Hattie’s breath hitched, a fragile, broken sound that caught in her throat. The contrast was dizzying, yet perfectly Declan: the raw, bruising command followed instantly by a touch so reverent it felt like absolution. She was held, not trapped, her hands now gently imprisoned by his above her head, their fingers tightly laced. This was the love she knew, filtered through the dominance she needed—a profound tenderness wrapped in irresistible force.

When he buried his face in her neck, tasting her pulse point, the world narrowed down to the heat of his breath and the low, velvet promise that he would give her everything she wanted. She believed him entirely. This slower, agonizing pace was a discipline, a test of her endurance, but it also forced her to feel every fraction of his worship.

His thumb working its slow, maddening circle at her heat was exquisite torture. She arched helplessly under the contact, her mind floating on the edge of incoherence as the sensation built, pure and agonizing. She couldn't track his movements, couldn't follow the logistics of the room or the state of his uniform. All that existed was the heavy, perfect pressure of his body against hers, the scent of his skin, and the overwhelming presence of his hands.

The shock of his entrance—deep and slow, filling her completely—was so perfect it felt like a homecoming. It wasn't a sudden invasion; it was a devastating, controlled possession that stretched and encompassed her, making a tight, grateful moan escape her lips. She was completely sheathed in him, bound by his heavy, rolling rhythm that claimed all her awareness.

She focused on his face, eyes wide and glistening, obeying the soft, unwavering command to stay with him. When he released one of her hands to frame her jaw, his touch was impossibly gentle, his thumb catching the tear that betrayed the intensity of the sensation. She kissed the heel of his hand, a soft, devoted pressure against his scarred palm.

His other hand drifted to her breast, cupping her weight with an attention that felt sacred, his thumb brushing over her peak in time with the hypnotic, heavy glide of his body inside hers. Each slow, deep thrust was an affirmation: I’m inside you, I’m holding you... there is no part of you that isn't mine right now.
When she tried to rush, her hips stuttering, his pressure on her breast was a firm, grounding anchor, forcing her back into the slow burn. She trusted his pace, trusted his control, and she pressed her face into his shoulder, finding the junction of his neck and collarbone, kissing the damp skin there with a desperate, hungry gratitude.

As he shifted slightly, her currently free hand—the one not being pinned and kissed—slid immediately up from the pillow. Driven by the deep, physical desire to feel more of the man who was currently possessing her so completely, her fingers slipped under the rough cotton of his shirt. Her palm flattened against the wide, muscular expanse of his back, feeling the sweat-slicked warmth and the tense, glorious flex of the muscles there, a silent, loving appreciation for the magnificent strength currently holding her down and taking her apart. Her moans turned into broken whispers of his name against his skin.

"I love you, Declan," she managed to whisper, the words a raw, choked confession ripped from her chest and pressed into his shoulder, the most honest and tender thing she could offer in the midst of his dark possession.

The words, whispered raggedly against his skin, hit him harder than the physical pleasure, harder than the adrenaline of the shift he’d just survived. They landed like a brand, searing through the haze of exhaustion and lust to strike the very center of his chest.

He stopped moving for a single, heavy heartbeat, his breath leaving him in a sharp rush. The combination of her emotional confession and the sudden, searing heat of her palm sliding under his shirt to touch his bare back was nearly his undoing. He arched into her touch instinctively, his muscles rippling under her hand as he chased the contact, needing that skin-to-skin connection as much as he needed to breathe.

"God, Hattie," he groaned, the sound vibrating deep in his chest against hers.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he let his forehead drop heavily onto her shoulder, turning his face to press a fierce, open-mouthed kiss to the curve of her neck, right over her pulse. He stayed there for a moment, just breathing her in, letting the reality of her love wash away the grit of the outside world.

But he was a man starving, and the feel of her beneath him—so wet, so tight, so perfectly molded to him—was driving him to the brink. He lifted his head slowly, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, drinking in the sight of her flushed face.

