Mirko Tornabene woke to the steady beep of a hospital monitor, a splitting headache and the uncomfortable realization that absolutely everyone in the room seemed to know something he didn’t.
His younger brother was standing near the window. And Lelio Casalini, his longtime underboss and closest friend, held the chair in the corner. Both looked like shit.
And beside Mirko’s bed sat someone he’d never seen before.
His eyes moved over you, then down to your hand.
A wedding ring.
Something cold settled in his stomach.
“Who are you?”
The silence that followed was fucking brutal. Lelio looked at the window. His brother muttered something under his breath, and whatever expression crossed your face made Mirko’s chest tighten despite having absolutely no idea why.
The doctors eventually handed him the answer. Retrograde amnesia. Approximately four years missing.
Mirko remembered everything before them. His family. His home. His work. Lelio. Every scar he’d earned and most of the people responsible for them. But apparently, somewhere inside those missing four years, Mirko Tornabene had met you, fallen in love with you and married you.
Three years ago.
Mirko stared at the wedding band on his own hand for almost a minute before looking back at you.
“So apparently I married you.”
His gaze lingered on you before one eyebrow lifted.
“Good news. Past me had excellent fucking taste.”
"Oh, thank God. Brain damage didn’t fix his personality,"
Lelio muttered from the corner.
“Keep talking and we’ll test whether it’s contagious.”
Two days later, Mirko was allowed home, and somehow walking through his own front door was far more disorienting than waking up in a hospital.
The house was familiar enough that he knew exactly which drawer held the spare keys and which light switch controlled the hallway, but everywhere he looked were pieces of a life he couldn’t remember living. There were two coats hanging by the entrance, shoes beside his own and photographs occupying spaces he remembered being empty. One showed Mirko kissing your temple while you held the camera, his arm wrapped comfortably around you and an expression on his face so openly content that he stopped walking.
"There are about eight thousand more of those,"
Lelio informed him as he passed.
“Helpful.”
The kitchen was worse. Two favorite mugs occupied the cabinet. The refrigerator was covered with photographs, reminders and an old grocery list holding several additions in two different handwritings. It was mundane in a way Mirko hadn’t anticipated. There was no grand revelation waiting for him, just overwhelming evidence that you had been woven into every ordinary part of his life.
Then he saw the yellow Post-it still stuck beside the coffee machine.
'Have a good day. Love you. Don’t forget lunch this time.'
Mirko carefully peeled it off and studied the handwriting. He couldn’t remember you writing it or himself finding it, but something about the bent little piece of paper affected him more than the wedding photographs had.
“Why is this still here?”
Lelio glanced over.
"Because you keep them."
“Cute.”
"I’m serious. Desk drawer, wallet, inside books. There’s one in your passport."
Mirko slowly turned his head toward him.
“You’re enjoying this.”
"Immensely."
Apparently there was plenty to enjoy. Lelio had collected four years of stories about a version of Mirko that Mirko himself found increasingly difficult to believe existed. The worst involved a meeting he had supposedly abandoned halfway through because you had discovered a spider in the bathroom and wanted it removed without hurting it.
“I left a meeting for a spider?”
"You left twelve people sitting downstairs."
“I have employees.”
"That’s what I told you. You said she was scared and you weren’t sending some idiot upstairs who’d kill the thing."
Mirko stared at him for a long moment, looking genuinely betrayed by his own past.
“You’re lying.”
"Ask your spouse."
His eyes automatically moved toward you, and the amusement on Lelio’s face only grew when Mirko apparently found enough confirmation there to reconsider everything he thought he knew about himself.
“Get out.”
"Should I tell you about the time—"
“No.”
"The grocery store—"
“Lelio.”
"Fine."
Lelio headed for the hallway, still grinning.
"Have fun discovering what a fucking softie you are."
The front door eventually closed, leaving the house quiet. Mirko stayed beside the counter with the Post-it still between his fingers, running his thumb absently over one of the creases.
The photographs were proof that he’d married you. The ring was proof he’d made vows to you. But somehow this stupid little note felt more intimate than either of those. You had loved him in all the boring moments nobody photographed, enough to remind him to eat lunch and wish him a good day, and apparently he’d loved you enough to keep the evidence.
He folded the Post-it carefully along its existing crease instead of throwing it away, then looked toward you. There was still something guarded in his expression, the natural hardness of a man who had spent most of his life keeping people at a distance, but the confusion beneath it had softened into genuine curiosity.
“I don’t remember being your husband,”
he admitted quietly.
“And I’m not going to insult you by pretending I do.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the note in his hand before returning to you.
“But I’m beginning to think I'd like to know why I apparently trusted an entire room full of dangerous men to wait for me, but couldn't trust one of them to remove a fucking spider for you."
His mouth curved faintly as he tucked the old Post-it into his pocket.
"So tell me about us."