Mia (potion version)

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Steve had been standing at the altar for thirty minutes. Thirty minutes turned into an hour. An hour into three.

At first, there were whispers—soft, polite murmurs from the guests shifting in their seats, craning their necks toward the church doors every time they creaked open. The music had long since stopped. The flowers were starting to wilt under the summer heat. Even the priest didn’t know where to look anymore.

Steve didn’t move.

He stood there in his suit, hands clasped so tightly in front of him they had gone pale, eyes locked on the entrance like if he just waited long enough, you’d walk through it—breathless, eyes rolling, apologizing, smiling like you always did.

You didn’t.

Eventually, people started leaving.

Quietly at first, then in clusters. Awkward pats on his shoulder, murmured apologies, and sympathetic looks he couldn’t stand to meet. By the time the last row emptied, Steve couldn’t take it anymore.

Robin found him behind the church, sitting on the low concrete steps, his tie loosened, his hair a mess like he’d been running his hands through it over and over again.

He didn’t look like the guy who used to charm a whole room without trying. He looked small.

Dustin hovered nearby, unsure, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“We told everyone to head home,” Robin said gently, lowering herself beside him. “No one’s mad. They’re just… worried.”

Steve let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah. great. ‘Hey, thanks for coming to my wedding—sorry the bride didn’t show up.’ Real classy, Harrington.”

“Hey,” Dustin cut in quickly, stepping closer. “Don’t…don’t do that. It’s not—maybe something happened, okay? Maybe—”

“Nothing happened.” Steve’s voice cracked, sharp and sudden, like it hurt just to speak. “She left.”

Silence.

Robin’s expression softened, but she didn’t look convinced. “Steve…”

“I really thought she loved me.” The words came out quieter this time, almost like he wasn’t meant to say them out loud. His gaze dropped to his hands. “I mean…three years, Rob. Three years and she just… doesn’t show up?”

His voice broke on the last word.

Robin reached for him, squeezing his shoulder. “We’re here, okay? Whatever this is…we’re here.”

“Robin’s right,” Dustin added, nodding firmly even if his voice wavered a little. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Steve didn’t answer.

He just stared ahead, eyes unfocused, like he was still waiting, like some part of him refused to believe this was real.

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Four hours earlier, you had been in a car, smoothing trembling hands over the fabric of your white dress.carefully chosen. carefully fitted. You remembered how long it took to find it, how you stood in front of the mirror, turning slightly, imagining the look on his face when he saw you.

You clutched the paper in your hands tighter.

Your vows.

You had rewritten them three times already because you wanted them to be perfect, not because, before this, you and Steve got into a heated argument, but because Steve deserves the best.

Outside, the sky was clear, the kind of day that felt like it was made for beginnings. The road stretched ahead, quiet, almost peaceful.

You took a breath, glancing down at the page again. “I choose you—”

A loud, sudden sound feels wrong horn blared.  You barely had time to look up.

A truck, too fast, too close, and the world shattered.  Metal screamed. Glass exploded. The impact snapped everything sideways, your body jerking violently as something warm spilled across your lap.

For a second, just a second you saw it. Crimson spreading across white fabric. On your hands. On your dress, before everything turns black. 

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When you woke up, everything was quiet, too quiet.  The white sterile ceiling above you was unfamiliar. The faint smell of antiseptic filled your lungs with every breath.

Your body felt heavy. Wrong. There were voices, distant at first, then clearer as your eyes fluttered open.

“…ma’am? Can you hear me?”

A man in uniform stood beside your bed, notebook in hand. A nurse lingered nearby.

“What’s your name?”

You opened your mouth but nothing came out. You frowned slightly, throat dry, mind scrambling—searching for something that should’ve been there. Anything.

“I…” Your voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t…”

The officer exchanged a look with the nurse. “It’s okay. Take your time. Do you have any ID? Family we can contact?”

Your chest tightened. You tried again. Tried to reach for something—memories, faces, a name but there was only blank space. A hollow, echoing emptiness that made your stomach twist.

“I don’t know,” you said, more urgently this time, panic creeping in. “I don’t know who I am.”

That was when the old, probably in his late 40s, gentle-eyed doctor stepped in. Calm in a way that steadied the room.

“She’s experiencing memory loss,” Dr. Bob Newby, voice firm but kind. “Let’s not overwhelm her.”

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The days turned into weeks. No one came looking for you. No missing reports that matched. No family. No past. Just you and the quiet, patient presence of the doctor who refused to let you feel like a lost cause.

He stayed.

He explained things when you asked. Sat with you when the silence felt too loud. Brought you books, simple things to help you rebuild something, anything, of yourself.

And somewhere along the way, he stopped feeling like just a doctor. He gave you a name. A home. A place at his table. You didn’t know who you had been before but with him, you learned how to exist again.

And for that, you were grateful. Deeply, painfully grateful.

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Two years passed.

Enough for the world to feel almost steady beneath your feet but not enough to silence the quiet feeling that something was… missing.

Like a song you couldn’t quite remember.

Like a life that didn’t belong to you anymore.

You didn’t want to be a burden, not when he had already given you everything. So you tried to build something of your own.

Something that was yours.

That’s when you saw it. A small ad in the newspaper, tucked between listings.

Personal Secretary Needed — Harrington Company.

You stared at it longer than necessary. There was something about it. Something you couldn’t explain. But it made your chest feel tight. Still, you picked up the phone.

Monday came too quickly.

You stood outside the office, smoothing your hands over the blouse you had bought just the day before—carefully chosen, carefully paid for with the money you’d saved from long shifts at the restaurant. It wasn’t expensive, but it was yours. Something you had worked for.

Something that made you feel… a little more real.

The hallway was quiet, save for the faint ticking of a clock and the occasional murmur from behind closed doors. You sat there, hands folded neatly in your lap, rehearsing answers in your head.

Stay calm. Be polite. Don’t mess this up.

When your name was finally called, your heart jumped.

You stood, inhaled once, and stepped inside.

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Steve barely glanced up at first.

Your resume sat in his hands, the paper slightly creased from how tightly he was holding it. The name printed at the top meant nothing to him—unfamiliar, distant, just another applicant he didn’t care about.

“Have a seat,” he muttered, distracted.

You stepped forward and then he looked up.

Everything stopped.

It was subtle at first. A flicker. Like his brain hadn’t quite caught up to what his eyes were seeing, then it hit him hard. 

Steve went completely still, like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over him. His grip tightened on the paper, knuckles whitening, breath catching somewhere in his chest.

For a split second there was something else in his eyes.

Not anger.

Something softer.

Something that almost looked like relief, then it twisted into something sharp. something ugly.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

The question came out low, controlled but it trembled underneath. You blinked, caught off guard by the hostility.

“I…” you hesitated, trying to steady your voice. “I’m here for the interview, Mr. Harrington.”

Steve let out a humorless laugh, dropping your resume onto the desk as it had burned him.