"I love you," he returned, his voice rough with an intensity that bordered on pain. "I love you so much it scares the hell out of me sometimes."

He shifted his hips, resuming that slow, devastating rhythm, but this time he let himself be selfish with it. He ground down hard, dragging himself along the sensitive interior of her, letting his eyes roll back for a fraction of a second as the pleasure spiked, sharp and blinding. He needed this friction, this heat. He bit his lip to stifle a roar of satisfaction, the cords in his neck straining.

"You feel..." He couldn't finish the sentence, the sensation stealing his vocabulary. He moved deeper, stretching her, filling her, taking a moment to just bask in the incredible feeling of being inside the woman who owned him. He reached down, his hand sliding from her breast to grip her waist, his thumb digging in possessively as he held her still for his thrust.

"Don't stop touching me," he ordered, a breathless plea wrapped in a command. He rolled his hips again, a long, languid stroke that was as much for his own pleasure as it was for hers. "Keep your hands on me. Feel what you do to me. I need you to feel how much I need this."

He moved with the slow, inevitable certainty of a tide, withdrawing almost to the point of loss before sinking back in, filling her with a heavy, deliberate thrust that claimed every inch of her depth. He kept his eyes open, refusing to close them even as the pleasure rolled through him in dizzying waves. He needed to see this. He needed to see her.

"God, look at you," he breathed, the words a rough whisper of worship.

He shifted his weight onto one forearm, bracing himself so he could look down at her chest. The moonlight washed over her pale skin, turning her into marble and shadow, but she was warm, so incredibly warm and alive beneath him. His gaze traced the slope of her breasts, rising and falling with her ragged breath, the peaks hardened and begging for attention. She was perfect. A soft, yielding contrast to the hard lines and rough edges of his own existence.

"So beautiful," he murmured, shaking his head slightly as if he couldn't quite believe she was real, couldn't quite believe she was his.

He lowered his head slowly, never breaking the hypnotic, grinding rhythm of his hips. He drifted closer, his breath ghosting over her skin, making her shiver, before he finally closed the distance. He didn't bite; he soothed. He opened his mouth and dragged his tongue over one tight, rosy nipple, a long, wet, and agonizingly slow stroke that mimicked the movement of his body inside her.

He felt her arch up into his mouth, a silent plea for more, and a low, possessive rumble vibrated in his throat against her wet skin.

While his mouth lavished attention on one peak, laving and teasing it until it was glistening and sensitive, his free hand moved to the other. His large, calloused palm cupped the soft weight of her breast, his fingers kneading the flesh with a gentle, rhythmic squeeze. His thumb brushed back and forth over the other nipple, creating a dual assault on her senses that he knew would drive her mad.

He pulled back just an inch, his lips wet and swollen, his eyes dark with a mixture of hunger and adoration.

"I could do this for hours," he promised, his voice thick. He pushed into her again, grinding deep and holding there, letting her feel the fullness of him while his thumb continued its wicked work on her breast. "Just watching you... tasting you. You’re the only thing that makes sense to me right now."

The low, guttural confession of his love was a physical force, tightening the knot of yearning in Hattie’s chest until it ached with a pure, fierce devotion. She felt the heavy pause, the sharp intake of his breath, and the sudden, overwhelming pressure of his forehead against her shoulder—a beautiful, desperate surrender to her touch. Her own hand, still flattened against the sweaty, muscular expanse of his back, instinctively dug in, holding him there, anchoring the man who felt like he was floating away.

​She followed him when he lifted his head, kissing the damp skin of his neck and jaw wherever her mouth could reach, murmuring small, incoherent sounds of worship against his stubble. When he resumed the rhythm, letting himself be selfish with it, the slow, deep grind was a language she understood completely.

Every millimeter of his withdrawal and his deep, claiming return was a sensual, loving echo of the promise they’d just made. She felt every inch of him, the glorious, deliberate friction, the warmth of his core pressed against hers, and she savored the fact that he was moving for his pleasure, too, that she was capable of eliciting this kind of raw, necessary need from him.

