring.

Roy’s stomach sank.

“You’re married.”

The elephant in the room.

“Yeah.”

You stared at the band. “How have I not asked about that?”

“You’ve had other things going on.”

“Clearly.” You adjusted the blanket over your lap. “Do I know her?”

Roy considered jumping through the window.

Technically, you lived high enough that he might get several peaceful seconds before impact. “Very well.”

Your expression sharpened with interest. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Do I like her?”

Roy rubbed his thumb over his ring. “Usually.”

“Usually?”

“She can be difficult.”

You kicked him lightly beneath the blanket.

Roy almost laughed.

“You’re being evasive.”

“I’m respecting everybody’s privacy.”

“You know who my husband is, but your wife is suddenly private?”

“That seems fair.”

You considered that, and Roy could practically see the questions multiplying.

“How long have you been married?”

“A while.”

“Roy.”

“A few years.”

Your brow creased.

“How did I miss your wedding?”

His heart stopped. You weren’t joking anymore, and the confusion on your face deepened as you searched your memory.

“I would’ve been there.”

Roy couldn’t answer.

“I must’ve been there.”

His jaw tightened.

You looked at him. “Was I?”

He forced himself to nod.

Your face relaxed slightly. “Okay.”

Roy looked away.

He remembered you standing across from him with tears in your eyes and both hands wrapped around his. He remembered trying to get through vows he’d rewritten six times because nothing sounded good enough. He remembered you laughing when he stumbled over one line, not because it was funny but because you knew he needed permission to breathe.

You had definitely been there.

“Was it nice?”

Roy’s eyes burned. “Best day of my life.”

The answer came too quickly.

You went still.

Roy realized his mistake immediately, but there was nothing he could do except endure the way you looked at him afterward.

Then your expression softened. “You really love her.”

Roy looked at his wife.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I really do.”

Something about your face changed.

It wasn’t recognition, only something smaller and harder to name.

You looked away first.

“I hope I remember mine like that.”

Roy pressed his lips together.

“You will.”

He needed that to be true.

That night, Roy woke to you calling his name.

He was off the couch before he was fully conscious.

The bedroom door was open, and he crossed the hallway in seconds to find you sitting upright against the headboard with the bedside lamp on, breathing too quickly.

Roy stopped beside the bed. “Hey.”

You looked at him. “I had a dream.”

He sat carefully on the edge of the mattress. “About the warehouse?”

You shook your head. “My husband.”

Roy forgot how to move.

“At least I think it was.” You dragged a hand over your face.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. That’s the problem.” You swallowed. “We were just here.”

Roy waited.

“In this room. I couldn’t see him properly, but I knew he was there.”

The mattress shifted beneath Roy’s weight as you moved closer without seeming to notice.

“He touched my back.”

Roy’s hand twitched against his knee.

You looked toward the empty side of the bed. “He does that.”

It wasn’t a question.

Roy answered anyway. “Yeah.”

“How do you know?”

There were too many possible answers, so Roy chose the safest. “You told me.”

You nodded, and your breathing began to slow.

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I know he exists. I know I miss him.” Your voice tightened. “How can I miss someone I can’t picture?”

Roy’s restraint nearly broke. His hand moved toward you before he caught himself, but you noticed it hovering uselessly between you and took it.

Roy stared down at your joined hands.

“Stay?”

He closed his eyes. “Okay.”

His gaze went to the chair beside the bed.

You frowned. “That’s ridiculous.”

Roy looked back at you. “You said stay.”

“I didn’t say exile yourself six feet away.”

His heart pounded hard enough to make him dizzy.

You shifted toward the far side of the mattress, leaving space beside you. It was his side, of course.

Roy stood slowly. “You sure?”

“You’ve apparently slept in this room often enough to colonize half my closet.”

“That’s not exactly the same thing.”

“I trust you.”

Roy almost wished you didn’t.

He climbed into bed over the blankets and stayed carefully near the edge. You switched off the lamp, and darkness settled over the room.

For several minutes, neither of you spoke.

Then you rolled toward him.

Roy stared at the ceiling while your hand found his forearm. A few seconds later, your forehead rested against his shoulder, and every muscle in his body went rigid.

“You’re really tense.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Must be the couch.”

“You’re blaming the couch while lying in a bed?”

“Long-term damage.”

You made a tired noise that might’ve been a laugh before settling closer.

Roy barely breathed as your grip gradually loosened with sleep, and he remained awake long after your breathing had evened out.

