Dylan's POV
By the time Xander and the movers leave, silence settles over the house like a heavy blanket. No boots on hardwood, no clipped orders—just us: Ana, her mom, and me.
Mrs. Prescott grabs some blankets. "We should get Ana's things upstairs before she decides to do it herself."
"I'm fine," Ana says, reaching for a bag.
"You're not fine," I snap without thinking. She freezes, then gives me a soft smile that doesn't belong on her lips—not with me.
We head upstairs. Mrs. Prescott glances at the endless hallway. "Which room?"
I freeze. Too many rooms. Too many memories. "Uh—any."
"Maybe far away," Ana says lightly. "So I'm not a bother." Her voice is sweet, but her eyes dare me to object.
"You won't be a bother," her mom says.
"The east guest room," I cut in. Close to the bathroom. Close to me.
We set her things down. When she reaches for a box, I'm there. "Sit."
She pouts. "Bossy." My jaw tightens. If she knew what that tone does to me…
When the room looks like hers, Mrs. Prescott smooths Ana's hair. Then she turns to me. "You'll need to get back to work. Let me stay a week."
"I can handle it."
"Dylan," she says gently. "You've done more than anyone."
She's right. Through hospital nights and whispered prayers, she became family. I sigh. "Alright. A week."
The days blur—her mom cooking, fussing, watching. Watching us too closely. When Ana leans against me on the couch, Mrs. Prescott's eyes flicker. When Ana trips and I catch her, her voice cuts sharp: "She'll recover faster if you let her walk."
Tonight is her last evening here. Ana's upstairs. Mrs. Prescott sits across from me, her hand warm over mine. "There's tension between you and Ana."
"It's the accident," I say quickly.
She doesn't argue, just squeezes my hand. "Don't think I don't see what you've done for her. For me."
Her voice shakes. So does something in me.
In the morning, she hugs Ana long and hard. Then me. "Take care of her. And yourself." Then she's gone.
Ana stares at the counter. "I'll miss her."
"I know." I pull her in before I can think. She melts into me, warm and soft, like she belongs there. For a second, the guilt fades.
That night, the silence is heavier than ever. No footsteps, no soft humming—just Ana's laughter from down the hall.
When I hear her voice, I turn. She's on the stairs, hair loose, face soft in the dim light. "She made it feel like home," she says. "Does it feel empty now?"
"I'm used to empty."
"Guess I'll have to fill the space."
My chest tightens. She pads into the kitchen and perches on a stool like she owns it. I keep busy with coffee I don't need.
"Have you eaten?" I ask.
"Yes, darling," she teases. "You don't have to hover. Mom's gone."
"I'm not hovering."
"You are," she laughs. "You've been hovering since the hospital."
The image of her limp body flashes, and my voice comes out hard. "I was making sure you didn't die on me."
Her expression softens. "I know. And I'm grateful. But I'm not glass."
Not glass. No—something far more dangerous.
"You should sleep," I mutter.
She steps closer. A foot away now. "And you?"
"I'll be fine."
She smiles like she knows the truth. "Goodnight, Dylan."
Her door clicks shut, and I stand there, pulse pounding. Mrs. Prescott trusted me to keep her safe. But it's not just about safety anymore. It's about me, and the line I don't know if I can hold.
This lie was supposed to protect her. But now? It's killing me not to touch her. Killing me not to make her mine. Screw Xander. He's already lost.
---
Ana's POV
When the movers and Xander leave, the house exhales. For the first time, it feels like mine.
Mom says, "We should get your things upstairs before you try it yourself."
"I'm fine," I argue, grabbing a bag.
"You're not fine," Dylan cuts in, sharp and protective. My stomach flips.
Upstairs, Mom asks which room. Dylan stumbles. "Any one."
I hide a smile. He didn't plan this far—or maybe he did and hated it. "Maybe I should stay far, so I don't bother Dylan."
I want him to choose. And he does. "East guest room," he says firmly. Close enough.
While unpacking, I test him. A brush of shoulders. A shared grip on a box. He freezes every time. Mom notices. Her gaze cuts sharp when he steadies me after I nearly trip: "She'll recover faster if you let her walk."
He steps back like I burned him. I almost laugh. He cares more than he'll admit.
Mom stays the whole week. She watches us like a hawk. Every laugh, every glance. She sees the tension. She even talks to Dylan tonight—I catch them from the stairs, her hand over his, his shoulders softening. Something warm blooms in my chest. Dylan isn't untouchable—not with her. Not with me.
Morning comes too fast. Mom hugs me tight, whispers, "Listen to him." Then she hugs Dylan and leaves.
The house feels empty, but not in a bad way.
"I'll miss her," I say.
"I know," he says, pulling me in. His arms feel too good. I just hold on.
Later, I find him in the kitchen making coffee he won't drink. I can't resist teasing. "You don't have to hover, Dylan. Mom's gone."
"I'm not hovering."
"You are," I laugh. "You've been hovering since the hospital."
His voice is rough when he snaps, "I was making sure you didn't die on me."
My heart twists. "I know. And I'm grateful. But I'm not glass."
He looks at me then—really looks—and it feels like standing on the edge of something I can't turn back from.
"You should get some sleep," he mutters.
"And you?" I ask softly, stepping closer.
"I'll be fine."
I smile, whispering, "Goodnight, Dylan," and leave before I do something reckless.
Because I see it now, clear as day. He wants me. And whatever deal he made with Xander? Worthless.
I'm not planning on leaving. Not now. Not ever.