​Her free hand, emboldened by his plea, "Don't stop touching me," abandoned his back and began to roam. Her fingertips traveled up the taut cords of his neck, feeling the rapid, frantic pulse beneath his skin, before tangling themselves in the sweat-dampened hair at the back of his head, gently urging him closer. She massaged his scalp, letting the movement speak of her adoration and her deep, intimate knowledge of his weariness.

​When he lowered his head, his mouth claiming one of her sensitive peaks, the sensation stole her breath. The long, wet drag of his tongue, timed perfectly with the slow, deep thrust of his hips, overloaded her senses. She moaned, arching her back into the contact, blindly chasing the delicious torment of his mouth.

​Her other hand slid down, pressing flat against the hard curve of his side, then down the slope of his spine. When he drove deep, burying himself to the hilt, she seized the moment. Her hand dropped low, finding the powerful, muscled curve of his ass cheek. She gripped him fiercely, her fingers digging possessively into the firm flesh, holding him locked deep inside of her for a breathtaking moment, trying to pull him further than physics would allow, a sensual demand to remain filled by him forever.

​“Perfect,” she breathed, the word a ragged sigh pressed against his shoulder as his thumb continued its wicked, rhythmic circle on her other peak. “This is the only place I ever want to be.”

​The slow, heavy momentum of his body was building a desperate ache deep inside her. The dual, focused attention on her breasts—his warm, wet mouth pulling gently on one peak while his skilled thumb rolled and teased the other—was an electric current, drawing a tight, coiling tension into the pit of her stomach. She clung to the sheer size and solidity of him, burying her face against his neck, finding comfort and fire in the same embrace. She let her fingers dance across the tense plane of his upper back, savoring the way his muscles jumped and flexed beneath her touch with every deliberate, claiming stroke.

​Each time he sank back in, the pressure was thicker, heavier, and more complete, pushing her closer to a tipping point she hadn't known existed. She squeezed her inner muscles tight around him, a silent plea for release, for him to break his control. She twisted her head on the pillow, seeking his ear, and whispered, desperate and choked, “Please, I can’t take this slowness much longer, my love.”

The whisper against his ear was the final fracture in his restraint. Declan had been holding onto the edges of his control by a thread, trying to make the moment last, trying to savor the worship of her body, but Hattie’s plea—choked and desperate—shattered his resolve.

The vibration of her voice and the sudden, possessive clamp of her internal muscles around him flipped a switch deep in his brain. The primal beast he’d been keeping on a leash roared to life, hungry and unconcerned with patience.

He groaned, a rough, vibrating sound against her skin, and lifted his head. His eyes, dark and blown wide with adrenaline, locked onto hers.

"You want it fast?" he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, stripped of any pretense of gentleness. "You want me to ruin you, Hattie?"

He didn't wait for an answer; her body was already screaming it.
He withdrew almost completely, the friction maddening, before snapping his hips forward, burying himself inside her with a sudden, jarring force that knocked the breath from her lungs. The slow, grinding rhythm was gone, replaced by a hard, hammering tempo that sought to fuse them together.

His hands left her breasts, sliding down to grip her hips with bruising intensity. He dug his fingers into her soft flesh, anchoring her against the mattress to meet the force of his thrusts. Every drive was a collision, a claiming, pushing deeper than he had dared before.

"I can't hold back," he growled, sweat dripping from his brow onto her chest. "Not anymore. Take it. Take all of it."

He lowered his head, not to kiss her gently, but to capture her mouth in a searing, devouring kiss, his tongue mirroring the savage, relentless piston of his hips. He gave in completely to the roughness she craved, driving into her with a fierce, unchecked power, needing to feel her unravel beneath him, needing to know that this storm he was unleashing was exactly what she needed to survive him.

He broke the kiss, gasping for air, needing to see the wreck he was making of her. His hands slid from her hips to hook under her knees, shoving them upward and back toward her shoulders. The position left her completely open to him, exposed and vulnerable, and he took full advantage, snapping his hips to drive into her with a depth that made her eyes roll back.