“Interview,” he repeated, like the word itself offended him. “You really thought that was a good idea?”

Confusion crept in, slow and uneasy. “I… I don’t understand.”

“Don’t do that.” His voice sharpened instantly. “Don’t stand there and pretend like you don’t know what this is.”

Your stomach twisted. “I’m not pretending,” you said, quieter now. “I just need a job.”

“Yeah?” Steve leaned forward slightly, eyes locked onto yours, intense enough to make you want to look away but you couldn’t. “That’s why you’re here? Not because you felt guilty? Not because you finally ran out of better options?”

Each word landed heavier than the last.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, and this time your voice betrayed you—shaking, small. The silence that followed was suffocating.

Steve searched your face, like he was trying to peel something back, trying to find the version of you he knew underneath whatever this was.

But all he saw was confusion.

Fear.

Your eyes started to glisten, tears forming despite your effort to hold them back. Your hands curled slightly at your sides, nails pressing into your palms like you could ground yourself through the sting.

And for a moment, it hit him.

Harder than he expected because you didn’t look guilty. You looked… lost. His jaw tightened. He hated that. Hated the way something in his chest shifted, the way his instincts betrayed him—the urge to stand up, to cross the room, to wipe the tears gathering on your lashes like he had done a hundred times before.

Like he remembered doing, his hand twitched slightly against the desk. Then he pulled it back.

“No,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

Your breath hitched. “Sir, I—”

“Just stop.”

The softness was gone. Whatever had flickered in his expression moments ago had shut down completely, replaced by something colder. Distant.

“Leave.”

For a second, it felt like something inside you cracked—sharp and sudden, though you didn’t understand why it hurt this much, why this stranger’s anger felt so… personal.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, even though you didn’t know what you were apologizing for.

And then you turned, blinking back tears as you walked out of the room as quickly as you could. The door clicked shut behind you.

Steve didn’t move. Not right away. He just sat there, staring at the space you had occupied, as if he looked long enough, he’d find the answer written somewhere in the air. He exhaled sharply, pushing back from his desk.

“Shit.”

His hands dragged over his face, rough, like he was trying to wake himself up but you had been there.

You were real.

After two years you just walked into his office like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t stood at that altar waiting for you until the sun went down. Like you hadn’t ruined and broken him. 

Without thinking, he reached for the bottle tucked away in his drawer, pouring a glass of whiskey with unsteady hands. The liquid sloshed slightly over the rim, but he didn’t care.

He downed it in one go. It burned all the way down, still not enough. For a brief moment, doubt crept in.

That look on your face.

That confusion.

That…

“No,” he cut himself off, shaking his head sharply.

He wasn’t doing this. He wasn’t letting you walk back into his life and pretend you didn’t know what you did to him. His hand hovered over the telephone for a second before grabbing it.

“Yeah,” he said when it connected, voice steady again—too steady. “It’s me.”

A pause. “I want you to hire her.”

Another pause. “Yes, the woman who just left my office,” Steve added quickly, eyes darkening as he stared at the door you had just walked through. His grip tightened around the receiver.

“Put her on my floor.”

A silence.. “I want her where I can see her.” he added. 

Because if this were a game, he was going to be the one in control this time.

When the call came, you almost didn’t believe it. You stared at your phone for a second after the line went dead, like if you moved too fast, it would disappear like it hadn’t just happened.

Then it hit you.

“Oh my God…I got the job!”

You shot up from your seat so quickly your chair scraped loudly against the floor. The sound echoed through the small dining space, but you didn’t care. A laugh bubbled out of you, bright and disbelieving.

Across the table, the doctor looked up from his plate, brows pulling together slightly.

“I’m happy for you,” he said carefully, setting his fork down. “But you shouldn’t be jumping around like that. You’re still recovering. Those migraines haven’t gone away.”

You waved him off, still smiling, heart racing. “I can manage. I’ll be careful, I promise.” Then, softer, more sincere, “And I want to help. I can’t just keep relying on you.”

His expression softened at that. “My child,” he said gently, “you don’t owe me anything. You’re family.”

The words warmed something in your chest, but they also made you shake your head.

“I know,” you said, reaching for your food again. “And I’m really grateful. But… I want something that’s mine too. Something I worked for.”

The doctor studied you for a moment, like he was weighing whether to argue again. Then he sighed. “Alright,” he relented.

 “But you take care of yourself, don’t stress too much. and if anything feels wrong even a little, you call me immediately.”

You smiled, a little softer this time. “Yes, doctor.”

He shook his head faintly, but there was fondness in it. “You’re lucky, you know,” he added quietly. “Most people don’t survive accidents like yours.”

Your fingers paused mid-motion. For a second, something flickered—something distant, unsettling.

Metal.

Noise.

Red.

Then it was gone.

“Yeah,” you murmured, brushing it off with a small smile. “Guess I am.”

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Thursday came faster than you expected.

You stood outside the building, smoothing your hands over your skirt, trying to steady your breathing. The city moved around you—cars passing, people talking, doors opening and closing but everything felt just a little too loud.

Like your senses hadn’t caught up yet.

This was it.

Your first real job. You straightened slightly, gathering what confidence you could, and stepped inside.

You were waiting near the office when you saw him.

Steve Harrington.

You didn’t know what you expected but it wasn’t… that. He walked through the hallway like he belonged there—like the space adjusted around him instead of the other way around. His suit was sharp, fitted perfectly, his expression unreadable, and you cannot deny it he looks so goddamn handsome.

For a brief second, something in your chest tightened.

Familiar.

You frowned slightly before you could think too much about it, he was already in front of you.

“Good morning, sir,” you said quickly, offering a small smile. “I just wanted to thank you for—”

“Coffee black. No sugar.”

The words cut clean through yours.

You blinked.

“And take everyone’s order on this floor,” he added, already moving past you, not even sparing you a proper glance. “I want it on my desk in ten.”

You turned slightly, thrown off. “Sorry…?”

Steve stopped just long enough to look at you over his shoulder. The look wasn’t kind. “Isn’t that part of your job,” he said flatly, “or do I need to repeat myself?”

Heat crept up your neck. “…Coffee,” you nodded quickly. “Right away, Mr. Harrington.”

By the time you had everyone’s orders memorized, your head was already starting to ache just a little. You ignored it.

You made your way to the coffee shop, carefully repeating the list in your head, determined not to mess this up on your first day.

Everything was going fine. Until it wasn’t, you had just stepped out, balancing the tray as carefully as you could, when someone bumped into you from the side.

Hard.

The world tilted for a second and the coffee you ordered spilled. A hot sharp, soaking through your blouse in seconds.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” the woman rushed out, grabbing napkins, trying to help.

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, even though the sting lingered on your skin. “Really, it’s okay.”

Your heart sank as you looked down. Great. First day and you were already a mess. You took a breath and went back inside to ordered everything again.

It took nearly an hour before you made it back upstairs.

