Dylan's POV
It's been a week since Mrs. Prescott left. A week of living with Ana—and the guilt hasn't eased.
Part of me wants her to stay like this—unaware—long enough for us to become something real. The other part prays she remembers and still chooses me. That she stays because she wants to.
Every time her eyes linger on me with that soft curiosity, it feels like she's asking questions I can't answer. Questions that would shatter what little peace we've built.
I don't like Ana.
I love her.
I've loved her since day one—even when she was with Xander.
Her mother knows too. She trusted me to protect her, to love her right—even if I couldn't say it. This house was supposed to be a safe place. But pretending to be her fiancé sits like a stone in my chest.
And yet… I'd do it again. Because the thought of Xander clawing back into her life? Not happening.
The kitchen smells like coffee and bacon. I crack eggs into a skillet—her favorite. My mother used to say cooking for someone is the purest act of love. If that's true, then this is my silent confession.
Humming drifts down the hall. Soft, sweet, like sunlight. Then she appears—hair messy, loose pajamas, sleepy eyes. She yawns and smiles.
"Morning," she murmurs.
"Morning." My voice comes out rough. I clear my throat and set a mug down.
She eyes my rolled sleeves, the tie draped around my neck. "You're always so put together," she teases, leaning against the counter like she belongs there. "Don't you ever wake up and just… not feel like going?"
I let out a small laugh. "Not really an option."
"You're the boss," she presses.
Boss. If only she knew how much of my life depends on control. I stab a piece of bacon. "Even the boss has responsibilities."
She studies me, then smiles. "Fair enough. Guess I'll just hold down the fort. Don't worry—I'll try not to burn your house down."
My lips twitch. "Please don't."
We eat in quiet, the air charged with something I can't name. When I'm done, I rinse my plate and grab my keys. "Call me if you need anything," I say, softer this time. "And don't burn the house down."
Her laugh follows me out the door, warm and dangerous.
Work drags. Every file blurs. Every clock tick is loud. I pick up my phone three times before I finally call.
She answers on the first ring. "Dylan." My name on her lips nearly undoes me.
"Hey. Just making sure you're okay. Need anything?"
She laughs, teasing. "Nope. Go back to work. Don't worry—I'm still exactly how you left me. Haven't burned the house down yet."
That laugh… it sticks in my chest.
"O-okay. See you when I get home?" The question slips out.
"See you then," she says, and hangs up.
Four o'clock crawls in. I ditch the office, grab burgers and fries, and head home.
The door clicks open. And I freeze.
She's at the table. Wearing my T-shirt. Not an old one—one of my favorites. It drapes over her thighs like it belongs there.
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
She smirks. "Found this lying around. Hope you don't mind."
Mind? If only she knew.
"You look better in it than I do," I say, voice even by sheer will. "Keep it."
Her laugh is bright, real. "Best fiancé ever. You save me from cooking and let me steal your clothes."
Then she loops her arm through mine. "Rug picnic tonight."
I let her. I'd let her do anything.
We sit on the rug, food spread out, TV flickering. She steals a fry; I threaten payback. She laughs harder than I've heard in days.
And then she says it. Soft, certain:
"I may not remember much… but I think I'd still choose you. Over and over again."
The world tilts. My chest aches with something sharp and sweet.
Before I can speak, she kisses my cheek—quick, innocent, and yet it detonates something inside me.
I want to tell her everything. That this—us—is all I've ever wanted. But the words stick. So I just memorize her smile like it's the last light on earth.
Later, she whispers, "Goodnight, Dylan."
"Goodnight, Ana," I say, voice rougher than it should be.
One day, that goodnight will happen in the same bed. And I'll never let her go.
---
Ana's POV
It's been a week since Mama left. A week of living here, in Dylan's house.
Every morning, I wake and remind myself: keep pretending. Pretend I don't remember. Pretend this is real.
And yet, nothing about this feels simple.
I limp toward the kitchen, hair mussed, pajamas loose. Dylan's already there, sleeves rolled, tie draped around his neck. Coffee and bacon scent the air.
I pause in the doorway, watching him. Even the smallest motions—cracking eggs, flipping bacon—are careful, deliberate. Powerful.
"Morning," I murmur.
He looks up. "Morning." His voice is low, controlled, and something warm coils in my chest.
I lean against the counter, teasing. "You're always so put together. Don't you ever just… stay home?"
His mouth twitches like he wants to smile. "Not really an option."
"You're the boss."
A flicker in his eyes. "Even the boss has responsibilities."
I grin. "Fine. I'll keep the house standing."
That earns me the tiniest smile—just enough to feel like a win.
When he leaves, I swear he hesitates at the door. "Call me if you need anything," he says. Then, quieter: "And don't burn the house down."
I laugh softly, shaking my head.
The day crawls. The house feels too big without him. I wander, bored, restless, thinking about him more than I should. His steadiness. His care. The way he makes me feel like I belong.
When the phone rings and his name flashes, my heart jumps.
"Dylan," I say, smiling even though he can't see.
"Just making sure you're okay," he says, voice steady but softer than usual. "Need anything?"
I laugh. "Nope. Don't worry. Haven't burned the house down yet."
"O-okay. See you when I get home?" His voice almost sounds… hopeful.
"See you then."
When he comes home early, I'm wearing his T-shirt. It's soft and worn, and I love how it feels against my skin.
He freezes when he sees me. The look in his eyes—heat, surprise, something unspoken—sends a thrill through me.
"Hope you don't mind," I say casually.
He stares, then murmurs, "I don't mind. You look better in it than I do."
Warmth blooms in my chest. I hook my arm through his. "Rug picnic tonight. No table."
He follows without question.
We sit cross-legged on the rug, burgers and fries spread between us. His hand brushes mine, and I freeze. Sparks. I steal a fry; he threatens revenge. We laugh until my cheeks ache.
Then I say it, quiet but certain:
"I may not remember everything. But I know this—I'd still choose you. Over and over again."
His eyes widen. His face softens in a way I've never seen. And my heart… oh, my heart just falls.
Before he can answer, I lean in and press a kiss to his cheek. Quick. Simple. But it feels like everything.
We clean up like nothing happened, but I can feel the air humming between us.
When I whisper, "Goodnight, Dylan," and he answers in that low, rough voice, I know: I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.