The change didn't arrive all at once.
It settled slowly into the spaces Dani used to move through without thinking.
The kitchen upstairs felt smaller now when Parker was in it. The bakery felt quieter when he stepped out. Even ordinary moments carried a strange awareness she couldn't quite shake — like something unfinished lingering just beneath the surface of everything.
Nothing had happened.
That was the problem.
Dani woke early, long before the alarm, staring at the ceiling as dawn crept through the curtains. For weeks, waking early had meant preparing — anticipating pressure, planning responses.
Now her mind moved somewhere else entirely.
To the way Parker had looked at her the night before.
To the way he hadn't moved closer.
To the way she'd wanted him to.
She rolled onto her side, exhaling sharply.
This was ridiculous.
She'd faced down developers, legal pressure, and months of quiet interference without losing her footing. And now she felt unsettled because of a look.
Because of the possibility.
Downstairs, the bakery grounded her immediately. Flour, heat, routine. The familiar rhythm steadied her hands as she mixed dough, the repetitive motion pulling her back into something she understood.
Control.
By the time Parker arrived, she'd already been working for an hour.
"You're early," he said.
"So are you."
He watched her for a moment longer than usual. "You didn't sleep much."
Dani didn't look up. "I slept fine."
He didn't argue, which somehow made the lie more obvious.
The morning passed easily. Customers filled the space, conversations overlapping, the bakery alive in the comfortable way it had been before everything became complicated. Dani focused on work, grateful for the distraction.
But every time the room emptied, the awareness returned.
The silence between them wasn't strained.
It was expectant.
Around noon, Parker stepped behind the counter to help during a rush. Their movements fell into sync automatically — passing trays, finishing orders, working side by side without speaking.
At one point, their hands brushed.
Dani pulled back too quickly, knocking a spoon onto the floor.
She cursed under her breath.
Parker bent to pick it up, his voice low. "You're jumpy today."
"I'm not."
"You are."
She straightened, avoiding his eyes. "I'm just tired."
He studied her, but let it go.
That restraint again.
It should have relieved her.
Instead, it made her more aware of the distance he was deliberately maintaining.
By late afternoon, the bakery emptied completely. Sunlight stretched across the floor in long golden lines, dust motes drifting lazily through the air.
Dani wiped down the counter slowly, buying time she didn't need.
"You're doing it again," Parker said.
"Doing what?"
"Staying busy so you don't have to talk."
She sighed, setting the cloth down. "You always notice."
"That's part of the problem, isn't it?"
She looked at him then, surprised by the softness in his voice.
"Yes," she admitted quietly. "It is."
The honesty hung between them.
Parker leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely. "You don't have to explain anything."
"I know."
"But you want to."
Dani hesitated.
Because he was right again.
"I don't know how to do this part," she said finally.
"What part?"
"The part where nothing is wrong," she replied. "And things still feel complicated."
He nodded slowly. "Because now it matters."
Her chest tightened.
"Yes."
Silence settled, heavier this time.
Dani forced herself to continue. "When everything was falling apart, it was easy. We had roles. You helped. I resisted. We knew where we stood."
"And now?"
"Now I don't know if I'm holding on because it's familiar," she said, voice quieter, "or because I want something more."
Parker didn't move closer.
Didn't interrupt.
He just listened.
That, more than anything, made her continue.
"I've spent so long protecting this place," she said, gesturing around the bakery. "Protecting myself. I don't know how to let something in without wondering what it costs."
His expression softened. "Not everything is a negotiation, Dani."
She laughed softly. "Everything has been lately."
"Yes," he said. "But this doesn't have to be."
The word lingered between them, unspoken but understood.
Dani swallowed. "And if I get it wrong?"
"You won't," Parker said quietly.
"How do you know?"
"Because you're not rushing."
She searched his face, looking for certainty, for pressure, for expectation.
There was none.
Only patience.
Always patience.
The realization hit her suddenly.
"You're waiting for me," she said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
He hesitated, just long enough to make the answer matter.
"Because you deserve to choose without feeling cornered," he said.
Her breath caught.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The distance between them felt smaller than it actually was.
Dani stepped closer without meaning to, drawn more by instinct than decision. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, close enough that the air shifted again.
This time, she didn't step back immediately.
Parker's voice dropped slightly. "Dani…"
Not a warning.
A question.
Her heart pounded, every instinct split between caution and want.
She lifted her hand halfway, then stopped herself, letting it fall again.
"I'm not ready to rush this," she said softly.
"I know."
"But I don't want to pretend it isn't there either."
His gaze held hers steadily. "Neither do I."
The moment stretched — intense, fragile, unfinished.
Then Dani exhaled and stepped away, breaking the tension before it tipped into something irreversible.
"Tomorrow's going to be busy," she said, almost apologetically.
Parker smiled faintly. "It usually is."
That night, lying awake, Dani understood something she hadn't before.
The fight had never really been about keeping people out.
It had been about making sure the right person could come in without changing who she was.
And now that door was open.
Not fully.
Not yet.
But enough.
Downstairs, the bakery rested in darkness, unchanged.
Upstairs, Dani finally closed her eyes, heart steady but restless.
The next step wasn't about pressure or survival.
It was about trust.
And trust, she realized, moved more slowly than anything else worth keeping.