Your blouse was stained, your hair slightly damp from the heat, and your head—your head was definitely starting to hurt now but you pushed through.

You knocked once, then stepped into his office. “Here’s your coffee, sir,” you said, setting it carefully on his desk.

Steve didn’t even look up. “Throw it away.”

You froze. “…Sir?”

“I said I don’t want it.” His tone didn’t change, eyes still fixed on the papers in front of him. “It’s cold.”

Your fingers tightened slightly at your sides. You wanted to say something, anything. You had gone through all that trouble twice, and he couldn’t even, but the words stayed stuck in your throat.

“…Yes, sir,” you said instead, forcing a small, polite smile he didn’t even see and you left.

The moment you stepped out, your expression dropped.

“That jerk,” you muttered under your breath, trying to dab at the stain on your blouse with a tissue. “I mean, I get it, it’s my first day but seriously?”

You huffed quietly, kicking the trash can a little harder than necessary. “You’re a jerk, Steve Harrington,” you grumbled. “Your hair’s as big as your ego.”

A chair scraped behind you.

You froze.

Slowly turned.

Someone had definitely heard that, heat rushed to your face. You didn’t even try to recover—you just walked away, fast.

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The following week was worse.

“Walk faster.”

You adjusted the stack of folders in your arms, trying not to drop anything as you hurried after him. “I’m trying,” you muttered under your breath.

“What was that?” Steve didn’t slow down.

“Nothing, sir,” you said quickly, nearly tripping as you caught up beside him.

He kept walking, listing off his schedule like it was nothing. “Meeting at ten. Conference call at eleven-thirty. Move the lunch to one—I don’t want interruptions.”

“Yes, sir,” you nodded, trying to keep up, your pen moving quickly across your notepad.

Your head pulsed faintly again.

You ignored it.

There was no way you were messing this up.

Not now.

By the end of the week, you were starting to understand something, working for Steve Harrington wasn’t just demanding.

It was deliberate.

“Those files aren’t sorted correctly.”

You paused mid-step, turning slightly. “I followed the system you gave me, sir.”

“It’s inefficient.” He didn’t even look up from his desk. “Do it again.”

You glanced down at the stack in your arms—already reorganized twice that morning.

“…yes, sir.”

“Did you send the email?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The one I dictated, not the one you thought I meant.”

You blinked once. “I sent exactly what you said.”

“Read it back.” You did. Word for word.

Steve leaned back in his chair, studying you for a moment longer than necessary. “…Next time, run it by me first.”

You turned back without another word, behind his desk, Steve’s jaw tightened. That should’ve gotten something out of you.

Frustration. Annoyance. Anything but you just… took it. By noon, your head was already pounding.

A dull, persistent ache just behind your eyes. You pressed your fingers briefly against your temple, careful not to draw attention, before returning to the document in front of you.

“Don’t stop.”

Your hand froze slightly. You hadn’t even noticed him walk out of his office. “I—sorry, sir,” you said quickly, straightening. “I was just—”

“Thinking?” Steve cut in, voice dry. “I don’t pay you to think. I pay you to work.”

Something flickered in your expression then—brief, almost invisible. Not anger. Something closer to… hurt. It was gone just as quickly.

“Yes, Mr. Harrington.” you replied.

Steve watched you for a second longer then turned away.

It wasn’t enough, none of it was enough. Because no matter what he did—you didn’t react the way you used to. You didn’t snap at him. Didn’t roll your eyes. Didn’t call him out. Didn’t know him.

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It started small. Steve noticed it before you said anything—of course he did. You were quieter than usual, slower in a way that didn’t quite match you. 

Your movements lagged just a second behind, your focus slipping, your hand drifting to your temple when you thought no one was looking. Still, he said what he always said, sharp out of habit more than intention. 

“Those reports should’ve been done twenty minutes ago.” You didn’t argue. You didn’t even look up right away.

 “Almost finished, sir,” you said softly, and that more than anything made him frown. Something about you felt off.

By late afternoon, the office had emptied, the silence settling in heavy and thick. You were still at your desk, still working. Steve stepped out of his office with another file in hand, fully intending to give you more—something pointless, something to keep you there longer. But he stopped. 

You were sitting too still, your pen unmoving, your eyes fixed on the page without really seeing it.

 “Hey.”

 The word slipped out before he could stop it, stripped of its usual edge. You blinked slowly, like it took effort to respond. 

“Mr. Harrington, do you need anything?” Your voice sounded weak. It made something in his chest tighten.

 “You okay?” 

You nodded too fast. “Just a headache. I’ll finish this.” 

He didn’t believe you. He saw the tremor in your hand, the way your breathing wasn’t steady, the way you flinched under the lights.

 “Go home,” he said suddenly. 

You looked up, startled. “I can still—”

 “I said go home.”

 A pause stretched between you. “…Yes, sir.”

You pushed your chair back and stood—and the world tilted. Hard. Your hand shot out to grab the desk, your breath catching as pain spiked sharply behind your eyes, your vision blurring at the edges. 

“Hey—” Steve was already moving, but you didn’t hear him. The ground felt like it disappeared beneath you.

He caught you before you hit it. “Hey—hey, look at me—”

 Your body felt too light in his arms, your head falling against his shoulder, your breathing uneven and shallow. 

“Shit.” Panic hit him fast, sharp and unsteady. “Stay with me, okay? Come on.” His hand came up to your face, trying to keep you conscious. Your eyes fluttered open just enough to find him. 

“It… hurts…” you whispered, barely there. That was enough. That was all it took.

The drive to the hospital blurred together. Steve didn’t remember grabbing his keys or carrying you out, didn’t care about the looks or the questions. All he could focus on was you—too still, too quiet in the passenger seat. 

“Stay awake,” he muttered, gripping the steering wheel too tightly.

 “Just—stay with me, okay?” You didn’t answer. His chest tightened painfully.

 “Don’t do this,” he said, sharper now, like you could hear him. “Not again.” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

The hospital was too bright, too white, too familiar. Steve paced outside your room, dragging his hands through his hair over and over again, unable to stand still. A nurse had taken you from him the moment he walked in, leaving him with nothing but time—and thoughts he didn’t want. 

Because now it was all hitting him. The headaches. The way you kept working anyway. The way you never complained. The way he kept pushing, kept adding more, never letting you rest. 

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, his voice rough. What if this was his fault?

“She’ll be alright.” Steve looked up sharply at the doctor.

 “What happened?” he asked quickly. 

The doctor remained calm. “Severe migraine. Likely triggered by stress and overexertion.” Steve went still. stress. overexertion. His doing.

 “…is she awake?” he asked. 

“Not yet., but she will be. Just let her rest.”

When Steve finally stepped into the room, everything felt quieter. Softer. You were lying there, pale against the white sheets, an IV in your arm, your breathing steady but your whole presence… smaller somehow. Fragile. Not stubborn, not defiant—nothing like the version of you he had been fighting against. 

