Page 79 of The Wrong Man

“And you were right.”

“I was right.” He smiles, soft and proud. “It took a while. The first year was brutal. I’d go home and cry and wonder what I was thinking, trying to compete with all the Instagram-worthy cafes and established bakeries. But I kept at it. Kept experimenting with recipes, kept trying to make each thing better than the last. And slowly, people started talking about us. Started queuing up before we opened.”

His eyes have gone distant, lost in memory. I can picture it so clearly. Dylan in his little shop, flour on his apron, determination in his jaw despite the doubt gnawing at his insides. Building something from nothing through sheer stubbornness and talent.

“My favorite thing to make changes depending on my mood,” he continues. “Sometimes it’s bread. There’s something meditative about bread, the kneading and the waiting, and the way it transforms in the oven. Other times it’s something fiddly and technical, like choux pastry or croissants. And sometimes I just want to make a really good chocolate chip cookie, you know? Something simple and comforting.”

He stops and picks up his glass of water. He takes a sip and his throat bobs as he swallows. For some reason, I cannot look away. I’m enthralled by him.

“And honestly,” he continues. “Sometimes, when I want comfort, I just make a cup of tea and demolish half a packet of McVities dark chocolate digestives. Sean says I have the snack habits of someone’s nan, but I maintain that store-bought chocolate digestives are a perfect food and I will die on that hill.”

A smile tugs at the corner of my lips, but I don’t want to break the spell. Don’t want to do anything to disturb the happy look on Dylan’s face.

“I imagine your bakery smells amazing.” I prompt. I want to keep him mentally in his bakery for as long as I can. Evoke all of his senses.

Dylan closes his eyes. A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh it does. Mostly of butter,” he says softly. “Warm butter and sugar and yeast. Maybe a hint of cinnamon if I’ve been making morning buns. It smells like... like possibility. Like potential. Like all the things you could create if you just tried.”

When he opens his eyes, they’re shining.

“I miss it,” he admits. “I miss it so much.”

The words hit me stronger than a slap to the face. I’ve taken all of that from him. Locked him away in my pathetic flat with my horrible sofa and my desperate, growing need to keep him close.

“Dylan.” His name comes out rough. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for all of this.”

He looks at me for a long moment. Those hazel eyes searching my face, looking for something I hope he finds.

“I know,” he says finally. “I know you are.”

It’s not forgiveness. But it’s something. Something that feels like a door cracking open, just a sliver, just enough to let a little light through.

We finish eating. Dylan insists on cleaning up, gathering the containers and carrying them to the kitchen. I watch him move through my space, comfortable and familiar now, and something aches in my chest.

This afternoon, when he touched my arm, I nearly came undone. Such a small thing. The briefest press of his fingers against my skin, gone before I could fully register it. But I felt it for hours afterward. Still feel it now, a phantom warmth that won’t fade.

I want more. Want to touch him, hold him, pull him close and never let go. Want to feel his hands on my skin, his breath against my neck, his heart beating in time with mine.

But I can’t. He’s my prisoner. Whatever is growing between us, however real it feels, it’s built on a foundation of cruelty and captivity. I have no right to want him. No right to imagine a future where he’s mine by choice rather than circumstance.

Dylan returns from the kitchen and settles back onto the sofa. Closer than before, I notice. Close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I dared.

“Today was nice,” he says quietly. “The baking. The dinner. All of it.”

“It was.”

“Maybe tomorrow we could...” He trails off, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “I don’t know. Try something else? There’s a recipe in the cookbook for opera cake that I’ve always wanted to attempt. It’s complicated, layers of almond sponge and coffee buttercream and chocolate ganache. Probably beyond my skill level, but...”

“I’d like that.”

The smile he gives me is small but real. It lights up his whole face, crinkles the corners of his eyes, makes him look young and hopeful and heartbreakingly beautiful.

I would give him anything. Everything. The world, if he asked for it.

My phone buzzes.

I ignore it. Whatever it is can wait. This moment, this soft, perfect moment with Dylan smiling at me, is more important than anything else.