She studies me. Silent. Her head tilts to one side, and I observe her gaze move over my face like she's reading something written there in a language I don't speak.
"You look like you're waiting for someone to attack you," she says finally.
The words land like a punch. "I'm relaxed."
"You're terrifying."
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. Not anger. Shame. The bitter kind that tastes like failure. I thought I was doing it right. Thought I'd managed to soften the edges, blur the predator lines. But she sees through it. Sees the fighter underneath, the one who knows that standing still just makes you an easier target.
I can't unlearn survival. Can't rewire instincts beaten into bone and blood.
"I don't know how to look any other way," I admit. The truth scrapes my throat raw.
I slump. Defeated. "This won't work. People will come to the fundraiser and see exactly what Vance wants them to see. A threat. An outsider."
"Hey." She touches my arm. Light. Grounding. "They'll see what I see. Someone who's trying. Someone who cares. That's enough."
"What if it's not?"
"Then we try something else. But we don't give up."
The certainty in her voice steadies me. Makes me believe, just for a second, that maybe she's right.
"When's the fundraiser?" I ask.
"This weekend. Gives us three days to prepare. Spread the word. Bake enough pastries to feed half the town."
"I can help. With baking."
She raises an eyebrow. "Can you?"
"I can follow instructions."
"Baking's precise. Measurements matter. You crushed my hand with a handshake."
"I'll be gentle with the flour."
She laughs. Real this time. Bright. "Okay. Fine. Tomorrow we bake. Tonight we rest. Process. Figure out what documents we need to fight Vance's claim."
I nod. But remain still.
We stand there. Close. Her hand still on my arm. The café quiet around us except for Pebble's purring.
"Thank you," I say. "For believing me. For fighting."
"You don't have to thank me for basic decency."
"Yes I do. People don't usually—" I stop. Swallow. Start again. "You're different. Good different."
Her eyes soften. "You're different too."
The air thickens. Charged. Heavy with things we aren’t saying.
I should step back. Give her space. Keep this professional. Friendly.
Instead I lift my hand. Brush a streak of flour from her cheek. Her skin's warm. Soft.
Her breath catches sharp and sudden, like I've stolen the air right out of her lungs.
