"It's just a cake," he replies, but I can hear the pride in his voice.
"It's art," I correct. "And it's going to mean everything to this town."
He pauses and looks at me, and the moment stretches between us, warm and charged.
"You make me believe that," he says quietly. "You make me believe a lot of things I stopped believing in."
"Like what?" I ask.
"Like second chances," he says. "Like the idea that maybe the future doesn't have to be something I just survive. Maybe it can be something I actually look forward to."
My throat tightens. "Dylan."
Before I can finish, the bakery door opens, and a woman walks in. She’s older, probably in her sixties, with kind eyes and a warm smile.
"Dylan," she says. "I heard you were finishing the festival cake today. I had to come see it."
Dylan straightens, wiping his hands on his apron. "Mrs. Patterson. Of course. Come take a look."
The woman walks over to the cake and gasps. Her hand flies to her mouth, and I see tears well up in her eyes.
"Oh, Dylan," she breathes. "It’s beautiful."
"Thank you," he says gently.
"My husband would’ve loved this," she says, her voice thick with emotion. "He always said this town would rise again. He believed it even when the rest of us could not."
I realize with a jolt that she must have lost her husband in the fires.
Dylan steps around the table and takes her hand. "Tom was a good man, this cake is for him, too, it’s for everyone we lost."
She squeezes his hand, tears streaming down her face. "Thank you. Thank you for remembering."
They stand there for a moment, two people united by grief and survival, and I feel my own tears threatening to spill over.
After Mrs. Patterson leaves, Dylan returns to the cake, but I can see the weight of the moment settling over him.
"You did a good thing," I say softly.
"I just made a cake," he replies.
"You gave her hope," I correct. "You reminded her that the people she lost mattered. That is more than just a cake."
He looks at me, and I see the emotion swimming in his eyes.
"Come here," he says quietly.
I set down my camera and walk over to him. He pulls me into his arms, and I feel him take a shaky breath.
"I don't know what I did to deserve you," he murmurs against my hair.
"You didn't have to do anything," I say. "You just had to be you."
He holds me tighter, and I let him, understanding that sometimes people just need to be held.
When he finally pulls back, there is a determination in his eyes that was not there before.
"I'm not letting you go," he says. "I don't care if that is too much too soon. I'm not letting you walk away from this."
