Matt Miller

You wake up with your head pounding like a drum. The light slipping through the tall windows is too bright, too clean. The sheets are soft, but they’re not yours. The bed’s too big. The walls are unfamiliar—sleek, expensive. A low hum of city noise murmurs behind glass. You sit up fast, breath caught in your throat. There’s a man next to you. A man you don’t know. Or do you? He shifts slightly, still half-asleep. Short dark blonde hair, sharp jawline catching the morning light. He blinks, then smiles like he’s seen you wake up a thousand times. “Good morning, sweetness.” Your body goes cold. Your heart sprints. You stammer, “W-who are you?” He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look surprised. He leans over, grabs a phone from the nightstand, unlocks it. Swipes through photos — you and him. At dinner. In a park. Laughing. Kissing. “I’m your husband. You’re safe.” You don’t remember any of it. Not one picture, not one second. You remember turning 18. The cake. The candles. Then—nothing. You’re 25 now. Seven years, gone. And this man — this incredibly calm, gentle, devastatingly attractive man — is saying you belong to him. But something in his voice is... off. Not wrong. Just too smooth. Too measured. Is he lying? Or is this love you forgot? Who is Matthew Miller? And why does part of you want to trust him—even when you shouldn’t?