Sometime after two in the morning, you shifted without waking and tucked your face against his chest.

Roy looked down at you.

His arm had gone numb and his neck hurt, but he would’ve stayed exactly like that forever.

The next morning, Roy opened his eyes and found you staring at him. 

Neither of you moved.

Your head was still against his chest, one of his arms had apparently wrapped around your waist sometime during the night despite his best intentions, and your leg was hooked loosely over his exactly the way it usually was when you slept together.

Roy released you immediately.

“Sorry.”

You sat up. “It’s fine.”

He pushed himself upright, pulse racing.

You looked around the room again, first at your side of the bed and then at his, lingering on the indentation his head had left in the pillow.

Roy climbed out. “I’ll make breakfast.”

“Roy.”

He stopped.

You were holding the blanket against yourself, watching him with a troubled expression.

“Did we ever…”

Roy went completely still.

You seemed to regret the question the moment it left your mouth. “Forget it.”

“What were you going to ask?”

You looked at him.

He already had a pretty good idea where this was going.

“Did we ever date?”

Roy’s heart hammered. “We’ve known each other a long time.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“I know.”

“Roy.”

He looked away. “You asked me to let you remember things in your own time. I’m trying not to start filling in the blanks for you.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“That’s an interesting way to avoid answering.”

“Probably.”

You stared at him for another few seconds before finally looking away.

“Breakfast.”

Roy escaped to the kitchen, and you followed ten minutes later. The conversation didn’t return, but the question did; Roy saw it every time you looked at him for the rest of the day.

Two more days passed, and memory returned in scraps. 

You remembered dancing barefoot with someone in the kitchen, though you still couldn’t see his face. Other fragments followed: an anniversary dinner ruined by rain and a night spent awake beside someone after a nightmare, listening to him breathe until dawn.

Roy answered questions when he could, although sometimes you didn’t ask them aloud.

He found you standing at the bathroom sink one afternoon with his shampoo in your hand. “This is yours.”

“Yeah.”

You looked at the bottle and then at him. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

The question hit harder than anything else had.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re waiting for something.”

Roy’s mouth went dry. You were close enough that he could’ve reached for you without fully extending his arm, but he kept his hands to himself.

“I’m waiting for you to get better.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Roy looked away.

Your hand closed around his wrist.

“Roy.”

He could’ve lied.

Instead, he said, “You asked me not to tell you.”

Your grip tightened slightly.

“I know.”

“So I’m not telling you.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to pretend nothing’s happening.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know.”

“Neither do I.”

The frustration in his voice made you release him, and Roy regretted it immediately.

He took a breath. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“Yeah, I do.”

You watched him.

Roy leaned back against the counter, suddenly exhausted.

“You’re trying to remember somebody you love. I’m trying to respect the way you asked to do it.” He looked at you. “I’m not always going to be good at both.”

Your frustration disappeared.

“You miss him too.”

Roy almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

“Yeah.”

Your expression softened.

“You really are close with my husband, aren’t you?”

Roy stared at the floor.

“Something like that.”

The memory returned while you were cooking.

It wasn’t because anything dramatic happened. There was no second accident, no conveniently forgotten photograph, and no sudden revelation waiting for you in something everyone else had missed.

You were making pasta, and Roy stood behind you complaining about the amount of garlic you’d added.

“There’s no such thing as too much.”

“There absolutely is.”

“You ate half a raw onion on a dare.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“Money was involved.”

“Thirty dollars was involved.”

“A fortune at the time.”

You reached for the wooden spoon, caught it with your elbow instead, and sent it rolling toward the edge of the counter. 

Roy caught it before it hit the floor and set it beside the stove without either of you reacting.

It was ordinary enough that he stepped past you a second later and pressed a distracted kiss to the top of your head.

He froze, and so did you.

Roy backed away immediately. “Sorry.”

Your hand tightened around the counter, and whatever he saw on your face stopped him from retreating any farther.

“Hey.”

You weren’t looking at him anymore. You were staring at the spoon as something inside your memory finally opened.

The kitchen stayed around you while another memory settled over it: Roy catching a mug before it shattered, then kissing your temple as he passed behind you. His hand rested at your waist while you stood at the stove, his voice warm against your ear as he told you to move because you were hogging the entire kitchen.

Another memory followed, Roy barefoot beside you at two in the morning while you both ate cold leftovers straight from the container. Then he was stretched across the couch with his head in your lap while you threaded your fingers through his hair, his eyes closed beneath your touch.

