"One more question," I say. "What do you hope people feel when they see this cake?"
He considers for a moment. "I hope they feel seen. I hope they feel like their pain mattered, but so does their survival. I hope they feel proud of what this community has built together."
I stop recording and lower the camera, blinking back the sudden sting in my eyes.
"Dylan," I say. "That was perfect. Truly."
He shifts uncomfortably. "You’re just saying that."
"I'm not. That was honest and heartfelt and exactly what people need to hear."
He meets my eyes, and something passes between us, something warm and fragile and real.
Before either of us can say anything else, the bakery door swings open, and a woman walks in. She is probably in her early thirties, blonde, and polished in a way that suggests she put real effort into her appearance. She scans the room until her eyes land on Dylan, and her face lights up.
"Dylan!" she calls, walking toward us with purpose.
Dylan's expression shifts into something carefully neutral. "Hi, Vanessa."
Vanessa. The name lands with a weight I don't quite understand yet.
"I heard you were creating the festival showpiece," she says, stopping at the counter. "I had to come see it for myself."
"Yeah, it's coming along," Dylan says, his tone polite but guarded.
Vanessa leans over the counter to get a better look at the cake, and I notice the way her hand brushes Dylan's arm. It’s casual, yet familiar.
"It's stunning," she says. "You always did have the most talented hands."
The innuendo is not subtle, and I feel my stomach twist uncomfortably.
Dylan steps back slightly, creating a bit of distance. "Thanks, this is Piper, she is filming content for the festival."
Vanessa turns to me with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Oh, how nice. Are you visiting from out of town?"
"Just for a few weeks," I say, matching her polite tone.
"Well, Valentine is lucky to have you." She turns back to Dylan. "I was hoping we could grab coffee sometime this week, you know, to catch up."
"I'm pretty swamped with festival prep," Dylan says carefully.
"Of course, well, maybe after." She touches his arm again, and this time it lingers. "It was good to see you, Dylan."
"You too, Vanessa."
She leaves with a little wave, and the tension in Dylan's shoulders doesn't ease until the door closes behind her.
"Ex-girlfriend?" I ask, trying to keep my tone light.
"Something like that," he mutters. "We dated briefly about a year ago; it didn’t work out."
"She seems like she would like it to work out now."
He looks at me, and there is something almost apologetic in his expression. "I'm not interested in revisiting that."
"You don't owe me an explanation," I say, even though part of me is relieved to hear it.
"I know. But I want you to understand that I'm not the kind of person who keeps options open. If I'm interested in someone, that is it. I don't hedge my bets."
