The problem with close quarters wasn't the lack of space.
It was awareness.
Dani Clark became acutely aware of Parker Grayson the moment the bakery door locked behind them at midnight, and the quiet settled in like a held breath.
The ovens ticked softly as they cooled. Sugar hung in the air. Outside, Franklin Square slept, unaware that something precarious was unfolding behind pink-painted walls.
They hadn't planned to be alone this late.
That made it worse.
"I didn't ask you to stay," Dani said, breaking the silence.
Parker leaned against the prep table, jacket off, sleeves rolled up. "You didn't ask me to leave."
She shot him a look. "You're pushing it."
"Not intentionally."
She turned back to the counter, reorganizing trays that didn't need reorganizing.
"That's what worries me."
He watched her hands—steady, practiced, precise. Everything about her work was controlled. Purposeful. Even now, when fatigue tugged at her shoulders.
"Your numbers improved today," Parker said.
"Because you scared people."
He didn't deny it. "Because people listen."
"That doesn't mean they respect me."
"They do."
"They respect you," Dani countered. "I just benefit."
He straightened slightly. "That's not fair."
"Neither is leverage."
The word lingered between them.
Parker exhaled slowly. "You knew what this was."
"Yes," she said. "I just didn't realize how much space you'd take up."
That wasn't an accusation.
It was an admission.
They stood there, the distance between them narrow enough to feel heat, wide enough to obey rules.
"No touching," Dani reminded quietly.
"I know."
Neither moved.
The next morning started badly.
A delivery truck was late. A batch of cupcakes collapsed in on themselves. Dani snapped at a customer and apologized immediately afterward.
By ten a.m., she was running on caffeine and stubbornness alone.
Parker showed up mid-morning, a folder under his arm.
"I said you help when I ask," she said without looking up.
"I know," he replied calmly. "You asked for this yesterday."
She paused. "I did?"
"Yes. You said you'd look at projections if I brought them."
She sighed. "I forgot."
"I remembered."
That softened her more than it should have.
They sat at the back table, shoulder to shoulder, reviewing numbers. Parker pointed. Dani corrected. They disagreed. They adjusted.
At one point, she laughed—short and surprised.
"What?" he asked.
"You're good at this."
"I do this for a living."
"No," she said. "You're good at listening."
That caught him off guard.
"Most people don't," she added. "They talk over me. Assume."
"I don't assume," he said.
"No," she agreed quietly. "You negotiate."
Their eyes met.
Something tightened.
She looked away first.
By afternoon, the shop was packed.
A local fundraiser order came through—last-minute, large, urgent.
Dani didn't hesitate. "We'll do it."
Parker raised an eyebrow. "That's ambitious."
"That's survival."
They worked side by side again. Faster this time. Closer.
Heat built—not just from the ovens.
At one point, Dani reached for a tray just as Parker lifted it. Their fingers brushed.
Both froze.
"No touching," she said, breath shallow.
"I didn't mean—"
"I know."
Neither pulled away immediately.
Then Dani stepped back, pulse racing.
"Careful."
"I am."
He sounded strained.
Good.
That night, the power flickered.
Then darkness swallowed the back of the shop.
"Great," Dani muttered.
Parker pulled out his phone, the flashlight casting long shadows along the walls.
"Breaker's in the back."
"I know."
They moved through the narrow hallway together, close enough that she could feel him behind her, matching her steps.
The breaker clicked.
Lights returned.
They didn't move.
The air felt thick. Charged.
"This is a mistake," Dani said quietly.
"Yes," Parker agreed.
"Say it again."
"This is a mistake."
She turned.
They stood inches apart now.
No touching. No crossing lines. Just breath, heat, and restraint.
"If we weren't doing this," Dani said, "this would be simpler."
"No," Parker said softly. "It would just be different."
That unsettled her.
She stepped back first.
Later, after Parker left, Dani sat alone at the back table, staring at the engagement ring she'd removed hours earlier.
She hated how much space he occupied in her thoughts.
She hated that the proposition worked.
That she needed it.
That she wanted him gone—and present—at the same time.
Across town, Parker stood in his hotel room, replaying the moment in the hallway.
The way she'd turned.
The way she hadn't told him to leave.
This wasn't a desire.
Not yet.
It was tension.
And tension was far more dangerous.
The next day brought rain.
And with it, problems.
