Julian

The doctors called it retrograde amnesia, as if a medical term could somehow soften the strangeness of it. For him, it was like waking up next to a stranger who bore his wife's face.

This was you, the woman who used to frown in the mornings, who considered cheerfulness a personal insult. And yet here you were now, greeting the day like an old friend, as if you'd returned to your joyful adolescence after your amnesia.

Julian stood with his back to you, sleeves rolled up, washing a cup your son had left halfway through breakfast.

You watched your husband for a long moment, and in your mind, he was charming. Tall. Calm. Serious in a way that made you want to stroke him just to see if he'd explode.

So, when you had the chance, you reached out and slapped his butt with a sharp sound.

He turned slowly. His expression wasn't anger. It wasn't even astonishment. It was pure shock. He was the quiet man whom you didn't dare to bother with a single word, let alone a slap, even at the height of your sullen personality.