Declan let out a low, warm chuckle when she pointed at his chest, his hand automatically sliding to her waist like it belonged there—because it did. Because she did.

“Hey,” he said softly, mock-offended but smiling, “I was not defusing a bomb. I was respecting the flour. Big difference.”

His thumb traced slow circles against her side, grounding her the same way she grounded him, and he leaned his forehead to hers for a second, breathing her in. Lemon cleaner. Cocoa. Her. Home.

“And yeah,” he admitted quietly, eyes softening, “it counts. It counts because it was with you.”

Her glance at his forearms didn’t go unnoticed. His mouth curved when he caught it, just barely smug.

“You’re not subtle,” he murmured, amused. “But I like that about you.”

When she kissed the corner of his mouth, he turned his head just enough to catch it properly this time—still quick, but warmer. Like he didn’t want to let the moment slip past without honoring it.

“You threaten me with advanced baking levels and recipe cards,” he said, brushing his nose against her hair, “but I know that’s code for we get to keep building stuff together. I’m not scared of it.”

He watched her reach for the remote like it was a sacred object, his eyes following every tiny movement because he always paid attention to her like that. Like she mattered in all the small ways.

“You’ve Got Mail,” he repeated thoughtfully, a fond smile tugging at his lips. “You do quote it at me. And yeah… I secretly love it. Don’t get cocky.”

He pretended to weigh his options like this was a life-altering choice.

“Knives Out is tempting,” he said. “Mostly because you always pick a suspect based on vibes alone.”

Then she dropped the Meg Ryan threat and he laughed outright, head tipping back.

“That’s cruel,” he said, grinning down at her. “Also? I’d survive it. Barely.”

He took the remote from her gently, brushing his thumb across her knuckles as he did.

“You’ve Got Mail,” he decided. “Cozy. Low stakes. Perfect couch energy.”

He shifted them just a little so she was even more settled against him, one arm wrapped fully around her, the other pulling a blanket over her legs like he’d been waiting for permission.

“And blanket duty?” he added quietly. “My favorite job.”

His voice dropped, softer now, meant only for her.

“You being comfortable right here? That’s my whole plan for the night.”

He pressed a kiss into her hair, slow and unhurried.

“Timer can scream all it wants,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Hattie’s smile stayed put—small and pleased and a little smug in the safest way—because of course he picked it. Of course he did.

She didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Not when his thumb was drawing those slow circles at her waist like he was anchoring her on purpose, not when he’d chosen You’ve Got Mail like she hadn’t just successfully curated the exact kind of night her nervous system craved.

So she let herself sink.

She shifted closer until her shoulder tucked more fully into the space beneath his arm, her body finding that familiar pocket against his side where everything in her finally unclenched. His warmth was immediate—solid, steady—and the blanket he’d pulled over her legs made the whole couch feel like it had turned into something private and soft.

The opening credits rolled, and she exhaled like the first few notes alone were a promise.

Declan pressed that kiss into her hair, slow, and she tilted her face just enough that her lips brushed his shirt in an absent little return—barely there, but affectionate.

Then she got comfortable in earnest.

She drew her knees up slightly, tucking herself in tighter, and slid one hand across his stomach like she was claiming her spot the way he claimed her waist. She could feel the quiet rhythm of his breathing under her palm, the steady glide of his thumb at her side, the way his arm held her with that effortless, protective weight that made her feel like she could fall asleep mid-sentence and still be exactly where she belonged when she woke up.

On-screen, Meg Ryan’s voice floated through the living room—warm, familiar.

Hattie’s mouth curved.

She watched for a few seconds like she was savoring the beginning, then her eyes flicked up toward him with that pleased little look she got when she was about to be insufferable in the most loving way.

Right on cue, she murmured along with the movie under her breath, soft and delighted—

“Don’t you love New York in the fall?”

The quote landed with a private kind of satisfaction, like she’d been waiting all day to say it out loud.

She didn’t stop there.

A beat later, she added—quietly, like a secret she was only telling him—

“It makes me want to buy school supplies.”

Her grin widened as if she couldn’t help it, and she tucked her face back toward his chest without fully hiding, letting him see the expression she was wearing—content, teasing, completely in love.

Her fingers traced a slow line across his stomach, then went still, just resting.

She watched the screen again, shoulders soft, breathing even, letting the movie do what it always did—fill the room with something gentle and uncomplicated while his hand kept drawing those circles at her waist like he was making sure she stayed right here.

And she did.

She stayed curled into him, warm under the blanket, eyes half-lidded with comfort, smiling every time she recognized a line before it happened—like she’d found the exact kind of quiet she’d been craving and wasn’t letting go of it for anything.