He sat down slowly beside you, his gaze fixed on your face like he was seeing you for the first time. 

“…You’re an idiot,” he muttered, but there was no anger in it. Only something heavier. His hand hovered above yours for a moment, hesitating—then settled gently, uncertain. 

“You could’ve said something,” he added quietly. “You don’t have to—” He stopped, the realization hitting him mid-sentence. You didn’t know you could.

Your fingers twitched faintly under his. Steve froze. 

“Hey—” Your eyes fluttered open slowly, unfocused at first. 

“Steve?” you whispered. Relief hit him harder than he expected, not when you said his name for the first time, but your condition mattered more.

 “Yeah,” he said quickly, leaning forward. “You’re at the hospital. You passed out.” 

You frowned slightly. “I’m… sorry.” 

That made something twist in his chest. “You don’t apologize for that,” he said, sharper than he meant to.

 You blinked, confused. “I didn’t want to cause trouble.” 

Steve exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah… well. Too late for that.”

 A small pause settled between you.

 “thank you,” you said softly. 

He frowned. “For what?” 

“For bringing me here.” Simple. Sincere. It landed heavier than it should have.

Steve looked at you for a long moment, something in his expression shifting—not completely, not all at once, but enough. 

“…Don’t make a habit out of it,” he muttered, though the edge was gone.

And for the first time since you walked into his life, Steve didn’t look at you like someone he needed to punish. He looked at you like someone he didn’t understand anymore.

Steve didn’t want to leave.

It was obvious in the way he lingered by the door, one hand resting against the handle but never quite turning it. His gaze kept drifting back to you—like if he looked away too long, something would happen again.

“I can cancel the meeting,” he said for what was probably the third time. His voice was quieter now, less like an offer and more like something weighed down with guilt. “It’s not that important.”

You shifted slightly in the hospital bed, the movement slow but steadier than before. “You said it was a board meeting,” you replied, offering a small, reassuring smile. “That sounds important.”

“It’s not,” he muttered quickly. Too quickly.

You studied him for a moment. The tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw kept tightening like he was blaming himself for something he couldn’t undo.

“I’ll be okay,” you said gently. “Really. You don’t have to stay.”

A pause.

Steve exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he said, though it didn’t sound like he believed it. “Yeah… okay.”

He hesitated one last second, then nodded.

The room felt quieter without him.

Not empty.

Just… different.

You let your head sink back into the pillow, staring up at the ceiling as the faint hum of hospital machines filled the silence. Your body still felt heavy, like you hadn’t fully caught up to yourself yet.

The door opened again not long after.

“Hey—hey.”

You turned your head slightly.

Dr. Bob Newby stepped inside, still in his scrubs, his expression tight with concern. There was a hint of exhaustion in his face, like he had come straight from something important—but none of that mattered the second he saw you.

He crossed the room quickly.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, already checking the monitor beside you out of habit. “I’m sorry, I came as soon as I could. Surgery ran longer than expected.”

“I’m okay,” you said, though your voice came out softer than you intended. “I think I just… passed out. I don’t really remember much.”

His brows furrowed slightly, but his tone stayed gentle. “That’s alright. You don’t need to remember everything right now.”

You hesitated, then let out a small, embarrassed breath, bringing your hands up to cover part of your face.

“My boss brought me here,” you admitted. “Which is… kind of embarrassing.”

Dr. Newby huffed a quiet, amused breath despite himself. “Embarrassing?” he repeated. “You collapsed. I’d be more concerned if he didn’t bring you here.”

You lowered your hands slightly, peeking at him.

“I guess,” you murmured.

There was a brief pause.

Then something shifted in your expression.

“…But when I passed out,” you said slowly, your voice quieter now, more uncertain, “I think I saw something.”

Dr. Newby’s attention sharpened immediately, though he kept his tone calm. “What kind of something?”

You frowned slightly, trying to piece it together.

“It wasn’t clear,” you said. “It was like… flashes, maybe. I was with someone.” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “We were laughing. Sitting somewhere—I think it was a café? There was coffee. It felt… warm.”

Your brows pulled together.

“But I couldn’t see their face,” you added softly. “It was all blurred out.”

The room went still for a moment.

Dr. Newby watched you carefully, weighing his response.

“That’s not unusual,” he said gently after a second. “Memory can come back in fragments, especially after trauma. But you shouldn’t force it.”

You looked down at your hands.

“It felt real,” you whispered.

“I’m sure it did,” he said, softer now. “But your brain is still healing. Pushing too hard could do more harm than good.”

A pause.

Then he offered you a small, reassuring smile.

“Let’s take it one step at a time, okay?”

You nodded slowly.

“…Okay.”

“Good,” he said lightly, adjusting your blanket slightly like it was second nature. “For now, you rest. We’ll head home once you’re cleared.”

Home.

The word settled somewhere warm in your chest.

You nodded again, eyes already starting to feel heavy.

Dr. Newby lingered for a moment longer, making sure you were comfortable before stepping back toward the door.

“I’ll be right outside if you need anything,” he added.

“Thank you, doc,” you murmured.

------------✧♡✧-------------

You took two days off.

When you came back, everything looked normal but it wasn’t.

Steve noticed immediately—of course he did. You were around him constantly, like before, and something about the way you moved, the way you spoke… it started slipping through. Small things. Quick moments you didn’t even register.

But Steve did.

Always Steve.

“Your nine a.m. got moved to ten-thirty,” you said, flipping through your planner as you walked beside him. “They said something about a ‘scheduling conflict,’ but based on the tone, I’m guessing they just didn’t want to deal with you that early.”

Steve slowed mid-step. “…excuse me?”

You blinked, like you hadn’t realized what you said. “I meant..uh—traffic. Morning traffic.”

He stared at you. You avoided his gaze, suddenly very focused on your notes.

It happened again later.

“You printed the wrong file,” he said, dropping the papers onto your desk.

You glanced at them, then back at him. “No, I didn’t.”

His brows lifted. “You want to check that again?”

“I already did,” you said, leaning back slightly. “Twice, actually. You might want to check your email.”

A pause. Steve pulled out his phone, scrolling, then silence.

“…It was the wrong attachment,” he muttered.

You didn’t smile, didn’t gloat even you want to.

“I know.”

Steve exhaled sharply. “Don’t get used to that.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.” but your tone wasn’t careful. It wasn’t scared. It had an edge—light, teasing, and it did something to him he didn’t like.

Later that afternoon, you pressed your fingers to your temple, trying to ignore the faint ache building behind your eyes.

“Sit.”

You froze. “Mr. Harrington?”

“I said sit down,” Steve repeated, not looking at you. “Before you drop something again.”

“I didn’t—”

“You almost did.”

You hesitated, then sat, “thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. It’s annoying.”

You frowned slightly. “you’re annoying.”

The words slipped out. Your eyes widened immediately. You looked up slowly.

