The scent of chocolate chips and burnt sugar still lingers in the air from Parker and Hardison's disastrous baking attempt yesterday. I'd expected to feel irritated by the kitchen disaster they'd created - flour coating every surface, something unidentifiable congealing on the stove, my grandmother's Dutch oven requiring a thorough scrubbing after their failed cake attempt.

Instead, I'd found myself smiling as I cleaned, remembering Parker's covered-in-batter enthusiasm and Hardison's defensive insistence that "creaming butter is a marketing scam."

Now they're both sprawled on the couch in the main room, supposedly going over security specs for tomorrow's job but actually bickering over something on Hardison's tablet. Their legs are tangled together in a casual intimacy that still catches me off guard sometimes.

I lean against the kitchen doorway, watching them with a warmth in my chest I'm still getting used to feeling. The morning light catches Parker's hair where it falls across Hardison's shoulder as she peers at his screen. He says something that makes her laugh - a genuine, unrestrained sound that echoes through the room.

My phone buzzes in my pocket with Sophie's text: "Saw the kitchen. They care about you. When are you going to stop being an idiot and notice?"

Heat rises in my cheeks. Maybe it's time to stop hiding behind recipe cards and unspoken gestures. Maybe it's time to actually say something. I push away from the doorframe and cross the room toward them, the floorboards creaking under my weight.