There was no rhythm now, only a frantic, piston-like necessity. He watched her face contort, her lips parted in a silent scream of pleasure, and the sight was fuel on the fire raging in his blood. He felt the sharp sting of her nails raking down his shoulders, scoring his skin, and he welcomed the pain. It grounded him, a physical testament to how desperate they both were.

"That’s it," he gritted out, his voice a guttural growl between labored breaths. "Take every inch."

He slammed into her again and again, the sound of their bodies colliding filling the room—wet, sharp, and erotic. He was lost to the sensation of her tight, wet heat sheathing him, squeezing him with every contraction of her body. The control he prided himself on was obliterated. He was a man possessed, driving toward the precipice with blind, reckless fury.

He felt the tremors start in her legs, felt the way her inner muscles clamped down on him like a vice, signaling her release. The sensation snapped the last tether of his endurance.

"Hattie," he roared, the name torn from his throat.

He didn't slow down. He drove harder, faster, chasing her over the edge. When her cry shattered the air and her body bowed off the mattress in the throes of her climax, he followed her instantly. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his body seizing in a violent, powerful shudder as he poured himself into her, spending every ounce of his energy, his love, and his soul into the woman beneath him.

The scream that ripped from her lips was barely her own, a raw, elemental sound swallowed by the sheets and the force of his body. Hattie felt the world dissolve into a kaleidoscope of heat, light, and blinding sensation as the powerful convulsions seized her, squeezing him tight in a series of deep, shuddering internal spasms. It was a complete, agonizing obliteration of self, and she clung to his shoulders, feeling the rough trails of her own fingernails on his skin, a physical mark of her complete unraveling.

The moment of his own completion hit her like a secondary wave. She felt the massive, violent shudder that tore through his frame, the guttural roar of her name against her throat, and then the heavy, beautiful warmth that flooded her depths. His body seized and pulsed, a deep, rhythmic throbbing that pushed his seed fully into her, filling the space he had just conquered. The feeling was profound—not just of release, but of belonging, of being truly filled and possessed by the man she loved.

Then came the collapse. His weight, previously held aloft by sheer adrenaline, dropped like a stone. He came down on top of her, crushing her into the mattress, his breath sawing raggedly into the curve of her neck. He was heavy, sweat-drenched, and utterly spent, his heart hammering against her chest like a trapped, frantic drum. The roughness was gone, replaced by the complete, vulnerable weight of the man who relied on her to bring him back to earth.

For a long, silent minute, they were simply two exhausted bodies fused together, barely breathing. The silence in the room was immense, shattered only by their mutual, gasping attempts to regain air. The scent of sweat, sex, and lingering smoke from his uniform was thick, a visceral reminder of the storm they had just weathered.

As the frantic shaking subsided and the sharp edges of pleasure softened into a warm, heavy contentment, Hattie slowly became aware of her limbs. She was completely trapped beneath him, yet she felt perfectly safe. She lifted the hand that had raked his back and let her fingers tangle tenderly in the damp hair at the back of his neck. Her other hand, which had been beneath his side, crept up his spine, tracing the powerful, exhausted line of his muscles.

She lowered her head slightly and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his temple, then another to the crown of his head, treating him like a fragile, precious thing. She dragged her palm gently down his back, a smoothing motion meant to soothe the raw space her nails had created.

She let out a slow, satisfied breath, the sound muffled against his damp shoulder.

“My beautiful, reckless darling,” she murmured, her voice thick with adoration. “You always come home to me.”

The house felt different in that satisfying, slightly unfamiliar way it always did after you’d moved things around—like the walls had exhaled.

Hattie stood in the middle of their living room with her hands on her hips, taking it in. The rug had been rotated. The armchair that used to live by the window was now angled toward the couch like it actually wanted to participate. Declan had shifted the bookshelf an inch to the left—an inch that somehow made the whole room look cleaner, more intentional, like a page finally lined up with the margin.

