Married to My Amnesia Ex.

(Ava’s POV) The room smells like antiseptic and rain. A steady beeping fills my ears, sharp and annoying, but it’s the weight on my hand that pulls me back, warm, familiar, trembling. When my eyes open, the first thing I see is him. Ethan. My husband. “Hey,” his voice is soft, raw, like someone who hasn’t slept in days. His eyes storm-gray and too intense, search mine. “You’re awake.” I blink, trying to piece together the blur in my head. “What... happened?” “You were in an accident,” he says quietly, brushing his thumb over my knuckles. “You hit your head. But you’re safe now.” Accident. Head. Safe. My mind scrambles to remember, but everything feels slippery like holding water in my hands. “Where’s our house?” I ask weakly. “Did you call Mom? She hates hospitals.” His jaw tightens for a second so fast I almost miss it. “I did. She’s on her way.” “And the gallery?” I push. “I had a client meeting this week, remember? For the Kensington project” His eyes flash. Pain. Guilt. Something I can’t name. “Don’t worry about that right now,” he murmurs. “Just rest, Ava.” There’s something strange about the way he says my name, like it hurts him. I study him closer. Same sharp jaw. Same smooth black hair falling into his eyes. Same expensive watch I bought him for our first anniversary. But there’s… distance. A coldness behind the warmth. I swallow. “How bad was it?” “Bad enough,” he admits, his voice cracking for a fraction of a second. “You were unconscious for two days. The doctor said… your memory might be a little foggy.” “Foggy?” I whisper. “About what?” He hesitates and in that hesitation, I feel something dark unfurl. “What year do you think it is?” he asks softly. “2021,” I answer instantly. “Why?” The silence that follows is suffocating. He looks at me like I’ve just said something impossible. “It’s 2024, Ava.” My breath catches. “No… that’s not— That can’t” I clutch the sheets, my pulse racing. “Ethan, we just got married last year. We were planning our honeymoon to” He flinches. Actually flinches. “Rest,” he repeats, standing suddenly. “Don’t strain yourself.” But I can’t stop. “Ethan, talk to me! What are you not telling me?” He looks down at me, eyes swimming with a thousand things unsaid. “Nothing. You’re my wife. That’s all that matters right now.” He leans forward, presses a careful kiss to my forehead, soft, almost reverent. It should feel like home. It doesn’t. When he pulls away, I catch the look in his eyes, that haunted, broken kind of sadness that doesn’t belong to a husband who just got his wife back. It’s the look of a man pretending. And just before I drift into sleep, one thought hits me like lightning: He looks at me like a stranger pretending to love me.