Page 46 of The Wrong Man

Standing. On his own two feet, without support, without trembling. He’s pulled back the curtain and is peering through the gaps in the shutter at whatever the gray morning light is revealing. His strawberry-blond hair is mussed from sleep, sticking up at odd angles. He’s still wearing my clothes, the t-shirt hanging off one shoulder, the sweatpants pooling around his feet.

He turns when he hears me, and I brace myself for the usual flinch. The widening of his eyes, the stiffening of his shoulders, the almost imperceptible retreat.

It doesn’t come.

He looks at me steadily, those hazel eyes clear and alert in a way they haven’t been since before the pneumonia. There’s still wariness there, still a guardedness that I doubt will ever fully fade. But the raw terror is gone. The desperate, animal fear that made him look at me like I might strike at any moment.

Progress. Real progress.

“You’re up,” I say, and immediately feel stupid. Obviously he’s up. He’s standing right in front of me.

“Couldn’t sleep anymore.” His voice is stronger today. Less raspy. The congestion in his chest has cleared almost entirely. “My body is tired of being in bed.”

I set the tray on the nightstand and study him properly. The gray pallor is gone from his skin. His cheeks have a hint of colour that wasn’t there yesterday. He’s still too thin, still fragile-looking, but he no longer looks like death warmed over.

The pneumonia is gone. Actually, properly gone.

Something tight in my chest releases. I hadn’t realized how worried I was until this moment.

“How do you feel?” I ask.

Dylan considers the question seriously. “Weak. Tired. But better. Much better than yesterday.” He pauses, something flickering across his face. “Thank you. For taking care of me. You didn’t have to.”

The gratitude in his voice makes me uncomfortable. I don’t deserve it. None of what I’ve done deserves thanks.

“I’m the reason you got sick in the first place.”

“I know.” His gaze is steady. Unflinching. “But you’re also the reason I didn’t die.”

I don’t know what to say to that. The simple truth of it sits between us, undeniable and uncomfortable.

“I made breakfast,” I say instead, gesturing to the tray. “Porridge with raisins. And orange juice.”

Dylan eyes the tray with something that might almost be appetite. “It looks good.”

“You should eat. You need to rebuild your strength.”

He nods and moves toward the bed, then hesitates. “Would you...” He stops, pressing his lips together like he’s regretting the question before he’s even finished asking it.

“Would I what?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

But I’m curious now. “Tell me.”

Dylan’s cheeks flush pink. It’s the first real colour I’ve seen in his face since he arrived, and something in my chest does an odd little flip at the sight of it.

“Would you stay?” he says quietly. “While I eat? It’s...” He shakes his head, clearly embarrassed. “It’s too quiet when I’m alone.”

The request catches me off guard. He wants me to stay. He’s actually asking for my company. After everything I’ve done, after the terror I’ve inflicted, he’s asking me to sit with him while he eats breakfast.

I should say no. I should maintain distance, keep boundaries, remember that this is a captive situation and not some cozy domestic arrangement.

“Of course,” I hear myself say.

I settle into my usual chair by the bed as Dylan climbs back under the covers and reaches for the tray. He eats slowly, carefully, but with more enthusiasm than I’ve seen from him before. The raisins seem to please him. He picks them out and eats them separately, saving them for last like a child with sweets.

It’s oddly endearing.