There was a faint lemony bite in the air from whatever cleaner she’d insisted on using, layered over the warmer, familiar scent of him: soap, cedar, and that quiet steadiness he carried around like it was part of his skin. The afternoon light slanted through the blinds, catching dust motes they hadn’t gotten to yet, turning them into slow glitter.

They’d been off today. Both of them. No station calls, no paperwork, no being pulled in opposite directions by schedules and responsibility. Just… them, in sweatpants, with a playlist running too loud and the kind of easy teamwork that made her chest feel full.

Hattie bent to straighten the corner of a throw pillow purely because she could. She didn’t have to. The room already looked good. But her hands still wanted to fuss—wanted to make the home they’d built together look like something that was loved.

She glanced toward the kitchen.

The counters were clear for once. No stacks of mail. No half-finished to-do lists. The dish rack was empty. The sink shined. It looked like a kitchen out of a magazine, which was ridiculous, because five minutes ago Declan had been walking through here with a trash bag slung over his shoulder like he was clearing out a crime scene, and she’d been following behind him with a basket of random things that belonged nowhere and everywhere.

Now it was quiet.

Quiet enough that she could hear the soft click of the ceiling fan, the distant hum of the refrigerator, and—closer—Declan moving around in the bedroom, finishing whatever last detail he’d decided needed doing. He wasn’t loud. He never was. But he had a way of taking up space without effort—like the house knew he lived in it.

Hattie smoothed her palms down the front of her blush lounge romper and adjusted the sleeves of her oversized lavender cardigan, the knit brushing her knuckles.

It was just baking.

That was all.

It was a normal, domestic thing. A New Year’s goal that sounded very reasonable when she’d written it down—Bake more. Try new recipes. Stop being afraid of messing up.

Except the truth was she cared. She cared in a way that made it feel bigger than it should’ve. Because baking wasn’t just flour and sugar. Baking was warmth. It was home. It was being the kind of person who could fill a house with something sweet and steady.

And Declan deserved that.

Not that he’d ever asked. He never asked for much. He was the kind of man who would eat toast over the sink and call it dinner if he was tired enough. The kind of man who would tell her—without words half the time—that he didn’t need anything else as long as she was near.

Which only made her want to do it more.

Hattie walked into the kitchen and opened the cabinet where she’d stacked the baking stuff this morning after reorganizing. She’d made a whole little section for it. Measuring cups nested neatly, vanilla extract up front, a fresh bag of flour like it was a promise. She pulled out a recipe card she’d printed—some new thing she’d seen online that looked both attainable and dangerously easy to ruin.

She set it on the counter and stared at it like it might judge her.

“Okay,” she told it under her breath, as if it could hear. “We’re going to be friends today.”

She reached for a mixing bowl and then paused, listening.

Declan’s footsteps shifted, closer now. A floorboard creaked in that familiar spot by the hallway. The sound tugged something soft inside her, the way it always did—the steady reassurance of him simply existing nearby. She didn’t turn yet. Not right away. She wanted this moment first: the quiet, the clean kitchen, the faint thrill of starting something new.

She pulled out the butter and set it on the counter to soften, then lined up the rest of the ingredients like she was staging a tiny, edible battlefield.

Sugar.

Eggs.

Cocoa powder.

A little container of flaky salt because she’d read somewhere that it made everything better, and she’d decided to believe that without needing proof.

When she finally heard him step into the doorway, she lifted her head.

He leaned there for a second—broad shoulders in a heather gray ribbed henley, sleeves pushed to his forearms, the fabric hugging his frame in a way that made her pulse flicker. His dark drawstring sweatpants sat low on his hips, casual and soft-looking, the kind of thing she’d tug on just to see if he’d chase her down the hall.

His hair was a little messy from the day, like he’d run his hands through it while he worked. He didn’t say anything, but his gaze moved over the kitchen in one slow sweep, taking in the cleared counters, the lineup of ingredients, the recipe card, and then her.