Declan’s chest lifted with a quiet laugh when she beat Meg Ryan to the line, his gaze dropping to her like he’d just watched something perfectly predictable and somehow still brand new.

“Of course you knew it,” he murmured, voice warm with that soft kind of fondness he only ever used with her. “You’ve got this movie memorized down to the breathing patterns.”

His thumb kept its slow path at her waist, absent-minded but intentional, like he was tracing her there just to reassure himself she was real and right here. The weight of her tucked into his side felt like a promise he didn’t have to say out loud. Like this was the reward at the end of every long day.

When she added the school supplies line, he let out a low chuckle, chin dipping closer to the crown of her head.

“See, this is why I picked it,” he said quietly. “You quoting romantic comedies like it’s your personal brand.”

He shifted just slightly, pulling the blanket higher over her knees when he felt the smallest draft creep in, the motion so automatic it barely registered as a choice. His arm tightened a fraction around her shoulders, not trapping—just anchoring.

“You comfortable?” he asked softly, even though the answer was obvious from the way she’d melted into him like she’d been designed for that exact space.

His eyes flicked to the screen, then back to her again because somehow she was always more interesting than whatever was playing. The faint glow from the TV caught her face just right—soft shadows, familiar lines, the kind of beauty that came from knowing someone inside and out.

“You know,” he added quietly, brushing his lips into her hair again, “this might be my favorite part of the day.”

Not the movie.
Not the couch.
Her.

“Just you, right here,” he continued, voice low and steady. “No alarms, no plans, no anything. Just… us.”

His hand stilled for a second at her waist, then resumed its slow rhythm.

“And if you fall asleep before the third act,” he teased gently, “I’m still gonna sit here and watch it. For research.”

He smiled into her hair, already knowing he’d be watching her more than the screen.

“Go ahead,” he murmured. “Quote the whole thing. I’m not stopping you.”

Because this—
Her warmth.
Her voice.
Her being right here—

This was exactly where he wanted to be.

Hattie’s smile pressed deeper into place at the sound of his laugh—warm and quiet and so him—and she tipped her head just enough to look up at him from where she was tucked into his side.

It wasn’t a dramatic move. She didn’t want to break the comfort spell he’d built around her with that blanket and that arm and those slow circles at her waist.

But she had to see his face when he said it.

Her eyes narrowed playfully, like she was weighing whether to be offended on principle.

“Excuse you,” she said, soft and amused, voice deliberately airy. “It’s not memorized.”

A beat.

“It’s… deeply familiar.” She let the tiniest hint of a smirk pull at her mouth. “There’s a difference.”

She settled back into him again, cheek hovering near his chest but not pressed—just close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough to hear the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Her hand stayed splayed over his stomach like a bookmark, fingers relaxed.

When he tugged the blanket higher over her knees, something in her softened in that quiet, helpless way it always did with him. He did it like second nature. Like taking care of her wasn’t effort, it was instinct.

Her gaze flicked up again.

“You comfortable?” she asked, gentle—because she was, but she wanted him to be too. Wanted his shoulders to unclench, wanted his whole body to remember it was allowed to rest.

Her thumb traced a slow little line where her hand was resting, not fidgety—just affectionate.

Then he said it—my favorite part of the day—and she felt that familiar swell in her chest. Not the loud kind. The steady kind. The kind that made her want to curl into him and never be anywhere else.

She didn’t rush to answer. She just let a pleased little breath out through her nose, like she was collecting the moment.

“It’s my favorite part too,” she admitted finally, voice soft and warm.

She tilted her chin up again, eyes finding his—sweet, attentive, a little mischievous in the way she couldn’t quite turn off even when she was comfortable.

“And I’m not falling asleep,” she added, like she was clarifying something important to the court. “I have… plans.”

She let that hang there for just long enough to land—nothing overt, nothing too obvious. Just the promise in her eyes and the way her voice dipped a fraction on the word.

“Plans that include eating those brownies,” she continued, the smile back, bright and pleased, “in… what, twenty minutes? Once they’re done and cooled. And cuddling with you. And watching one of my favorite movies.”

Her fingers flexed once on his stomach, a tiny squeeze—content, claiming.

Then she tipped her head, serious for half a second.

“But,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him like she was about to set a rule, “if I do fall asleep? You have to promise you’ll wake me up after half an hour.”

Her mouth softened into a small, earnest grin.

“Only a nap,” she insisted, like she knew herself too well. “If I actually fall asleep-fall asleep, I’ll be up all night, and then tomorrow I’ll be insufferable, and you’ll deserve financial compensation.”

She shifted again—just a little—tucking herself more securely into his side as if she could get even more comfortable without losing the thread of her determination.