Steve was staring at you—not angry, just still.

“You wanna say that again?” he asked quietly.

“I—no, sir.”

A beat.

“…You just did.”

And there it was—that faint, almost invisible smile at the corner of his mouth. Gone too fast but you saw it and it made something warm settle in your chest.

The next day, the change between you and Steve is impossible to ignore. He calls you late when you catch up to him, but instead of backing down like before, you match him easily—teasing him, calling him dramatic without hesitation.

Steve pulls away. Not dramatically, not obviously—just enough. His voice gets colder, his answers shorter, his distance more intentional. Because this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. You’re the person who left him at the altar, the person he spent years believing walked away without a word.

 And yet you’re here, joking with him like nothing happened, like there’s no history between you at all. That contradiction makes his anger curl back in—not loud, but controlled and sharp.

You notice the shift, even if you can’t explain it. Something about the space between you feels different, like he’s suddenly further away than before. It leaves you with a vague, uncomfortable feeling you can’t place, like your body recognizes a rhythm your mind doesn’t understand.

The next day, the shift between you and Steve becomes impossible to ignore.

“You’re late,” he says as you fall into step beside him.

“I’m right next to you,” you reply easily.

“You were two seconds behind.”

“That’s not late—that’s dramatic.”

Steve stops walking. Slowly turns his head toward you.

“…Dramatic?”

“Yes,” you say, adjusting the files in your arms like nothing about this exchange matters. “Very.”

There’s a pause.

Something in him tightens—not amusement, not irritation, something heavier that he refuses to name.

“You’re pushing it,” he says flatly.

You tilt your head slightly. “Am I?”

No fear. No hesitation. Just curiosity, a challenge. Like you’re not afraid of him at all. Like you never were. That thought hits harder than it should.

Steve’s jaw tightens. For a second, just a second—he sees it. Not a stranger. Not an assistant.

His chest twists before he can stop it. “…Get back to work,” he says finally, voice colder than before as he turns away.

You watch him walk ahead, something tugging faintly at the back of your mind. It isn’t a clear thought—just a feeling. Like you’ve stepped into a pattern you should recognize, like your body knows how to move around him even if your mind doesn’t.

It unsettles you in a way you can’t explain, so you push it down and keep walking.

Steve, on the other hand, doesn’t let himself linger, he can’t. Because this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. You’re supposed to feel distant. Cold. Guilty, even. Something that makes sense with the image burned into his memory—him standing at the altar, waiting, realizing you didn’t come.

But instead you’re here. Walking beside him like nothing happened. Joking with him like you’ve always been allowed to. Like you didn’t leave him behind, and that’s what makes his anger curl back in. Because if he stays too close, he starts to see things he doesn’t trust.

And if he sees too much, he might start believing something he can’t afford to believe. So he pulls back.

------------✧♡✧-------------

A month passed.

You were at your desk when the phone rang—Steve calling you into his office.

When you entered, he was already there, sitting back in his swivel chair with his tie loosened and his hair slightly disheveled in a way that somehow still looked intentional. A large box sat on his desk while he signed documents without looking up.

“Wear this tomorrow,” he said flatly. “Charity event. You’re coming with me.”

You hesitated. “Mr. Harrington, aren’t you going with your girlfriend?”

That made him look up.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said simply, like it was obvious. Then, back to the papers. “I’ll pick you up at six.”

“But—”

“You may leave.”

No room for argument, so you left.

At six sharp the next evening, you were ready.

The dress hugged you perfectly—burgundy satin, elegant and expensive in a way that made you feel slightly out of place wearing it. You checked yourself in the mirror more times than you’d admit, adjusting small details you didn’t even know mattered.

Then came the knock.

When you opened the door, Steve was already there.

Black suit. Red tie. Perfectly put together in a way that made everything else in the room feel less important.

“Good evening, Mr. Harr— hold on.”

Your hands moved before your brain caught up. You stepped closer and adjusted his tie without thinking, fingers carefully straightening the knot. Too close.

Steve didn’t move, didn’t speak but his breathing shifted—just slightly.

“You always tie it too tight,” you murmured without thinking. Your hands stopped. Your eyes widened slightly.

“I—sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”

Steve was looking at you now. Not at your hands.

At you.

Something flickered in his expression—brief, almost painful. A memory just out of reach. You laughing, fixing his tie telling him he’d choke himself one day if he didn’t stop.

He swallowed it down. “It’s fine,” he said quietly.

You stepped back. “Done.”

Steve adjusted it once more himself. “Let’s go.”

The drive was quiet. Not uncomfortable exactly—but heavy in a way neither of you named. You sat beside him, hands folded neatly in your lap, glancing out the window as the city lights passed by.

Steve noticed everything. The way you shifted slightly when he turned too quickly. The way your fingers tightened once when you thought he wasn’t looking. The way you seemed… overwhelmed, even if you didn’t say it.

“Relax,” he said finally, voice softer than usual. “Just stay close. You’ll be fine.”

You nodded. “I’m okay.”

But you weren’t convincing. Still, you smiled when he opened the car door for you. 

The hall was alive with noise—glass clinking, soft laughter, business names being traded like currency. Steve was immediately pulled into conversations.

You stayed just behind him at first, observant, taking it all in quietly.

Until a voice cut through. “Well, well.”

You turned. A man stood nearby, posture relaxed, almost careless. He looked at you like he was already bored—and intrigued at the same time.

“Didn’t expect Harrington to bring something… interesting.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He smirked. “Relax. It’s a compliment.”

“I’m here for work,” you said politely.

“Sure you are.” He extended a hand and introduced himself.

You shook it. “Nice to meet you.”

“Careful,” he said lightly. “Harrington doesn’t usually share.”

That made you pause. “Share what?”

The man chuckled. “Relax. I’m joking.”

But his eyes flicked past you—to Steve, who was now watching.

He stayed. He leaned casually closer as he spoke, voice easy, playful in a way that didn’t feel entirely harmless.

“So what’s it like working for him? He always this intense, or are you just special?”

You gave a small polite laugh. “He’s just my boss.”

“Mm,” he hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Does he always stare at his staff like that?”

You followed his gaze for half a second.

Steve was looking.

Not smiling.

Not speaking.

Just watching.

You turned back to him. “He’s very focused.”

“That’s one word for it.”

He tilted his head slightly, lowering his voice just enough to feel deliberate. “You know, I love your dress.”

“Mr. Harrington bought it” you replied politely.

“Oh, he did,” he said. “It looks like he knows you.” 

You smiled again. Controlled. Professional. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The man grinned. “You should.” but his eyes drifted behind you again, and this time, Steve was closer.

Steve didn’t realize he was walking over until he was already there. The conversation stopped mid-sentence when his hand closed around your waist—firm, controlled, unmistakably intentional.

Not rough.

Not inappropriate.

But possessive in a way that made the air shift instantly.

You froze slightly.

The man's grin widened.

