Page 87 of The Wrong Man

Or maybe, just maybe, he feels something too.

I won’t know unless I take a risk. Unless I offer something real and see how he responds.

The thought terrifies me more than any job ever has.

The day passes slowly.

Dylan bakes again. Today it’s a simple Victoria sponge, nothing fancy, but the flat fills with the warm smell of vanilla and butter and I find myself drifting back to the kitchen just to watch him work.

He’s comfortable here now. Moves through the space with confidence, reaching for ingredients without having to search, adjusting the oven temperature with practiced ease. It’s become his kitchen as much as mine. Maybe more than mine, since I never used it for anything but reheating takeaway before he came.

“You’re staring,” Dylan says without turning around.

“I know.”

He glances over his shoulder, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “It’s distracting.”

“Should I leave?”

“No.” The word comes out quickly. Too quickly, maybe, because his cheeks flush and he turns back to his mixing bowl. “No, it’s fine. I don’t mind. I mean, it’s your kitchen. Your flat. You can stand wherever you want.”

I don’t point out that he just said I was distracting him. Don’t point out the contradiction between “it’s distracting” and “I don’t mind.” I just stay where I am, leaning against the doorframe, watching him fold batter with practiced precision.

“My aunt used to watch me bake,” he says after a while. “She’d sit at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and just... be there. She said she liked the company. Said it was peaceful, watching someone create something.”

“It is peaceful,” I agree.

Dylan’s hands slow for a moment. “You’re not what I expected,” he says quietly. “When I first... when all this started. I thought you were a monster. Pure evil. The kind of person who enjoys hurting people.”

My chest tightens. “I have hurt people. I do hurt people. That’s not going to change.”

“I know.” He turns to face me, mixing bowl still in his hands. “But you’re not... you’re more than that. You’re complicated. You buy me cookbooks and watch me bake and eat terrible scones without complaining.”

“The scones weren’t terrible.”

“They were a bit terrible.” A small smile. “My point is, I don’t know what to do with you. I had this idea of who you were, and you keep not fitting into it. You keep surprising me.”

“Good surprises or bad surprises?”

He considers the question seriously. “I don’t know yet. Both, maybe. It’s confusing.”

“I know the feeling.”

Our eyes meet across the small kitchen. The moment stretches, full of words neither of us is quite ready to say.

Then Dylan turns back to his baking, and I let out a slow breath.

Progress. Slow, fragile, but real.

By evening, I’ve made a decision.

It’s a small thing. Insignificant, really. But it feels momentous as I stand in the living room, trying to figure out how to phrase the invitation without sounding desperate or strange.

Dylan is curled up in the middle of the sofa, reading the cookbook I bought him. His feet are tucked underneath him, and he’s absently chewing on his lower lip as he studies a recipe. The domestic simplicity of the image makes my heart clench.

“Dylan.”

He looks up, those hazel eyes curious and open.