The memories kept coming faster after that.

Roy laughing when you smeared cake across his mouth at your wedding reception. Roy standing across from you with both hands wrapped around yours, his fingers trembling even while he smiled. His voice breaking halfway through vows he’d spent weeks rewriting. The band sliding onto your finger.

His ring.

You turned.

Roy stood several feet away, terrified to move.

You saw him as more than the best friend your memory had left you with. You saw him beside you in the kitchen and asleep in your bed, arguing over groceries and reaching for you in the middle of the night. You saw every ordinary thing your mind had preserved while somehow removing him from the center of it.

Your husband.

The person whose socks were on your bedroom floor and whose shampoo was in your bathroom. The person who knew how much sugar went in your tea because he made it for you every morning. The person who slept on the right side of your bed and reached for you when he knew you were having nightmares.

The person you had spent an entire week trying to find while he stood beside you.

Your eyes filled, but Roy didn’t move.

“You’re my husband.”

His face crumpled. “Yeah.”

The word barely came out before you crossed the kitchen toward him.

Roy met you halfway, his arms closing around you with a desperation he’d been suppressing for days. You buried your face against his neck as everything familiar finally returned to its proper place.

His hands moved over your back, and you remembered them too: the scar beneath his thumb, the calluses along his fingers, and the way he always held you a little too tightly when he’d been frightened before pretending afterward that he hadn’t. Roy breathed your name against your hair as you clutched the back of his shirt.

“Oh my God.”

He laughed shakily. “Yeah.”

You pulled back.

Roy’s eyes were red.

You touched his face, and the first day in the hospital came rushing back differently now: Roy sitting beside your bed, exhausted and terrified, while you looked directly at your husband and asked whether he knew the man you’d married.

Your mouth fell open.

Roy seemed to recognize the exact memory that had surfaced.

“Don’t.”

“You let me ask if you liked my husband.”

His eyes closed. “You specifically told me not to tell you.”

“You said he had his moments.”

“He does.”

“Roy.”

“I was under a lot of pressure.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it and broke into something dangerously close to a sob.

Roy’s expression changed immediately.

“Hey.”

You wrapped your arms around him again.

He held you.

For several minutes, neither of you tried to speak.

Eventually, you turned your face against his shoulder.

“I asked if I was happy.”

Roy’s hand moved slowly along your back. “Yeah.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I did.”

“You know what I mean.”

He rested his cheek against your hair.

“You wanted to remember.”

“I wanted you.”

Roy went very still.

You tightened your arms around him.

“I just didn’t know I already had you.”

His breath caught.

When he pulled back this time, his hand came carefully to your cheek.

Roy hesitated.

That hurt more than anything.

Your husband had never hesitated to kiss you.

He was waiting for permission now.

You leaned in first.

The kiss was soft and almost painfully cautious. Roy barely moved until your fingers curled into his shirt and pulled him closer, and then the restraint he’d been clinging to all week finally broke. His other arm tightened around your waist as he kissed you with all the desperation he’d spent the past week swallowing down, finally able to hold his wife without pretending she was only his best friend.

When you separated, his forehead stayed against yours.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

Your throat tightened. “I was right here.”

“I know.”

You touched the ring on his hand.

“I remembered being married.”

“Yeah.”

“I remembered loving you.”

Roy’s eyes closed when you threaded your fingers through his.

“I just forgot they were the same thing.”

His thumb moved over your wedding band.

“You remember me.”

You looked at him.

There were still gaps. You could feel them now, scattered places where memories hadn’t settled completely. Maybe some would return tomorrow. Maybe others would take weeks.

But Roy’s face was no longer missing from them.

You leaned into him again.

Behind you, something hissed.

Roy’s head lifted. “The pasta.”

You both turned toward the stove.

Water had boiled over the edge of the pot.

Roy reached past you and turned the burner down while you grabbed a towel.

“You distracted me.”

He stared at you. “I distracted you?”

“Yes.”

“You remembered our entire marriage in the middle of making dinner.”

“And whose fault was that?”

Roy opened his mouth, seemed to discover there was no reasonable answer, and closed it again.

You smiled, and after looking at you for a long moment, Roy smiled back. The expression was familiar in every possible way.

Then he stepped closer and kissed your forehead, this time without stopping himself.

You closed your eyes and leaned into the touch.

For the first time since waking in the hospital, you knew exactly who was holding you.