“Well,” he said amusedly. “Possessive, aren’t we, Harrington?”

Steve didn’t look at him. “What do you want?”

“I already signed the investment,” Steve added flatly.

He raised his glass. “Relax. I was just talking to your… secretary.”

There was a pause. Steve’s hand didn’t loosen on your waist. 

“Don’t,” he said quietly.

He chuckled. “Relax. She’s lovely company.”

His eyes flicked to you. “And you, Miss,” he added smoothly, “it was a pleasure.”

You gave a small nod. “Likewise.”

He smirked then finally stepped back. “See you around, Harrington.”

Steve grabbed your arm, not gently, not carefully. Firm enough that it startled you.

“Hey—what are you doing?” you said, trying to keep up as he pulled you down the hallway, away from the noise, away from people, until it was just the two of you in a quieter stretch of corridor.

He finally stopped but he didn’t let go. “What do you think you’re doing?” he snapped, voice low but sharp. 

“I bring you here for work, and you’re out there flirting with Hagrove like it’s—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. Like he caught himself before saying too much, before admitting too much.

Your breath caught. “Flirting?” you repeated, disbelief breaking through the confusion. “With all due respect, Mr. Harrington, I was having a conversation.”

His grip didn’t loosen. “You don’t talk like that with people you don’t know.”

“I didn’t realize there was a rulebook for talking now,” you shot back, sharper than you intended. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

Steve scoffed, finally letting go but only to step closer instead.

“You’re a liar,” he said, voice colder now. “A pretender. You show up here like nothing happened, like—”

Your hand moved before you even realized it. The slap echoed in the hallway, and both of you froze, even Steve.

Your hand stung immediately, but the shock on his face hurt more in a different way—because for a second, he looked like he didn’t expect you to fight back at all.

You swallowed hard, voice shaking but rising anyway.

“Liar? Pretender?” you repeated again, but softer now—hurt slipping through the anger. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I don’t know what you want from me.”

Steve didn’t answer right away.

“You were the one who brought me here,” you continued, voice breaking slightly now. “You gave me this job. You told me to do it so I’m doing it. I’m working.”

A pause.

Your chest rose unevenly.

“And I don’t understand you,” you said, quieter now—but sharper in a different way. “One moment you’re cruel to me, making me run around doing everything, and I don’t complain because it’s my job.”

Your voice cracked slightly.

“Then the next moment—you’re kind. You check on me. You bring me coffee. You ask if I’m okay when I can barely stand from my migraines.”

You shook your head faintly. “It doesn’t make sense. Why are you doing this to me?”

Steve’s expression shifted—just slightly. Something behind his eyes broke through the anger for a second but then it snapped back.

“Because you left me at the altar.”

Silence.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t dramatic.

But it hit like something heavy dropping between you.

Your breath stopped. “…What?” you whispered.

Steve’s chest rose sharply, like saying it cost him something. “You heard me.”

“I don’t—” you started, shaking your head slightly. “I don’t understand. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A sharp pain suddenly spiked behind your eyes not like before—worse. Like something pushing from the inside. Your hand flew to your head instinctively.

“You didn't show up…” Steve said, voice breaking through your thoughts.

Your vision blurred slightly. Memories—wrong, broken, incomplete—started flashing.

White fabric.

Your blood. 

Something ending too fast. You stumbled back slightly, breath unsteady.

Steve stepped forward instantly. “Hey—”

“Don’t,” you said sharply. Your voice came out weaker than you wanted but firm.

“Don’t touch me.”

He froze. That stopped him more than anything else.

Your eyes were glassy now, confused, overwhelmed—like your mind was trying to catch up to something your body already knew was dangerous.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, quieter now, scared of what you cannot handle. “I don’t know you like that.” 

Your voice cracked. “And I don’t want to be yelled at for something I don’t even remember, not when I got into a car accident.”

Steve cannot form words, like he didn’t know how to respond to that. Like, none of his anger made sense anymore when you said it like that.

You turned quickly, breath shak, and before he could say anything else, you walked away, fast, almost stumbling.

Steve stayed frozen in the hallway, alone. Because he didn’t know, and it wrecks him devastatingly. 

------------✧♡✧-------------

It was past midnight when the door opened.

Dr. Newby stepped inside quietly, exhaustion still clinging to him from a long shift—but the second he saw you, he stopped.

You were on the floor.

Curled in on yourself, back against the couch, mascara smeared down your cheeks, eyes swollen and red like you hadn’t stopped crying for hours.

“Hey… hey,” he said softly, immediately kneeling beside you. “What happened?”

You looked up at him, your expression broken in a way he had never seen before.

“I remember,” you whispered.

Your voice cracked. “I remember everything.”

That was all it took.

He pulled you into his arms without another word, holding you close as your body shook, your hands clutching onto his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you together.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, even if he knew it wasn’t. “You’re okay.”

Between uneven breaths, you told him everything—fragments at first, then clearer. The wedding. The love. Steve. The life you had before everything went dark.

Dr. Newby went still. “wait here,” he said gently, pulling away.

You barely noticed when he stood and walked to his room. Your hands were still trembling in your lap when he came back, holding a small box.

He hesitated for just a second before handing it to you.

“This… was with you,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. I should’ve given it to you sooner.”

You opened it slowly, the ring sat there.

Simple.

Familiar.

Devastating.

Your breath hitched as you picked it up, your fingers tracing it like you were trying to relearn something your body already knew. A sharp ache spread through your chest. That ring wasn’t just jewelry.

It was a promise.

A future.

A life you were supposed to have.

And you didn’t show up.

Your eyes burned again.

“I was supposed to marry him,” you whispered.

Everything made sense now.

The way Steve looked at you.

The anger.

The confusion.

The hurt.

You closed your eyes tightly, gripping the ring.

Of course, he thought you left him, of course he did.

✦ Flashback

It hadn’t been perfect.

You and Steve argued—about everything, especially the wedding. Even something as small as flowers turned into a full argument.

“These look fine,” Steve had said, clearly over it.

“They’re not fine, Steve, they’re ugly,” you shot back, arms crossed.

“They’re flowers.”

“They’re our wedding flowers!”

He dragged a hand down his face, groaning. “Okay, then you pick them.”

You huffed. “I was trying to, but you—”

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore,” you blurted out.

Silence.

Steve froze.

The look on his face— confused, completely blindsided made your stomach drop instantly.

“Oh my God—no, not that,” you said quickly. “I meant the flowers. The flowers.”

He stared at you for a second longer before stepping closer, wrapping his arms around you from behind, pulling you into him.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered against your shoulder.

“You love me,” you shot back.

He huffed a quiet laugh, pressing a kiss against your neck. “Yeah. Unfortunately.”

You smiled despite yourself. It was always like that.

Arguments.

Then laughter.

Then making up like nothing could actually break you, you thought nothing ever would.

✦ Present

The knock came late at night, you already knew who it was. Still, you opened the door.

