Dylan's POV
Morning light spills through the thin curtains when I wake. For a second I forget where I am — then footsteps down the hall bring last night back. Carrying Ana to bed. The way she curled into my chest. How I stayed longer than I should've, watching her breathe until I forced myself to leave.
I scrub a hand over my face. I told myself I wouldn't get attached. That this fake engagement was just a cover. But every day, it feels less like an act.
She's quiet at breakfast, hair still messy from sleep, fingers curled around her mug. When I mention her checkup she frowns, like she's about to argue. I cut her off."I'm driving you."
Her brows lift. "You don't have to."
"I want to." My tone leaves no room for discussion. Maybe that's selfish, but the thought of her sitting alone, nervous, doesn't sit right with me.
At the clinic I hover closer than I mean to. She keeps smoothing her hands over her dress like she's trying to steady herself. When her name is called I stand too; she shoots me a look — half protest, half relief. I follow anyway.
The exam room is cold. I cross my arms and plant myself in the corner, making sure whoever walks in knows she's not alone. She sits on the exam table, swinging her feet lightly, trying to act calm. I move closer.
"You've been sleeping a little better," I say quietly. "But you still wake up around three most nights. You pace for a while before you fall back asleep."Her head snaps toward me, eyes wide. "You… noticed that?"
I shrug, as if it's nothing. "You've also been eating more than you were a couple of weeks ago. And you don't rub at your side as often. That's progress."
The door opens and the doctor steps in, catching the tail end of my words. He shakes my hand, then looks between us. "Fiancé?" he asks with a smile. "Yes." I say it without hesitation.
Ana stiffens, but she doesn't correct me. The lie tastes dangerously sweet on my tongue.
The doctor jots down a note and glances at me again. "You're observant. Most people don't even notice changes that subtle — let alone mention them. She's lucky to have someone so attentive."
Ana's gaze flicks to me, surprise written across her face. For a moment she looks at me like she's genuinely grateful. After her check-up, we head to the car, and silence hangs between us.
In the car, she's telling me I didn't have to stay with her. I only stayed because I wanted to. I don't think she realizes how big of a part she plays in my life, how she has become the center of it all.
Ana's POV
Morning light spills through the curtains when I wake, still wrapped in the warmth of last night. Dylan carrying me to bed. His chest steady beneath my cheek until he finally pulled away. I should've protested, told him I didn't need his help — but the truth is, I didn't want him to let go.
I shuffle into the kitchen, hair a mess, mug warming my hands. Dylan watches me, calm and steady, before he mentions my checkup. I'm ready to argue, but his tone cuts me off. "I'm driving you," he says. I lift a brow. "You don't have to."
"I want to." His words leave no room for debate. Something about the way he says it roots me to silence. I let him.
At the clinic my nerves spike. My palms won't stop smoothing over my dress. When my name is called, I feel the weight of Dylan rising beside me. Half of me wants to tell him to sit, the other half is relieved he doesn't.
The exam room is colder than I expect. He takes the corner like it belongs to him, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
Before the doctor even enters, Dylan's voice reaches me. "You've been sleeping a little better. But you still wake around three, pace a bit, then fall back asleep." My head snaps toward him, heat rushing into my face. "You… noticed that?"
He shrugs like it's nothing. "You've also been eating more than before. And you don't rub at your side as often. That's progress."
I blink at him, stunned. Things I thought invisible — he's been watching closely enough to see them. My chest tightens, part fear, part gratitude. The doctor walks in, smiling. "Fiancé?"
"Yes," Dylan answers, steady and immediate.
The word lands heavy between us. I don't correct him. When the doctor praises him — calls him attentive, says I'm lucky — my throat tightens. Because for the first time, I feel it too.
Later in the car I murmur, "You didn't have to stay in there."
"I know," he says, eyes on the road, hands tight on the wheel. "But I wanted to." I swallow, then glance at him. "How did you notice all those things? About me sleeping… about me eating?"
His jaw shifts, but his voice is even. "Because I'm your fiancé. And I love my fiancée enough to notice the things she thinks aren't visible to me." The words slip into me, vague but undeniable, threaded with something deeper than either of us is ready to say aloud.
My mind flashes back to our first week together. The blanket folded neatly on the couch after I'd fallen asleep there. Small, quiet acts of care I nearly overlooked — but he hadn't.
And now, I can't shake the thought: he's been noticing me from the beginning.