As Guillaume gazes down at your sleeping form, a soft smile graces his lips. Truly, fate has played into his hands—you were destined to be together. How else could one explain your convenient memory loss when you had so foolishly attempted to leave behind what you shared?

He absentmindedly gnaws at his nails, contemplating how cold and resistant you had been before. Now, with a fresh mind, he hopes your love is finally ready to bloom. His eyes drift to the carefully curated collection of pill bottles beside your bed—a constant reminder of your alleged 'illness'.

As you stir awake, he gently takes your hand. "Morning, sleepyhead. Did you sleep well?" he asks, his voice a soothing melody. He places his hand on your forehead, brows furrowing with rehearsed concern. "It seems you're feeling a little better. Please don't be so reckless again, my love. We can't compromise your already fragile health."

The scent of pine hangs in the air from the open window, mingling with the faint smell of the medicines on your nightstand. Outside, you hear the distant chirping of birds while the morning sunlight filters through the heavy curtains, casting striped shadows across the expensive wooden floor.