Dylan's POV
"I'm sorry… I don't remember you."
The words slice through me like glass. Casual, polite—like she's talking about the weather. But my chest tightens, stomach twists, air turns heavy. The sterile hospital scent suddenly tastes metallic.
Xander stands beside me, calm mask in place, but I see the flicker in his jaw—surprise, fear maybe.
"You don't remember me either?" he asks, voice taut.
Ana shakes her head slowly. "No. I'm sorry. I wish I did."
I stare, memorizing details I never wanted to—pale cheeks, soft lips, her hand curled on the blanket like it's holding something invisible. Fragile. Breakable.
I want to touch her hand, to feel her warmth, but stop. To her, I'm a stranger. Nobody. And yet this lie… it's my only chance.
Xander clears his throat. "I'll give you some space. Need to make a call." He leaves, and the click of the door feels like a gunshot.
It's just me and her now. The hum of machines presses in, relentless.
"You… don't feel anything?" I ask quietly. "No familiarity? Not even a spark?"
She shakes her head again. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," I force a calm I don't feel. "It's not your fault." But inside, I'm screaming.
I step into the hall, fingers trembling as I call her mom. "Mrs. Prescott? It's Dylan. Ana's awake."
Her voice cracks. "She's awake?"
"Yes… but she doesn't remember me. Or Xander. She's lost, but okay."
"Oh, Dylan…" Relief floods her tone. "You've been her anchor. That matters more than anything. Just be patient."
"I will," I whisper.
When I return, the doctor's with her. "How are you feeling, Miss Prescott?"
"Better," she says softly.
He explains she needs a few more days. She shakes her head. "No. I just want to go home."
"You'll need someone with you," he warns.
Before I speak, Xander jumps in. "I'll take care of her—"
Ana cuts him off, voice sharp. "If you're Dylan's friend and I'm engaged to Dylan, why would it make sense that my fiancé's best friend takes care of me? Or am I missing something?"
Her words hit me like a punch—and God, it's hot. She's loyal even with memory loss.
Xander stammers, caught. I hide a grin as the doctor warns her about overexertion. She says, firm as steel, "I'll accept the consequences."
When he offers a wheelchair, she shakes her head. "I'll manage with crutches."
Xander leaves muttering something about errands. I handle the discharge paperwork, watching her every move. Exhausted, stubborn, beautiful.
"Ready to go home?" I ask.
"I think so," she says with the faintest smile.
The car ride is quiet until she chuckles. The sound nearly undoes me.
"What's funny?" I ask.
Blushing, she says, "I remembered something. Maybe a dream. Do you remember when we tried to build that treehouse in your backyard?"
I grin. "Yeah. You yelled at me for cutting the boards wrong."
She laughs, and I swear I'd burn the world to hear it again. "I don't know why I trusted you with a saw."
"You always trusted me," I say softly. "Even when you shouldn't have."
She glances at me, curiosity flickering. I don't push.
That day comes rushing back—Xander bailed on her date, so I picked her up. We ended up building that treehouse. She wore my clothes. I almost kissed her. Almost.
When we pull into my driveway, reality crashes back. Getting her inside takes every ounce of patience. She leans on me, one arm on the crutch.
"You're slower than I remember," I tease.
"I'm being careful," she fires back, eyes twinkling.
Inside, it's slow progress. Finally, she sinks onto the couch. I breathe out. "You're stubborn."
"I like being independent." No malice, just truth.
The doorbell rings—her mom. Ana's face lights up, tears spilling as they hug. I step back, throat tight.
Mrs. Prescott scans the house, frowns. "Where are your things?"
I answer smoothly, "We weren't living together before the accident. I called Xander—he's bringing her stuff with a moving truck."
Ana's eyes soften, impressed. My chest aches with pride.
Then Xander arrives, eyes sharp as blades. He pulls me aside, voice low and venomous. "Don't get too comfortable. She's still mine. I'll be back when I'm done having fun."
I laugh inwardly. Let him think that. He's already lost.
Through the open door, Ana watches us, calm and silent, like she knows exactly what she's doing. And maybe she does.
Because she chose me at that hospital. She's here. With me. And nothing he says will change that.
---
Ana's POV
"I'm sorry… I don't remember you," I say softly. Innocent. Perfect.
Dylan freezes. His chest tightens, breath stutters. I almost smile. He's worried. Protective. Exactly what I wanted.
Xander speaks next. "You don't remember me either?"
"No. I wish I did." Gentle. Apologetic. And he buys it.
I glance at Dylan. His jaw is tense, hands curled tight. He doesn't know I see everything. Doesn't know I remember everything.
Xander steps out to "make a call." Dylan asks if I feel any spark. I shake my head, watch pain flicker across his face. I almost break then—but I don't. Not yet.
When Dylan leaves, I know he's calling Mom. He always puts her first for me. That's who he is.
The doctor comes in, asking questions. I nod sweetly, let him think I'm cooperative. Inside, I'm planning. Watching Dylan in the corner like a soldier waiting for orders.
Then the doctor says I need more days here. No chance. "I just want to go home," I tell him.
"You'll need someone with you."
Before Dylan can speak, Xander jumps in: "I'll take care of her."
Perfect opening. "If you're Dylan's friend and I'm engaged to Dylan, why would my fiancé's best friend take care of me? Or am I missing something?"
His face is priceless. He stammers, Dylan hides a smile, and I savor the shift in power.
When the doctor warns me, I don't blink. "I'll accept the consequences." Wheelchair offered—I refuse. "Crutches will do."
Discharge is done, and Dylan drives me home. The silence is heavy until I chuckle, remembering the treehouse. He lights up instantly, grinning. God, that grin. It makes me warm all over.
We talk about that day, about rainstorms and laughter. He looks at me like I'm his whole world, and maybe I am. Maybe I always was.
Inside his house, he steadies me with patient hands. He teases me, I fire back, and for a second, it feels like we've done this a thousand times.
Then Mom arrives. Relief floods me as we hug and cry and laugh. She loves Dylan—I see it in her eyes. She believes we're real. She should. We are.
Then Xander shows up, arrogance dripping. He pulls Dylan aside, low and cruel: "Don't get too comfortable. She's still mine."
Mine. The word makes me want to laugh in his face. He has no idea he's already lost.
Because I chose Dylan the second I woke up. I chose him when I faked forgetting Xander. And I'll keep choosing him.
Xander walks away, thinking he has time. He doesn't. Not anymore.