His eyes settled on her with that quiet attention that always made her feel seen in the gentlest way.

Hattie’s mouth tugged into a small smile before she could stop it.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, soft and playful, even though her cheeks warmed. “Like I’m about to do something heroic.”

She picked up the cocoa powder and gave it a tiny shake, as if proving a point.

“I’m just… baking,” she added, a little more quietly, as if saying it out loud might make it true. “It’s my New Year’s thing. I’m trying to be… better at normal, home things.”

She hesitated, then corrected herself, because it mattered.

“Not because you need it,” she said quickly, turning back to the counter so she wouldn’t have to watch his face too closely. “You don’t need anything. You’re… you’re fine with whatever.”

Her fingers smoothed the edge of the recipe card.

“I just want to,” she admitted, voice smaller now, honest in that way she didn’t always let herself be. “I want to make this place feel… sweet. And ours.”

She reached for the mixing bowl again, anchoring herself in movement.

“And if this turns into a disaster,” she added, the playful edge returning like a shield, “we’re not telling anyone. Not even—” she paused, then smirked to herself, “—not even the guys at the station.”

She cracked her first egg against the rim of the bowl and glanced up at him again, eyes bright.

“So,” she said, as if this wasn’t a bigger deal than it should’ve been, “are you going to be helpful, or are you going to stand there and silently judge my measuring techniques?”

Declan still didn’t speak.

But he didn’t have to.

The way he watched her—steady, patient, present—made her feel like maybe she could do this.

Like maybe she could do anything, as long as he was there.

Declan didn’t answer right away.

He never rushed moments like this—especially not ones that felt delicate in that quiet, important way. He stayed in the doorway for another second, just watching her: the way she lined things up with care, the tiny crease between her brows when she read the recipe, the softness in her shoulders now that the house had finally gone still.

Home looked good on her.

He crossed the kitchen slowly, footsteps unhurried, until he was close enough to feel her warmth without touching her yet. He leaned his hip lightly against the counter beside her, close but not crowding, and reached out to nudge the cocoa powder back into line where it had drifted a little sideways.

“Helpful,” he said finally, voice low and easy. “Always helpful.”

His eyes flicked to the bowl, the cracked egg, the careful way she held herself like she was bracing for judgment that was never coming. Then he looked back at her face—and something in him softened even further.

He lifted one hand and brushed a loose strand of hair back behind her ear, slow and familiar, knuckles grazing her cheek like it was second nature. His thumb lingered there, warm and steady, before he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“You’re not doing something heroic,” he murmured, lips still close to her skin. “You’re doing something you want to do. That’s enough.”

He straightened just enough to meet her eyes, a small smile tugging at his mouth—fond, a little proud, completely unguarded.

“And for the record,” he added quietly, “I don’t think there’s anything ‘normal’ about the way you take care of things. You don’t just fill space, Hattie. You make it feel lived in.”

His gaze dropped to the counter again, then back to her.

“This already feels like ours,” he said simply.

He reached past her for the butter, sliding it a little closer to the edge so it would soften faster, then grabbed a clean spoon and held it up like he was reporting for duty.

“So,” he went on, tone lighter now, teasing warmth threading through it, “you tell me what to do and I’ll do it. Measuring. Stirring. Moral support. Taste-testing if required.”

A beat.

“Especially taste-testing.”

He leaned closer again, just enough that his shoulder brushed hers, grounding and affectionate all at once.

“And if it’s a disaster?” he added, eyes flicking back to hers with quiet certainty. “Then we’ll eat it anyway. Or order pizza. Or both.”

His thumb brushed once more along her jaw, gentle and sure.

“But I like this,” he said, softer now. “I like you like this. I like building things with you—even the small stuff.”

Then he glanced at the egg in the bowl, raised a brow with a hint of a grin.

“So, boss,” he said. “What’s my first assignment?”

Hattie’s fingers fidgeted with the edge of the recipe card even though she didn’t need to read it again. She could feel the warmth of him beside her, the way he leaned in just enough to touch but not overwhelm—like he always knew the exact distance to stand when her thoughts started crowding in.

