Dylan's POV
The smell of coffee fills the kitchen as I crack eggs into a pan. Before Ana moved in, whenever I worked from home, I wouldn't bother with a big breakfast. But her presence makes this routine feel necessary. Breakfast with Ana feels like a sacred step I dare not skip. It gives me a reason not to eat hunched over my laptop instead of at the table.
Minutes later, she walks in. Her hair's still messy, and she's rubbing sleep from her eyes. She looks softer in the mornings—the kind of soft that carries warmth and lights the room as she enters. She's less guarded then, always looking at me like she's adjusting her eyes to allow for more light.
"You're up early," she says, sliding into a chair.
"I'm always up early, and I work better when the day starts with food." I set a plate in front of her. "Eat up."
She smiles, picking up her fork. "You act like I need constant reminders."
"Maybe you do," I shoot back, and she laughs. The sound slips under my skin too easily, loosening something in me.
I sit across from her and we eat in quiet for a few minutes before I surprise myself by saying, "You know, breakfast with you… it brightens my day."
The words hang in the air, heavier than I intended. Her fork stills. For a second, she just blinks at me, and I wonder if I've said too much. Hell, I know I've said too much. But I can't take it back. Goddammit, Ana, say something… please.
I'm freaking out inside while trying to act calm on the surface. Then she puts me out of my misery. "It does?" she asks softly, her face unreadable before she finally gives me a warm smile.
I force a shrug, hiding behind my coffee mug. "Don't get used to it. I'm not a morning person." I try to look like I wasn't panicking seconds ago. But now? All that panic feels worth every second that smile lasts. It's so warm, so unguarded.
And then guilt grips me, pulling me in like gravity—merciless, inescapable. Will I ever stop feeling guilty for loving someone who deserves to be loved without complications? Every time I feel us settling into something normal, I remind myself I shouldn't be the one she's being normal with. And that smile? I shouldn't want her smiling like that… not for me, anyway.
We finish breakfast, and as usual we clean up together. Afterward, I head into my office. Minutes later, I hear her footsteps moving into the library. I purposely left my office door open today, just so I can hear her moving around the house.
The day drags on. I bury myself under case files and reports, but I still listen for faint sounds—pages turning, chair creaking. Strangely, it's comforting, knowing she's just in the next room even if I can't see her.
After a few hours, the house goes silent. I pause, thinking she might be fetching another book. But the silence stretches on, so I decide to take a break too.
I organize my files neatly, knowing that if I find Ana in the kitchen, I probably won't come back here today. Looking over everything, I realize I've finished more than I usually would at the office before lunch.
I step out of the office. The house is quiet. Then I find her in the kitchen, apron on and flour on her hands.
"What are you doing?" I ask, leaning against the doorframe, legs crossed.
She startles, then laughs. "Baking. I got bored."
I glance at the mess—flour scattered across the counter, a whisk abandoned in the bowl. My instinct is to grab a cloth and restore order. But the way she's smiling stops me.
"Need help?" I ask.
Her brows lift. "You? Baking?"
"I can follow instructions. And we did bake muffins yesterday, so…"
She hands me the whisk, grinning. "Well, you, my good sir, make a good point. So stir."
The bowl is heavier than I expect, and she laughs when I struggle with the sticky dough.
"Not so easy, is it?" she teases.
"Don't get cocky," I mutter, but the corner of my mouth twitches.
We fall into an easy rhythm. She measures, I mix. She teases, I grumble. At one point, she bumps into me, smudging flour across my shirt. Her laughter rings out, unrestrained.
It's reckless, how natural this feels. Too domestic, too intimate. And I hate that a part of me wants more of it. The more we pretend this is normal, the harder it's going to be not to think of it as our normal.
But I wonder—
Is it selfish not to return her to Xander, like some parcel I've been holding for him? Is it selfish that I already know I won't, and that I feel no shame for it?
This… baking, cooking, doing everything together—I won't let it go so easily. The smile on her face will only light my house… our house.
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Ana's POV
This is what I've always dreamt my life would be like: waking up to the smell of breakfast, strolling down to the kitchen, finding my fiancé by the stove, and not caring how messy I look.
"You're up early," I tell him as I slide into a chair.
"I'm always up early, and I work better when the day starts with food," he replies, setting a plate in front of me.
"Eat up."
I smile as I start digging in. "You act like I need constant reminders."
"Maybe you do," he shoots back instantly, and I laugh.
He sits down across from me. Silence hangs for a bit, then out of nowhere: "You know, breakfast with you… it brightens my day."
I freeze, fork midair. I want to respond, but my brain's not working. No words come, so I resort to blinking. It's not excessive at least. Finally, I snap out of my shock.
"It does?" I ask, then manage a smile.
He shrugs. "Don't get used to it. I'm not a morning person."
I don't care what else he says. I'm still hooked on the fact that now I know he isn't forcing himself when he eats breakfast with me. Now I know it's genuine.
I wonder, though. I know Dylan and Xander lied about my engagement to Dylan. They don't know I'm lying when I say I lost my memory. The guilt of keeping it going eats at me. Still, I wonder if Dylan also feels guilty about lying to me. But even if he does, his actions come from genuine care.
After breakfast, we clean up as usual. Dylan works from home today, so he heads into his office, and I make my way to the library. For some reason, the TV isn't fun without him, so I spend most of my time there. It's a massive room that looks like a ballroom transformed into a library. He never sets foot in it. And honestly—where did he even find all these books?
Today's library session is dull. I want to spend time with Dylan, but I know he's busy, and I don't want to disturb him. Otherwise, he might think twice about working from home again. After hours of flipping through books I don't even care to understand, I finally head to the kitchen.
I decide to bake—cookies this time. Maybe Dylan will come find me. I start mixing, and sure enough, he appears. Right on time, honey.
"What are you doing?" he asks, leaning against the doorframe.
I act startled, then laugh. "Baking. I got bored."
I notice his eyes flick to the mess on the counter. I know he's fighting the urge to clean it all up. "Need help?" he asks, almost like he's waiting for permission.
I raise a brow. "You? Baking?"
"I can follow instructions. And we did bake muffins yesterday, so…"
I hand him the whisk, grinning. "Well, you, my good sir, make a good point. So stir."
I laugh as he struggles with the sticky dough. "Not so easy, is it?"
"Don't get cocky," he mutters, almost smiling.
We fall into rhythm—measuring, mixing, teasing, grumbling. Suddenly, I bump into him. Flour streaks across his shirt. I laugh harder. How do we even bump into each other in a kitchen this big?
I can't get enough of moments like these. They feel natural. I know I'll never get back with Xander, but I can't stop comparing them. It's like I'm running a survey, collecting proof that Dylan is the better choice, proof that I could never return to Xander.
Xander will pay for letting me go. He's going to regret it. I just hope I'm there to see the moment he realizes I was never the backup he thought I'd be.