Her hand stayed right where it was, warm on him. Her voice stayed soft.

“Promise?”

Declan’s eyes softened the second she asked if he was comfortable.

It always got him—how she checked in on him even when she was the one curled up, the one being tucked in and cared for. He shifted just slightly, settling deeper into the couch so she could feel it.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m good. Real good.”

His hand slowed at her waist, thumb pressing just a little more deliberately, like he wanted her to feel the answer instead of just hear it. He leaned down and brushed a kiss into her hair again, the kind that lingered a second too long to be accidental.

“You fit here,” he murmured. “Like you were built for this spot.”

When she said it was her favorite part too, his chest swelled in that quiet, grounding way—no show, just truth. He rested his cheek lightly against her head, eyes flicking to the screen and then right back to her.

“Yeah?” he teased softly. “Good. Means I picked the right couch rules.”

Her “plans” made him grin. Not cocky—just pleased. Like he already knew exactly what she meant and loved her for it anyway.

“Brownies, cuddling, and Meg Ryan?” he said. “That’s a dangerous combination, Monroe.”

When she squeezed his stomach, he laughed under his breath and gently trapped her hand there, lacing his fingers through hers.

“Don’t move,” he added. “You’re legally stuck.”

Then she got serious about the nap rule, and he listened—really listened—eyes steady on her face, thumb brushing slow circles over her knuckles.

“I promise,” he said easily. “Thirty minutes. I’ll wake you up gentle. No drama.”

A beat, then softer—

“Probably with a brownie bribe.”

He shifted just enough to pull the blanket a little higher around her shoulders, protective and tender in that way he never made a big deal about.

“And for the record,” he added quietly, looking down at her like she was the only thing in the room that mattered, “you being insufferable tomorrow sounds… kind of perfect.”

His smile turned warm and stupid and very much in love.

“Deal?”

Hattie felt his “yeah” more than she heard it.

It settled into her the same way his hand did—slow, steady, certain—like the answer wasn’t just words, it was a whole-body exhale. She let herself relax another notch into him, melting closer until her ribs fit the line of his side like they’d been doing it forever.

His kiss landed in her hair and stayed a beat too long, and her mouth curved even before he finished the thought. You fit here.

Of course she did. He’d made sure of it. With the blanket. With the arm around her. With the way his thumb kept drawing those unhurried circles at her waist like he was anchoring her on purpose.

She didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Not when he was holding her like this and looking at her like this and making it feel so easy to exist.

When he teased her about couch rules, she made a soft, pleased little sound—half laugh, half hum—and tipped her chin up just enough to glance at him.

“You did,” she said quietly, smug in the sweetest way. “You picked the right rules.”

His grin at her “plans” made her want to kiss it off his face, but she didn’t—she just let the warmth of it wash over her, let herself enjoy how much he liked her liking him.

Then he trapped her hand there and laced their fingers together.

Hattie’s eyes flicked down to their hands like it was a magic trick. Like it would never stop making her chest feel full.

“Legally stuck,” she repeated, amused, and she squeezed his fingers back. “Finally. I’ve been trying to pass that law for months.”

His promise—thirty minutes, gentle, no drama—made her soften. Not because she doubted him. She never did. But because he listened like her weird little brain habits mattered. Like her sleepiness rules were serious business.

When he mentioned a brownie bribe, her smile went lazy and pleased.

“Mm,” she murmured, letting her head fall back into the crook of his shoulder again. “That’s unethical.”

Then he said she sounded perfect even if she was insufferable, and she let out a quiet laugh that warmed the space between them.

“Deal,” she whispered, and she tipped her face up just enough to press a quick kiss to the underside of his jaw—soft, familiar, like punctuation.

After that, she settled back down, letting herself be held. The movie played on, the glow from the TV washing over the living room in gentle pulses. Hattie watched with the kind of content focus she only ever managed when she was wrapped up in him—safe spot, favorite spot, nervous system finally quiet.

A line came on-screen and she couldn’t help it.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, already smiling. Then, with a pleased little shake of her head, she quoted along under her breath, timing it perfectly like she always did.

She felt him move above her—barely anything, just the tiniest shift that told her he heard and didn’t mind one bit.

Hattie smiled into the blanket.

Another minute passed. Then another.

She kept watching. Kept quoting the ones she loved, soft and low, like she was telling him a secret even though she’d told him all of them before. Her fingers stayed threaded with his, her thumb making lazy little strokes over his knuckle without thinking.

And then, despite herself—despite the brownies still baking in the oven and her grand plans and the fact that she’d just sworn she wasn’t falling asleep—her eyelids got heavy.

It always happened like this.

