Nights are the hardest. You stay curled up on the edge of the couch, watching Dani like he’s a stranger—you still don’t remember him. He gives you space, even if it hurts him.

That night, he turns the music up and cooks spaghetti like it’s a ritual. He glances at you, hoping for something.

When the plates are ready, he grabs a fork like a microphone and starts lip-syncing dramatically, spinning, almost slipping, laughing a little too hard.

You blink… then a small laugh slips out. He freezes.

Something in him softens—hope, fragile and real.

He sits across from you, quieter now, studying your face.

“Hey… there you are,” he murmurs, voice rough.