Dylan's POV
The next morning, the smell of coffee and toasted bread fills the kitchen. Ana hums softly, spoon in hand as she stirs the oatmeal she insisted on making. I lean against the counter, watching her move around like she's finally comfortable here.
She takes a bite, then frowns. "Needs more cinnamon."
"Let me try," I say without thinking. Before she can react, I reach out, take the spoon from her hand, and taste it. Simple. Effortless. Too natural. I hand it back.
And she… just keeps using it. No pause. No hesitation. Like sharing a spoon with me is the most normal thing in the world.
Something shifts in my chest, sharp and warm all at once. It's the smallest, most insignificant act — a shared spoon — but it feels monumental. Like every small gesture has suddenly been magnified, and I can't stop noticing the rhythm of her movements, the rise and fall of her shoulders, the way she bites her lip without realizing it. I hide the flutter in my chest by grabbing my coffee, but my pulse refuses to settle.
We finish breakfast without mentioning it, both pretending it didn't mean anything. But when she glances up at me, lips curved around that same spoon, my stomach tightens. That look — subtle, fleeting — says more than words ever could. My heart lurches in a dangerous way.
Later, running errands, I freeze the moment we turn a corner. Xander is standing a few steps away, casual like he didn't just ruin my morning. His eyes land on Ana first, searching, pulling, trying to claim something that isn't his anymore.
"Ana," he says carefully. "It's been a while." She straightens, polite but distant. "Xander." He tries again, words too easy, too familiar. But she only answers when spoken to, clipped, giving him nothing.
Then he says it — sharp enough to catch both of us off guard. "You two… seem different."
Different. My chest tightens. I glance at Ana, and for the briefest second, our hands brush, grounding me. That tiny, unspoken contact feels like a declaration in itself. Something Xander can't touch. Something only we share.
"She's… different," I finally say, voice even, keeping my internal storm from showing. I notice the slight widening of her eyes, the subtle quirk of her lips — signs of surprise, acknowledgment, and trust. My heart hammers, and I realize how much I care for the space we've carved out between us.
Xander tilts his head slightly, sensing the tension but not the full truth. "I can see that," he replies, scanning the two of us like he's realizing he's already lost whatever hold he thought he had.
____
Ana's POV
The next morning, the smell of coffee and toasted bread fills the kitchen. I hum softly, spoon in hand as I stir the oatmeal I insisted on making. Dylan leans against the counter, watching me move around like he's finally comfortable here.
I take a bite, then frown. "Needs more cinnamon."
"Let me try," he says without thinking. Before I can react, he reaches out, takes the spoon from my hand, and tastes it. Simple. Effortless. Too natural. He hands it back.
And I… just keep using it. No pause. No hesitation. Like sharing a spoon with him is the most normal thing in the world.
Something shifts in my chest, sharp and warm all at once. It's the smallest, most insignificant act — a shared spoon — but it feels monumental. Like every small gesture has suddenly been magnified, and I can't stop noticing the rhythm of his movements, the tilt of his head, the set of his shoulders. I continue eating, but I feel the warmth of him close to me. My pulse quickens in a way that makes me nervous and exhilarated at the same time.
We finish breakfast without mentioning it, both pretending it didn't mean anything. But when I glance up at him, lips curved around that same spoon, my chest tightens. That look — subtle, fleeting — says more than words ever could. Dangerous, effortless, natural.
Later, running errands, we turn a corner, and Xander is standing a few steps away, casual like he didn't just ruin my morning. His eyes land on me first, searching, pulling, trying to claim something that isn't his anymore.
"Ana," he says carefully. "It's been a while." I straighten, polite but distant. "Xander." He tries again, words too easy, too familiar. But I only answer when spoken to, clipped, giving him nothing. Then he says it — sharp enough to catch both of us off guard. "You two… seem different."
Different. My chest tightens. I glance at Dylan, and for the briefest second, our hands brush, grounding me. That tiny, unspoken contact feels like a declaration in itself. Something Xander can't touch. Something only we share.
I repeat softly, almost to myself, "Different." I glance at Dylan. His eyes are sharp, but there's something else there — warmth, attention, intensity. Protective. Fierce. Just for me. I notice the subtle quirk of his lips, the way he exhales lightly. It makes my chest swell.
I can tell Xander notices. I see it in the subtle shift in his posture, the hesitation in his movements, like he's realizing he can't step into the space between us anymore. He doesn't know why. Neither does he know the weight of that spoon.
But I do. We both do. And we both know, without saying it aloud, that nothing he can do will change it.