Hilary woke before dawn.
She didn't know how she knew it was dawn. The room was still dark, the curtains drawn, the city outside holding its breath. But something inside her had shifted—an internal clock resetting without permission.
She lay still, listening.
The soft rhythm of a heart monitor.
The distant hum of air conditioning.
And beneath it all—another presence.
Her body tensed.
Slowly, carefully, Hilary turned her head.
A man sat in the chair beside her bed.
He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together as if holding himself in place. His suit jacket lay folded on the table, his sleeves rolled up, dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes.
He looked exhausted.
He looked familiar.
Her pulse spiked.
Hilary's fingers curled into the sheets.
"Who are you?" she asked quietly.
The man flinched.
Not dramatically. Not loudly.
Just a small, involuntary movement—like someone bracing for a blow they already knew was coming.
He straightened slowly and met her gaze.
"I'm Gerard," he said.
His voice was steady.
Practiced.
"I'm your husband."
The words landed between them like glass.
Hilary searched his face.
Jawline.
Eyes.
The faint scar near his left eyebrow.
Nothing.
No warmth.
No echo.
No recognition.
"I don't remember you," she said.
"I know."
The way he said it—soft, resigned—made her chest tighten.
"I'll say it again," he continued gently. "I'm Gerard. We've been married for twelve years. You like your coffee bitter. You hate lilies. And when you're nervous, you rub your thumb against your ring like this."
He lifted her hand carefully, stopping just short of touching her.
Hilary looked down.
Her thumb was rubbing her ring.
She froze.
"That doesn't prove anything," she said, forcing calm into her voice.
"No," he agreed. "It doesn't."
He stood then, deliberately stepping back to give her space.
"You don't have to believe me," Gerard said. "You don't even have to trust me. Just… let me stay close enough to help."
Help.
The word made her stomach twist.
"I don't need help," she said sharply.
His eyes flickered—not with anger, but with something like pain.
"I know," he said. "You've never needed it before."
Silence stretched between them.
Hilary inhaled.
And there it was.
Cedar.
Amber.
Clean and grounding, cutting through the sterile hospital air like a memory that refused to die.
Her breath caught.
She hated that her body reacted when her mind did not.
"Don't come closer," she said, more softly now.
Gerard nodded immediately.
"I won't."
He stayed exactly where he was.
---
Later that morning, the doctors returned.
Tests.
Questions.
Bright lights and quiet voices.
Hilary answered everything correctly.
Her name.
Her age.
Her career.
The neurologist frowned slightly, tapping something into a tablet.
"And your husband?" he asked.
Hilary hesitated.
She felt Gerard's presence beside her—not touching, not moving, just… there.
"I don't recognize him," she said.
The doctor nodded. "That's consistent with the scans."
Gerard's jaw tightened.
The word *consistent* felt like a verdict.
After they left, Hilary stared at the ceiling.
"So," she said finally. "I'm broken."
Gerard's breath hitched.
"You're injured," he corrected. "There's a difference."
"Is there?" She turned her head to look at him. "Because everyone keeps looking at me like something's already been taken away."
He didn't answer.
"That means it's permanent, doesn't it?" she pressed.
"No," he said quickly. "They said *may worsen*. Not *will*."
Hilary laughed softly.
It sounded wrong.
"You're lying," she said. "But you're doing it badly."
He closed his eyes.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "I know how to run companies. I know how to negotiate wars in boardrooms. I don't know how to lose you while you're still here."
The words hit her harder than she expected.
She looked away.
"I don't want anyone to know," she said.
Gerard looked up sharply. "What?"
"If the board finds out," Hilary continued, her voice steady despite the fear clawing at her ribs, "they'll push me out. They'll say I'm unstable. That I'm a liability."
"They won't—"
"They will," she cut in. "You know they will."
Silence.
He did know.
"Help me pretend," she said. "In public. In meetings. Until I can… figure this out."
Gerard studied her face—searching for something he could no longer be sure was there.
Then he nodded.
"Okay."
Relief washed through her, sharp and immediate.
"There's something else," he added.
Hilary tensed again.
"I'm going to introduce myself to you," Gerard said. "Every morning. Every time you need it."
He took a step closer, then stopped—waiting for permission.
Hilary hesitated.
Then nodded once.
He leaned in just enough for her to hear him clearly.
"I am Gerard," he said. "Your husband. And I love you."
Her chest tightened.
Not with recognition.
With something quieter.
She inhaled again.
Cedar.
Amber.
The world steadied.
---
That afternoon, they practiced.
Names.
Voices.
Distances.
Gerard stayed half a step behind her, describing people quietly as they passed in the hallway.
"Nurse. Brown hair. Kind eyes."
"Doctor. Glasses. Nervous."
Hilary listened, absorbing his voice like a lifeline.
At one point, she stopped suddenly.
He nearly collided with her.
"Why do you smell like this?" she asked.
He blinked. "Like what?"
"Like home," she said, then froze. "I don't know why I said that."
Gerard swallowed.
"I've worn the same cologne since college," he said. "You said it made you feel safe."
She looked at him.
She still couldn't see him.
But she could feel the truth of that statement settle somewhere deep inside her.
---
That night, when the room was quiet again, Hilary stood in front of the mirror.
She stared at her reflection.
Then at the man standing beside her.
She knew his voice.
She knew his scent.
She knew the way the room seemed to bend around his presence.
But the face in the mirror meant nothing.
Her heart began to race.
Gerard noticed immediately.
"It's me," he said softly.
Hilary shook her head, tears blurring her vision.
"I know," she whispered. "I just… can't see you."
He stepped closer.
Careful.
Slow.
"I'll be your eyes," he said.
The words settled between them—heavy, irrevocable.
Hilary closed her eyes.
And let herself lean into the only thing she could still recognize.
His scent.