Her chest gave that familiar flutter. The one she tried to pretend didn’t still sneak up on her when he said things like ours with no hesitation. When he looked at her like there was no need to explain the way she overthought or hesitated or sometimes tiptoed through spaces that were already hers.

He always made room for her without asking why she needed it.

Even now—after all this time, after all the mornings in this house and the nights tangled up in him—he still made her feel like she could take her time becoming something steady. Something rooted. Something brave.

And she loved him for it.

God, she loved him for it.

Still, her instinct flared—an old habit she hadn’t broken yet. What if she ruined this too? What if she messed up something as simple as brownies? What if she—

No.

She shook it off and turned to him fully, her smile blooming warm and a little mischievous.

“Well,” she said, tapping the recipe card against the counter like she was giving a speech, “if you’re going to be in my kitchen, I’m going to need you to take this very seriously.”

Her eyes sparkled when she looked at him—when she really looked at him.

The gray henley stretched just a little too well across his shoulders. His sweatpants hung loose on his hips. His hair was a little mussed, his stubble was a little sharp, and he was looking at her like she held the moon between her hands.

She cleared her throat before her voice could go all gooey.

“First task,” she said, and reached for a measuring cup, placing it in his palm with exaggerated ceremony. “You are now the Official Flour Scooper. I’ll need one cup—level, not packed, no heroic flour explosions.”

She raised her eyebrows, mock-serious.

“And I do mean level, firefighter.”

She gave him a gentle nudge with her elbow, letting herself lean into him for a second longer than necessary—just to feel the warmth of him, to press her body to his side and soak in how easily he caught her without needing to shift at all.

It felt good. It felt easy. Like this house didn’t belong to him and she was just borrowing space. Like it really was theirs now.

Her hand slipped down to the butter stick and gave it an absent poke.

“And once that’s done,” she continued, eyes flicking up to meet his again, “you’ll graduate to Egg Whisker. Which I’ve been told is a title of great prestige.”

She grinned, a little crooked, a little breathless—because she could feel how he was watching her. Not just hearing her words, but seeing her.

All of her.

And maybe that was what made her lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek. Not flirty. Not teasing. Just hers—a thank you without saying the words.

When she pulled back, her fingers trailed across his forearm.

“I like building things with you too,” she said, her voice quieter now, more honest than playful. “Even the messy, chocolate-covered kind.”

Then she smacked her palms together like a coach and nodded toward the mixing bowl.

“Alright, flour guy. Impress me.”

And God help her—she was already falling for him again.

Declan didn’t rush her.

He never did.

He took the measuring cup from her hand like it was a baton being passed in a relay he intended to win slowly and correctly, his fingers brushing hers just enough to make the contact linger. He turned the cup once in his palm, inspecting it with mock gravity, then glanced at her over the rim with a look that was pure, quiet amusement.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said solemnly. “Level. Not packed. No acts of heroism.”

He stepped closer to the counter, shoulder brushing hers, close enough that she could feel the heat of him without being crowded. He opened the flour container carefully—carefully, because she’d asked—and scooped with deliberate restraint, tapping the cup against the side once, then leveling it with the flat of a butter knife like he’d been training for this moment his whole life.

When he tipped the flour into the bowl, not a single puff escaped.

He looked back at her, brows lifting just slightly.

“Still employed?” he asked, dry and gentle.

Then, because he was Declan and couldn’t help himself, he nudged the empty cup toward her chest lightly, like a playful medal ceremony. “I live to serve.”

As she leaned into him, elbow tucked against his ribs, he shifted without thinking—one arm coming around her waist, steady and warm, anchoring her there like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushed a slow, absent arc against her side, grounding her as much as himself.

He noticed everything. The way she poked the butter like it might offend her. The way her smile softened when she wasn’t performing it. The way she kissed his cheek like she was thanking him for something she hadn’t put into words yet.

