Page 48 of The Wrong Man

“What happens now?” he asks.

The question is simple. The answer is anything but.

“Now you rest. Eat. Recover your strength.” I hesitate, then add, “The construction crew is coming tomorrow to start the soundproofing. You’ll need to stay in the bedroom while they’re here. They can’t see you.”

He nods, accepting this without argument. “And after?”

After. I haven’t let myself think about after. About what kind of life we might build in this strange situation, what kind of routine we might establish.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “We’ll figure it out.”

It’s not much of an answer. But Dylan seems to accept it. He settles back against the pillows, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Okay,” he says softly. “We’ll figure it out.”

We. Such a small word. Such a monumental shift.

I sit in my chair and watch him, and I let myself feel it. The warmth. The relief. The dangerous, wonderful pleasure of not being alone.

Whatever comes next, whatever complications arise, this moment is enough. This quiet morning with porridge and raisins and a man who should hate me but doesn’t.

It’s more than I ever expected to have.

It’s more than I deserve.

Chapter fifteen

Dylan

Iwake to the sound of him moving around in the kitchen, the soft clatter of dishes and the whistle of a kettle. For a long moment I just lie here, listening. Letting the sounds wash over me. Ordinary sounds. Domestic sounds. The kind of sounds I used to wake to when I lived with Aunt Moira.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

Dante appears in the doorway with a tray. Porridge again, but this time with sliced banana on top. He must have gone out early to buy them. The thought does something strange to my chest.

“You’re awake,” he says, and there’s something almost shy in his voice. Like he’s not sure of his welcome. Like he’s waiting for permission to enter his own bedroom.

“I’m awake,” I confirm, pushing myself up against the pillows.

He brings the tray over and sets it on my lap with that careful precision he brings to everything. Our fingers brush during the transfer. He pulls back quickly, as if burned.

“I thought we could try something different today,” he says, settling into his usual chair. “If you’re feeling up to it.”

“Different how?”

“The construction crew finished yesterday. The soundproofing is complete.” He pauses, something flickering in his dark eyes. “I thought you might like to see the rest of the apartment. Get out of this room for a while.”

I think about the last time I explored his flat. The panic attack that left me shaking and gasping on the floor. The hours I spent curled under the covers, trying to forget what I’d seen.

But Dante doesn’t know about that. And I’m not going to tell him.

“That would be nice,” I say, picking up my spoon. “I’m going a bit mad staring at these four walls.”

Something eases in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or hope.

I eat my porridge slowly, watching him through my lashes. He’s tired. I can see it in the shadows under his eyes, the slight slump of his shoulders. He slept on that horrible sofa again last night.

Part of me wants to tell him he can have the bed back. That I could sleep on the sofa instead, or that we could take turns, or something.