Steve stood there.

Tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, hair messy like he’d been running his hands through it too many times. He looked exhausted but his eyes—his eyes were desperate.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice colder than you meant it to be.

“I—” he exhaled shakily. “Please. Just… let me explain.”

“No.”

The word came out sharp and firm,  “There’s nothing you need to explain to me.”

His jaw tightened. “I deserve to know what’s going on.”

It snapped something inside you. “Deserve?” you repeated, your voice rising. “You think you deserve something from me?”

Steve flinched, but he didn’t step back.

“You have no idea,” you continued, your voice breaking now, “how scared I was.” The words spilled out before you could stop them. “I woke up in a hospital not knowing who I was. Not my name, not my past—nothing.” Your breathing turned uneven. “I didn’t know if anyone was looking for me. If anyone cared.”

Your vision blurred.

“I thought I was alone,” you whispered. “I thought… no one loved me. That I didn’t matter enough for anyone to come.”

Steve’s face fell apart right in front of you. “I didn’t know,” he said quietly.

“No,” you shook your head, stepping back. “You didn’t.”

A beat. “And you punished me for it anyway.”

That hit him hard.

Steve swallowed. “I thought you left me,” he said, voice breaking under the weight of it. “You didn’t show up. You disappeared. I went everywhere I could think of—hospitals, records, missing persons reports—there was nothing. No trace that made sense.”

His hands flexed at his sides. “I looked for you,” he added, quieter now. “I did.”

That made you freeze slightly but your pain was already spilling over. “You still didn’t find me,” you said.

“I know,” he said immediately,  that raw unprotected honesty made the room feel smaller.

You laughed once, broken. “Then what does that even mean?”

Steve stepped forward half a step before stopping himself. “It means I didn’t stop caring,” he said. A pause. “I just didn’t know where you were to keep looking.”

Your breath shook. “I almost died on the way to our wedding,” you said, voice trembling now. “While practicing my vows, Steve.”

His face snapped up that detail hit differently. Not betrayal. Not anger. Just horror.

“I didn’t leave you,” you continued, tears slipping down now. “I never would have.”

“I know,” he said again but this time it sounded like it hurt him.

“But you still lived like I did,” you whispered. “I didn’t remember you,” you said softer now, “so I get why you were angry.”

A pause. “But now I do.”

Your hand tightened slightly at your side. “And I don’t know what hurts more,” you admitted, voice breaking completely, “losing you back then… or realizing you didn’t fight hard enough to reach me in time.”

Steve’s expression collapsed because that wasn’t fair—but it also wasn’t wrong.

“I did fight,” he said, voice rough. “Just not in the way you think I should’ve. I didn’t know where to go. I didn’t know what happened to you. There was nothing to grab onto except the idea that you were gone.”

That silence between you changed. It wasn’t accusation anymore. It was distance. Misalignment. Two people who tried to reach each other and missed in opposite directions.

You wiped your face quickly, angry at yourself for still crying. “You gave up on me,” you whispered.

Steve shook his head immediately. “No,” he said firmly, stepping closer again but slower this time. “I didn’t give up on you. I gave up on finding a version of reality that made sense.” abeat. “And I blamed you because I couldn’t blame fate.”

That made your breath catch because that sounded less like cruelty and more like grief rotting into anger.

“I loved you,” you said, quieter now. “I was going to marry you.”

Steve’s voice dropped.

“I know.”

And it wasn’t denial. It was pain. “I’m not asking you to fix what happened,” he said.

Your eyes snapped up slightly.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me either,” he added. A pause. “I just needed you to know I didn’t stop looking for you because I stopped loving you.”

That landed in a way neither of you were ready for. Your fingers trembled. “You still didn’t find me,” you said again—but weaker now.

Steve nodded once.

“I’m sorry.”

A heavy silence stretched between you. Just truth sitting between two people who were never given the same timeline. You swallowed hard, stepping back toward the door.

 “Just go, Steve,” you said softly. “Please.”

This time, he didn’t argue, didn’t push, didn’t fight but he didn’t look away either.He looked at you like memorizing something he already lost once, and slowly, he stepped back.

The door closed between you.

Quiet.

But not empty. Because on the other side of it, both of you stood in the same realization at the same time: You didn’t lose each other because love wasn’t real. You lost each other because reality failed first.

------------✧♡✧-------------

Months passed, you took a break from work. Steve didn’t stop you, he didn’t call you back, he didn’t show up at your door again. And somehow, that was worse than him yelling. It meant he understood.

or worse—he had given up.

Now your life was quiet again, too quiet.

You got your memories back in fragments at first—like shattered glass slowly finding its shape again. A tie being fixed without thinking. A voice saying your name like it mattered. Coffee too bitter. Hands that used to reach for you before you even realized you were falling apart.

And Steve Harrington.

Everything Steve Harrington.

You remembered it all. The love. The arguments. The wedding that never happened. The accident. The ring. it should have made everything simple, It didn’t because remembering him didn’t bring peace. It brought him back.

And now, he existed in your mind again—completely, painfully real—but no longer reachable in the same way. and if you said you didn’t love him anymore…you’d only be lying to yourself.

Steve’s life didn’t get better. It just got quieter in a different way. At first, he told himself that was good. No more arguments. No more confusion.

No more seeing you and feeling like his chest was being ripped open and stitched back wrong every time you didn’t look at him like you used to. But silence has weight too and it started showing up in places he couldn’t avoid.

He still went to work, still signed papers,still sat in meetings pretending he wasn’t thinking about how you used to correct his tie without realizing it mattered.

But now there was no one behind him saying: “You’re doing it too tight again.”

He stopped wearing red ties. He didn’t know when that started. He just… didn’t reach for them anymore.

At night, he drank less than before, not because he was healing because it stopped working. Because no amount of whiskey could blur the image of you sitting in a hospital bed, looking at him like he was a stranger who hurt you by accident.

or worse.

like someone you remembered loving.

------------✧♡✧-------------

One day, you showed up at work.

You walked in the same way you used to—head slightly down, steps measured, hands steady at your sides. Except now, everything felt louder.

The elevator ride stretched too long, the quiet hum pressing against your ears. The hallway was too bright, too familiar, like it was waiting for you to remember who you used to be here.

Every step toward the office felt heavier than it should have. Not like returning like reopening something that had never fully healed. 

People noticed you immediately. Whispers followed—not loud, not direct, but there. Curious glances. Quick looks that lingered just a second too long.

You ignored them.

You made it to your desk.

Same position. Same chair. Same nameplate.

Your fingers hovered over it for a moment before you let them rest lightly against the surface.

You exhaled.

Steady.

You were ready.

The office door behind you opened.

You didn’t turn right away.

You already knew.

“…What are you doing here?”

His voice cut through the space—low, controlled, but not steady.

You turned slowly. Steve stood a few feet away, like he had stopped mid-step and forgotten how to move.