That one got him.

His hand tightened just a fraction at her waist before he let it go, stepping back only enough to reach for the whisk when she handed it to him.

“Egg Whisker,” he repeated thoughtfully, testing the title. “Sounds like a job with benefits.”

He cracked the first egg cleanly against the counter—no shell, no mess—then the second, glancing at her between motions like he was checking in, not for approval, but connection.

“You know,” he said quietly, voice low and even, “I like this too. Not just the baking.” He gestured vaguely at the bowl, then around the kitchen, the house. “The doing things together part. The normal stuff.”

He started whisking, slow and steady, muscles in his forearm shifting under her fingers if she was still touching him.

“And for the record,” he added, eyes lifting to meet hers, open and sure, “you don’t have to get it right for it to be ours. Mess counts. Trying counts.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth—soft, real.

“Besides,” he said, giving the bowl a final confident turn, “I already moved in with you. Chocolate chaos isn’t exactly a dealbreaker.”

He set the whisk down, leaned in just enough to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear with his knuckle, reverent like he always was when he touched her face. Then he pressed a kiss to her forehead—warm, lingering, full of quiet devotion.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Coach. What’s next?”

And the way he looked at her said it plainly, without ever needing to say it out loud:

Wherever you’re going, I’m already here.

She didn’t mean to melt.

But damn if he didn’t make it hard not to.

It wasn’t just the way he followed instructions. Or the solemn yes, ma’am that made her chest tighten and her stomach flip, as if he didn’t know he could ruin her with those two syllables alone. Or the I live to serve with that little tap of the measuring cup that should’ve been ridiculous but somehow wasn’t — not when it came from him.

It was all of it.

The way he stood beside her like they’d been doing this for years. The way his thumb skimmed her side in those quiet, anchoring circles that always brought her breath a little deeper. The way he cracked eggs like it was nothing, checked in with her like it was everything, and said mess counts like he meant it — like she counted, even when she didn’t get it perfect.

Her heart swelled and ached and did somersaults all at once.

It still caught her off guard, sometimes. That she got to have this. That he was hers. That he could watch her poke butter and kiss her forehead like it was the best part of his day. That she could build something real with him — one egg, one room rearranged, one small decision at a time.

“Dealbreaker, huh?” she said softly, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Good to know.”

She reached for the sugar, measuring with a little more confidence now, then paused to nudge his shoulder lightly with hers.

“You are dangerously competent at this,” she teased, voice light, but full of that warm, quiet awe she still didn’t always know how to put into words. “Like… suspiciously good. Have you been baking behind my back with someone else?”

She arched a brow dramatically, but it was all in fun. The kind of fun she didn’t have to fake. The kind that bubbled up easily around him.

As he set the whisk down and reached to tuck her hair back, her breath caught for real this time. The touch was so gentle. So him. And when his lips pressed to her forehead, something in her stilled entirely — like the whole house leaned in and exhaled.

She let herself rest there for a moment, eyes closed, skin tingling where he’d kissed her.

When she opened them again, he was still looking at her. Still waiting. Still there.

God.

She didn’t stand a chance.

“Next,” she murmured, stepping closer and brushing a little flour off the front of his shirt — totally unnecessary, entirely an excuse to touch him, “is the butter and sugar. We cream it together.”

She turned toward the bowl, trying to act unaffected, even though her heart was thudding so hard she was pretty sure it could be heard over the ceiling fan.

She handed him the spatula, then hesitated.

“Unless you wanna trade roles,” she added, giving him a sideways glance. “I can whisk, and you can cream.”

Her lips curved slow, playful, affectionate.

“Or you can keep looking at me like that, and I’ll forget what we’re doing entirely.”

She didn’t say I love you right then.

She didn’t have to.

It was in the flour on her hands. The rearranged furniture. The smell of lemon cleaner in the air. The bowl between them and the heat of him at her side.

It was in the way she kept choosing him — one spoon, one kiss, one ordinary, extraordinary afternoon at a time.