Adrian's first discovery about married life was that his house contained an alarming number of photographs of Elliot.

The second was that every photograph made him smile like an idiot.

The third was that the idiot in question was himself.

"You have a picture of me on the refrigerator," Adrian said.

Elliot dropped his keys into a ceramic bowl. "We have several."

"I'm wearing a paper crown in that one."

"You insisted on being king of breakfast."

"Why?"

"Because you burned the pancakes and wanted a consolation prize."

Adrian considered the evidence. "Sounds reasonable."

Their home was large, but it didn't feel like a showroom. Books crowded the shelves. Elliot's sketches lay beside the sofa. A pair of mismatched mugs waited by the sink.

Adrian recognized the architecture. He remembered buying the property before the missing years began. But the house itself had changed into something warmer.

"You did all this?" he asked.

"We did. You chose the couch. I chose everything that makes the couch look less depressing."

Adrian ran his fingers over a knitted blanket. "Good teamwork."

The afternoon passed quietly. Elliot made lunch while Adrian rested. Noah dropped off medication and a detailed list of instructions, then threatened to confiscate Adrian's phone if he checked work emails.

"I run a company," Adrian protested.

"Your company has executives. Let them earn their salaries."

"You're enjoying ordering me around."

"I've waited years for this opportunity."

By evening, Adrian was exhausted. His head ached if he stood too quickly, and unfamiliar memories kept catching at the edge of his thoughts.

Elliot brought him water and reminded him to take his medication. Adrian watched the ease with which Elliot moved around him.

"You know where everything is," he said.

"I live here."

"Right. My husband. In my house."

"Our house."

Adrian smiled. "Our house."

He was sitting on the edge of the bed when the bathroom door opened.

Elliot emerged with damp hair and one of Adrian's white shirts hanging loosely over his pajama pants.

Adrian forgot the question he'd been about to ask.

The shirt was too broad in the shoulders. Its sleeves covered part of Elliot's hands. A drop of water slid from his hair to his collar.

"What?" Elliot asked.

"Nothing."

"You're staring."

"I'm evaluating the theft of my clothing."

Elliot looked down. "You used to say I looked better in your shirts than you did."

"Past me was clearly an intelligent man."

"Present you is blushing."

"It's warm in here."

"The thermostat says sixty-nine."

"Faulty thermostat."

Elliot laughed and walked to the dresser. Adrian watched him pull out a pair of socks, then forced himself to study the lamp instead.

He was attracted to Elliot. That much was becoming impossible to deny. What unsettled him was how ordinary the attraction felt, as if his heart had been waiting for his mind to catch up.

"You can take the bed," Elliot said. "I'll use the guest room until you're comfortable."

Adrian looked at the broad mattress. "You don't have to leave your own room."

"Neither do you. We can figure it out one night at a time."

"That's annoyingly sensible."

"One of us has to be."

Adrian wanted to ask him to stay. Instead, he said good night and watched Elliot disappear into the hallway.

Before Elliot left the bedroom, Adrian called his name.

"Do you ever get tired of taking care of me?"

Elliot stopped with one hand on the doorframe. "You've been home for less than a day."

"I mean before. In the years I don't remember."

Elliot considered how to answer. He could have said no and made the moment easier. Instead, he chose something closer to the truth.

"Sometimes we both got tired," he said. "That's normal. But I never stopped wanting to come home to you."

Adrian studied the blanket. "I hope I made it worth coming home."

"You made me laugh a lot."

"That doesn't sound like enough."

"It wasn't the only thing."

Elliot crossed the room and adjusted the pillow behind Adrian's shoulder. His hand lingered briefly near Adrian's hair.

"You don't have to solve three years of marriage in one evening," he said.

"I'm used to solving problems quickly."

"I know."

Adrian looked up. "And what are you used to?"

"You asking too many questions when you should be asleep."

He switched off the lamp. Adrian heard his footsteps fade, and the bedroom suddenly seemed too large.

Sleep arrived slowly. He heard rain against the windows and the distant hum of the heating system.

Then the room changed.

In his dream, lamplight softened the walls. Elliot sat sideways across his lap, smiling as though they'd been sharing a private joke for years.

"You're late," Elliot whispered.

"For what?"

"For me."

Adrian put his arms around him. The gesture felt so natural that he didn't question it. Elliot's fingers settled at the back of his neck.

"Husband," Elliot murmured.

Adrian's chest filled with an almost painful happiness.

He leaned forward and kissed him. The dream held the warmth of Elliot's smile and the quiet comfort of being wanted.

The light faded, leaving only the sense that he had found something precious and was afraid to wake.

When morning came, Adrian opened his eyes with his heart racing.

He was alone in the bed. The rain had stopped. Sunlight striped the blanket.

He stared at the ceiling, trying to understand why the dream had felt more real than yesterday's conversations.

It hadn't been a memory, had it? He couldn't tell. The room in the dream looked like theirs, but he had seen the room before sleeping.

The dream left behind no clear images of the missing years, only a sensation of closeness. Adrian tried to reconstruct the room, the lamp, the sound of Elliot's voice.

He wondered whether he'd invented the whole thing from yesterday's conversation. Maybe his mind was building a story out of everything he'd been told.

But the feeling of being called husband lingered.

He had never imagined a single word could make him feel so wanted.

And now he had to face the real Elliot over breakfast without announcing that his subconscious had apparently fallen in love first.

He covered his face with both hands.

"Fantastic," he muttered. "I've known my own husband for three days and I'm dreaming about him."

A gentle knock came from the doorway.

"Adrian?"

He sat upright too fast and regretted it. Elliot stood there with a glass of water and a worried expression.

"Easy. Are you okay?"

"Perfect. Excellent. Never better."

"You were calling my name."

Adrian froze.

"I was?"

"A couple of times."

"Probably a medical thing."

Elliot raised an eyebrow. "A medical thing?"

"Brain injury. Strange dreams. Very scientific."

Elliot crossed the room and handed him the water. "You can tell me if you're having nightmares."

Adrian looked up. The concern in Elliot's face made the joke die on his tongue.

"It wasn't a nightmare," he admitted.

"Good."

"Actually, it was… nice."

Elliot smiled, relieved. "Then I'm glad."

Adrian took a long drink. Elliot sat beside him and gently checked whether his headache had returned.

"Not really," Adrian said. "Just embarrassment."

"That's not usually a symptom."

"It should be."

Elliot studied him for a moment, then his smile turned mischievous.

"Were you dreaming about me?"

"Absolutely not!"

Elliot tilted his head. "Then why did you say, 'Kiss me again, Elliot'?"