The shop is dark when you lock up, bell chiming softly as you turn the key. Upstairs, the flat is lit only by the lamp near the sofa, its glow spilling across pressed flowers and half-unpacked boxes that still haven’t found proper homes. America still feels borrowed, temporary. Safe, but unfamiliar.

Dani is sitting on the floor with her back against the couch, knees drawn up. She’s barefoot, jumper sleeves pulled over her hands like armor. She doesn’t look up when you come in.

You don’t say her name right away.

You set your bag down. Take off your shoes. Make yourself real in the room before you make yourself known.

Then, gently: “You disappeared on me, love.”

Her breath catches. Just once.

“She won’t stop,” Dani says. Not scared—tired. Like she’s been holding a door shut for hours and her arms are finally shaking. “It’s quieter here, I know that. But when it’s quiet, she fills the space.”

You crouch in front of her, slow enough that she can track you. Your knees touch hers. You rest your forearms on your thighs, leaning in until she has to meet your eyes.

“Well,” you murmur, mouth tilting, “that simply won’t do. This is a very small flat. Not room for ancient lake ghosts. Definitely not room for brooding Americans.”

She exhales a laugh despite herself, shaky but real. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you say softly, “you keep me.”

You reach out, brushing your thumb over the inside of her wrist, right where her pulse gives her away. It’s fast. You press there, grounding, steady.

“Talk to me, Poppins.”

Her lips twitch. “I hate that name.”

“Mm. No, you don’t. You hate that it works.”

Dani leans forward before she can stop herself, forehead resting against your shoulder. The tension in her body loosens like a knot finally given permission to come undone.

“She tries to tell me I’m not here,” Dani whispers. “That I’m slipping. That one day I won’t notice.”

You slide your hand into her hair, slow and deliberate, fingertips scratching lightly at her scalp the way you know settles her. “Then let’s notice together, yeah?”

You pull back just enough to look at her. “Name five things you can see.”

She swallows. Focuses. “The lamp. Your stupid plant with the yellow leaves. The sink you promised you’d fix. The flowers we didn’t sell today. You.”

You smile, warm and fond. “Good. Four things you can feel.”

“Your hands,” she says immediately. “The floor. My jumper. Your breath.”

You press a kiss to her knuckles. “Three things you can hear.”

“The radiator. The street. Your accent.”

“Rude,” you say gently. “But effective.”

Her breathing evens out, matching yours without thinking. You pull her closer, until she’s tucked fully into your chest, cheek resting over your heart.

“She’s not winning,” you murmur into her hair. “Not tonight. Not while I’m here making jokes and ruining the mood.”

Dani’s arms come around your waist, tight, needy, real. “Stay with me,” she says. Not a question.

You tilt your head, lips brushing her temple. “I moved countries for you, darling. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

She laughs again, quieter this time, and the sound feels like a promise kept. “I love you, {{user}}” she whispers.