A supplier called to say they were reconsidering terms.
Dani closed her eyes. "Why?"
"They're concerned about stability."
She glanced at Parker, who stood nearby but said nothing.
"Tell them I'll call back," she said.
After the call, she exhaled sharply. "This is what I mean."
"About what?"
"Everything hinging on perception."
"They're nervous," Parker said. "That's normal."
"No," Dani snapped. "They're testing me."
"Us," he corrected.
She shook her head. "This isn't us. This is me surviving with your name attached."
"That's the deal," he said quietly.
"I know."
She just didn't like how much it hurt.
That night, Dani stayed late again.
She didn't text Parker.
He showed up anyway.
"You're pushing it," she said.
"So are you."
They stood across from each other, exhaustion stripping away pretense.
"I don't want this to change me," Dani said.
"It won't."
"You don't know that."
"I know you," he said.
She laughed softly. "You know this version of me."
"That's enough."
"No," she said firmly. "It isn't."
Silence fell.
"You should go," she said.
He didn't argue.
At the door, he paused. "You're holding your ground."
"I have to."
"I respect that."
She nodded.
After he left, Dani locked the door and leaned against it, heart pounding.
She was holding the line.
Barely.
Dani didn't realize how thin the line was between help and dependence until she tried to imagine the shop without Parker in it.
Not emotionally.
Logistically.
She stood behind the counter one afternoon, staring at a list of tasks she'd mentally assigned him without meaning to.
Calls he'd offered to make.
Numbers he understood better than she did.
Permits he navigated effortlessly.
The realization unsettled her.
She crossed his name off the mental list, replacing it with her own.
When Parker arrived later that day, she handed him an apron before he could speak.
"What's this?" he asked.
"Boundaries," she replied. "You help where it makes sense. Not everywhere."
He took the apron anyway. "Fair."
They worked in silence again, but this time Dani felt the difference.
She was more alert. More deliberate.
Watching herself as much as she watched him.
"You're pulling back," Parker said eventually.
"I'm recalibrating."
"That sounds like retreat."
"It's not," she said firmly. "It's ownership."
He nodded slowly. "Then I'll follow your lead."
She eyed him. "You don't strike me as someone who follows."
"I do," he said. "When it matters."
That stayed with her longer than she wanted it to.
The bakery stayed busy, but the pressure didn't lift.
A regular asked—too casually—how long Dani planned to stay open "with everything going on." Another joked about wedding cupcakes. Someone else asked if the shop would move somewhere nicer after the marriage.
Each comment landed like a small crack.
After closing, Dani sank onto a stool, rubbing her temples.
"This is what I meant," she said quietly.
Parker leaned against the opposite counter. "Say it."
"My life isn't just intersecting with yours," Dani said. "It's being reframed by it."
He didn't argue.
"That's dangerous."
"Yes."
"And you're okay with that?"
"No," he said. "But I accept it."
She looked up sharply. "Those aren't the same."
"I know."
Silence settled between them.
"I don't want to be someone people speculate about," Dani said. "I want to be someone they trust."
"They already do."
"Not for the right reasons."
He studied her carefully. "Then we control the reasons."
She scoffed. "You really think control solves everything."
"No," Parker replied. "But it buys time."
"That's what the proposition really is, isn't it?" she asked. "Time."
"Yes."
"And what happens when time runs out?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"That," he said finally, "is when we see what was actually built."
The answer chilled her more than it comforted her.
That night, Dani stayed late again—intentionally this time.
She needed to prove to herself she could handle the pressure without leaning on Parker's presence.
She could.
Barely.
When she finally locked up and stepped outside, rain misted the square, streetlights reflecting across wet pavement.
Parker stood across the street, phone pressed to his ear, posture tense.
He hadn't known she'd see him.
When he hung up, their eyes met.
She crossed slowly.
"You said you wouldn't come unless I asked."
"I didn't," he replied. "I was leaving."
She studied his face. "You were watching."
"Yes."
"Why?"
He didn't deflect. "Because I wanted to know if you'd be okay."
"And?"
"You were."
That mattered.
She nodded once. "Then go."
He did.
But the space he left behind felt heavier than his presence had.
Dani stood there a long moment, rain soaking through her jacket, heart pounding—not with desire, but with restraint.
She was holding the line.
But lines, she was learning, weren't meant to last forever.