He looked the same, too put together, too composed. But his is eyes gave him away.

They were locked on you like he didn’t trust what he was seeing. Like if he blinked, you might disappear again.

“I work here,” you said simply.

Your voice didn’t shake—but it wasn’t untouched either. There was something quieter in it now. Softer. More careful.

A pause. “I didn’t resign.”

That landed. You saw it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his shoulders stiffened just slightly like he didn’t know what to do with that information.

“But you were gone,” he said. Just… stating it, like it still didn’t make sense in his head.

“For months.”

You tilted your head faintly, meeting his gaze. “No,” you corrected gently. “You thought I was.”

A small pause. “I was on medical leave.”

Silence stretched between you. That difference mattered now. More than either of you expected.

Steve let out a slow breath, his gaze dropping for a second before lifting back to you. Like he was recalibrating. Like he was trying to catch up to a reality that didn’t match what he had been holding onto.

“I didn’t expect you back,” he admitted, there was no edge in it just honesty.

You nodded slightly. “I didn’t expect to come back.” and that was the truth. Not just to job, to him. 

There was space between you—only a few feet, but it felt like something fragile lived there. Something neither of you wanted to break by stepping too fast, speaking too soon.

Steve shifted his weight slightly, like he almost stepped forward. He didn’t.

“I thought…” he started, then stopped.

His throat worked, like the words didn’t come out the way he wanted. “I thought you were done,” he said instead, quieter. “With everything.”

Your fingers curled slightly at your sides. You understood what he meant. You looked at him—really looked this time. Not your boss. Not the man who hurt you.

Just Steve. Tired, trying, still carrying it. 

“I thought so too,” you admitted. Your voice softened, just a little. “But I’m not.”

Something flickered in his expression.

Not relief.

Not quite.

Something… careful.

Like hope, but he didn’t trust it yet.

“Does that mean…” he hesitated, the question unfinished.

You didn’t let him struggle with it too long. “It means I’m here to work,” you said gently. A small pause. “And… to try.” That was as far as you could go.

You stepped around your desk, picking up a folder like it was any other day, like your hands weren’t slightly colder than usual.

“Do you still take your coffee black?” you asked, glancing at him briefly.

“…Yeah.” A moment, .“Still do.”

You nodded, like you expected that. “Okay.”

You turned slightly, already moving toward the door. “I’ll get it right this time.”

That made him still because it wasn’t about coffee. Not really.

He watched you for a second longer, something unreadable passing through his expression. “You always did,” he said quietly.

3 years passed…

The day wasn’t grand. There were no towering ceilings, no endless rows of guests, no pressure to make it perfect. Just a quiet room filled with soft light and a handful of people who mattered. It felt smaller than what you once planned—but somehow, it felt bigger in all the ways that counted.

 You stood there, fingers curled gently around your bouquet, steadying your breath, reminding yourself that this time, nothing was being rushed, nothing was being assumed. This wasn’t about the version of love you once imagined. This was about the one you fought your way back to.

Across from you, Steve didn’t look away. Not even for a second. Like he had learned what it meant to lose you—how quickly everything could disappear if he stopped paying attention, if he let fear speak louder than love. 

He looked composed on the outside, suit neat, posture straight, but you could see it in the small things—the tension in his hands, the way his fingers flexed like he didn’t know where to put them, the way his breathing wasn’t quite even.

 And when your eyes met, something in him softened, something grounding, like he was reminding himself that you were here, that this was real, that he hadn’t lost you this time.

The officiant spoke, but the words blurred into the background because none of that mattered. Not compared to this. Not compared to you.

“Steve,” the officiant prompted gently. 

He exhaled, his voice, when he started, wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t polished.

It was real.

“Hi,” he said softly, and a small, breathless laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.

His lips twitched, just slightly. “Yeah… I had something prepared,” he admitted, glancing down for half a second before shaking his head. “But I think if I read it, I’ll miss it. And I don’t wanna miss anything with you. Not again.”

His eyes stayed on yours, unwavering now, even as his voice softened. “I thought I lost you once. And the worst part is… I convinced myself you were gone because you chose to be. It was easier to believe that than to face how much I loved you, how much it would hurt if something had actually happened to you. And I hate that. I hate that I let fear turn into something ugly, something that pushed you away when you needed me the most.” He paused, swallowing hard, like the words still cost him something. “I won’t do that again. I promise that when things don’t make sense, when something feels wrong, I won’t just accept the worst version of you. I’ll look for you. I’ll fight for you. Every single time.”

His hand lifted slightly, hesitating only a second before gently finding yours, grounding himself in the contact. “And if there ever comes a moment where things slip again, where you start to forget—even just a little—I promise I’ll be there. Not to fix you, not to change you, but to remind you. To remind you of who you are, of how strong you’ve always been, of how much you’re loved. I’ll use everything we’ve built, everything we are, to remind you how amazing and stubborn and beautiful you are, even on the days you can’t see it yourself.” A faint, emotional smile touched his lips. “I choose you. Not because it’s easy. Not because it’s perfect. But because it’s you. And it’s always been you. Every day, for the rest of my life.” 

By the time it was your turn, your vision had blurred, but you didn’t look away. You stepped closer, closing the distance fully this time, your hands finding his without hesitation, holding on like you understood now what it meant to lose and find something again. 

“I used to think love was something you remembered,” you began softly, your voice steady even as it carried everything you’d been through. “That if it was real, it wouldn’t fade, it wouldn’t disappear but I was wrong. I forgot everything. My name, my past… you.” Your fingers tightened slightly around his, your gaze never leaving his face. “And for a long time, I woke up believing no one loved me. I thought I was alone, that I didn’t matter enough for anyone to come looking for me. But the truth is… there was you. Loving me anyway. Missing me. Carrying something I didn’t even know I had lost.”

A small breath left you, softer now, but no less certain. “I didn’t remember you but somehow, my heart did. In the way I felt around you, in the way something always pulled me back, even when I didn’t understand it. And now that I do… I won’t take that for granted again.” Your lips curved faintly, emotional but warm. “Steve, I promise to give back the love you gave to me—even when I didn’t know your name, even when I couldn’t return it. I promise to choose you the way you kept choosing me, even when it hurt, even when it didn’t make sense.” You squeezed his hands gently, grounding both of you. “And I promise to remember the things that matter. The little things. Like how you take your coffee—black, no sugar. Like how you pretend not to care when you actually care too much. And that no matter what happens, no matter what we go through… I will always find my way back to you.”

When the rings were exchanged, it didn’t feel like a beginning built on hope alone. It felt like something stronger—something rebuilt, something chosen with open eyes.

“By the power vested in me—”

You barely heard it because Steve was already looking at you like you were the only thing that existed.

“You may—”

He didn’t wait. His hand came up to your face, gentle but certain, like he was grounding himself before he kissed you. It was steady, certain. Like both of you finally understood what it meant to stay.

And this time, you did.