Dylan's POV
The kitchen smells like a mix of tomato sauce, garlic, and the lingering sweetness of ginger from our earlier baking. I carefully stir the pasta sauce, stealing glances at Ana. She's humming softly, apron dusted with flour, her hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. The sight makes my chest tighten in a way that's both confusing and dangerous.
"You know, if you keep staring, the sauce will burn," she teases, glancing at me with a smirk.
"I'm not staring," I say quickly, though my eyes betray me.
"Sure," she mutters, rolling her eyes. "Whatever you say."
She comes closer with a spoon, scooping a little sauce. "You do realize I'm judging your sauce skills right now?"
I glance over at her. "And?"
She shrugs, lips twitching. "And… I think you're overcompensating for your lack of sugar in your coffee."
I can't help smiling. The limp I noticed earlier this week is almost gone—she shifts her weight easily, barely needing the crutch now. Of course I notice, but I say nothing. She's been through enough. I don't want to make her self-conscious by pointing it out.
We fall into a rhythm. We seem to be finding a lot of rhythms in the kitchen these days. I stir, she plates. Occasionally, our shoulders brush, and every touch sends an unexpected spark through me. My mind races—how easily she unsettles me, even during something as mundane as making dinner.
"So, chef," she says, leaning on the counter and watching me carefully, "are we having dinner, then a movie with those delicious ginger cookies?"
I grin, looking at the cookies we baked earlier. "Of course. You didn't think we'd let them go to waste, did you?"
Her laugh is soft, melodic, filling the kitchen in a way that makes the quiet corners of the house feel lighter. "I think I like having you around. Even if you are insufferable."
"Insufferable?" I challenge, mock offense in my tone. "I prefer the term efficient."
"Efficient. Right. Sure," she says, raising a brow.
Once dinner's ready, I dish up for us and we sit down. I expect silence, but Ana has other ideas.
"You know," she says between bites, "I wish I remembered more about us. Like how we were before I lost my memory."
I hesitate, trying to find the right reply, but nothing feels safe. "We aren't far from where we used to be," I say vaguely. It's the only answer I can give. It's technically true—we weren't really intimate partners before the accident. We were more like friends… and then she became my best friend's girl. I can't tell her that.
I steer the conversation away before the weight of her words crushes me. "So, which movie would you like to watch after dinner?" I ask casually.
"Let me think." She pauses, tapping her fork. "I don't know… how about you choose. But action or horror."
I nod, relieved. We finish eating, clean up, and move to the living room.
I turn on the TV, mostly for background noise, but the warmth in the room is enough to make the flickering light feel like comfort rather than distraction. Ana settles next to me on the couch, knees tucked beneath her. I drape a blanket over both of us, our shoulders brushing, fingers occasionally meeting in the bowl of cookies between us.
Every touch is subtle, fleeting, but each one jolts through me. I force myself to ignore it, focusing on the TV instead, pretending nothing is happening.
Halfway through the show, she leans more heavily against me, her shoulder pressing to my chest. I freeze. Her weight is soft, delicate, but enough to make me aware of everything—her warmth, her presence. I resist the urge to pull her closer. I shouldn't want this. I shouldn't want her.
And yet… I do.
Minutes stretch like hours until I realize she's asleep, her breath slow and steady, her head resting lightly on my shoulder. My hand twitches, wanting to curl around her, to shield her from the world. But I don't. I let her rest. I let the moment exist untouched, because that's the only way it can.
The guilt sits in my chest like a stone. She's lost so much already. I shouldn't let myself enjoy this—enjoy her being here, being close. But the warmth, the quiet, the soft weight of her… God, it's intoxicating.
---
Ana's POV
Dinner smells divine. Even with the chaos in the kitchen earlier, Dylan's precision makes the food feel like a reward for surviving the day. I watch him move—every gesture, every flick of his wrist while stirring the sauce, calculated and purposeful. He looks almost untouchable.
But then he looks at me, and suddenly I feel… everything. A rush of excitement, guilt, and longing. I want to test him. I step closer with a spoon, scoop some sauce, and taste it. "You do realize I'm judging your sauce skills right now?"
He glances at me over the edge of the pan, eyes sharp. "And?"
I smirk, shrugging. "And… I think you're overcompensating for your lack of sugar in your coffee."
He chuckles, and I feel that pull in my chest—the same one I've been trying to ignore all day.
"So, chef," I say, leaning on the counter. "Are we having dinner, then a movie with those delicious ginger cookies?"
He grins, looking at the cookies. "Of course. You didn't think we'd let them go to waste, did you?"
I laugh softly. "I think I like having you around. Even if you are insufferable."
"Insufferable?" he asks, mock-offended. "I prefer the term efficient."
I raise a brow. "Efficient. Right. Sure."
Once dinner is finished, we eat. It's quiet until I speak. "You know, I wish I remembered more about us. Like how we were before I lost my memory."
I can see him scramble for words. "I mean…" He pauses, then finally says, "We aren't far from where we used to be."
It's true, but not the whole truth. We weren't far from what we used to be—but if he could just loosen up, if he could let go of the guilt he feels for lying to me, we could be more. I'm ready for that, no matter how guilty I feel about keeping my own secrets from him.
After dinner, I grab the bowl of ginger cookies we baked earlier. He sits down on the couch, and I intentionally sit next to him. I let the blanket fall over us, enjoying the warmth, the closeness. The TV hums quietly in the background, but I hardly notice.
My eyelids grow heavy. The weight of the day, the warmth, and his steady presence lull me into rare, deep relaxation. My head drifts toward his shoulder, and I don't fight it. I fall asleep there, the sound of his quiet breathing blending with the TV.
I feel his arm shift slightly, settling around me—protective, tentative. His hand brushes mine once, gently, as if checking to see if I'm okay.
Guilt claws at me—at how easily I lean on him, at how much I need him. But even with the guilt, I cling to the comfort. I let myself sink into it, knowing that for tonight, I can just be.