Not because she was bored.

Because she was comfortable. Because she was warm. Because being tucked into Declan’s chest flipped some switch in her that said you can rest now, I’ve got you.

Her blinks slowed.

She fought it for a moment, stubborn on principle, eyes trying to stay open through sheer willpower.

But his thumb kept tracing those circles at her waist, and his arm stayed sure around her, and the movie’s familiar cadence turned into something soothing and far away.

Hattie’s last coherent thought was a tiny, pleased one—he better wake me up in thirty minutes—and then she drifted, the corners of her mouth still lifted, still safe, still held.

Declan noticed the moment it happened.

Not when her eyes finally closed—but before that. The slowed blinks. The way her breathing shifted, deeper and heavier against his chest. The way her thumb stuttered once on his knuckle and then went still, like her body had quietly decided it trusted him to take over from here.

He didn’t move right away.

Just leaned his head gently against hers, cheek resting in her hair, breathing her in like it was the most natural thing in the world. Lemon cleaner. Cocoa. Her shampoo. Home. All of it settling together until his chest felt full in that steady, grounded way that never asked for more than what he already had.

He adjusted the blanket first—slow, careful, not wanting to jostle her—tucking it a little higher around her shoulders. His arm tightened just enough to keep her close, protective without being restrictive, like he was drawing a quiet boundary around the space she occupied.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, so softly it was more breath than sound.

He stayed still after that. Let the movie play. Let her sleep.

When she quoted lines half-asleep earlier, he’d smiled to himself—hadn’t said a word, just let her have it, let her be exactly who she was. Now, watching her like this, mouth curved faintly, body relaxed in a way it never was anywhere else, something in him eased even further.

He traced those familiar circles at her waist again, slower now, more deliberate. A grounding rhythm. Not to wake her—never that—but to stay connected. To listen to the rise and fall of her breath and match it without thinking.

The timer on the oven ticked quietly in the background.

He checked it without moving his arm, just shifting his eyes. Still time.

Good.

He pressed a kiss into her hair again, lingering this time, and whispered against her crown, “Just a nap. I’ll wake you.”

Not because she could hear him.

Because he meant it.

Declan stayed exactly where he was, couch creaking softly beneath them, the TV glow flickering across the room. He watched the movie with half an eye, but most of his attention stayed right here—on the woman asleep against his chest, on the weight of her trust, on the quiet privilege of being the place she rested.

Every so often, he adjusted his thumb. Shifted his grip. Made sure she was warm.

Listening.

Waiting.

Holding her like it was the easiest promise he’d ever kept.

Hattie’s world softened in layers.

The movie’s voices blurred into something distant and familiar, like sound traveling through warm water. The steady thump of Declan’s heart beneath her cheek—closer, louder than anything on the screen—became the soundtrack her body trusted most. Even the tiny flicker of light from the TV turned gentle on the backs of her eyelids, a slow, pulsing glow that felt more like a nightlight than a distraction.

She drifted deeper.

And in that deep, sweet pocket of sleep where the mind gets brave, Hattie dreamed.

Not a big, cinematic dream—no sharp edges, no panic. Just… impressions. Warmth. The scent of cocoa. Declan’s hand at her waist, thumb drawing those endless circles like a lullaby. In her dream, she was smaller still, curled up against something solid and safe while snow pressed softly against the windows, the house wrapped in quiet. There were brownies somewhere in the dream too—always almost done, always promising—like the idea of them mattered more than the taste.

She dreamed of his arms.

Of the way he always made room for her without making her ask.

A little smile tugged at her mouth, even asleep, like she’d heard something sweet in the distance and didn’t want to wake enough to explain it.

The timer went off.

A sharp, insistent beep—too loud for the soft world she’d been floating in.

In the dream, it turned into something else: a bell in a shop door, a distant alarm clock in a house that wasn’t theirs, the kind of sound you hear and immediately decide not yet. Her brows pinched faintly in protest, and she burrowed closer by instinct—closer to warmth, closer to steady.

Declan moved carefully beneath her.

Hattie didn’t wake all at once. She surfaced in slow increments, the way she always did when he was holding her—reluctant, heavy-limbed, convinced she had a few more minutes because she was safe enough to take them.

She felt him shift his arm, felt the couch give a quiet creak, felt the blanket slide and then settle again. Her body responded automatically, like it recognized the change and decided to cooperate before her brain had fully joined the conversation.

A sleepy sound left her—barely more than a hum—and her fingers tightened once around his hand before loosening again.

The room came back piece by piece.

The warm dimness. The TV glow. The faint smell of chocolate now that it had been baking a while.

And Declan—still right there, moving her like she was precious cargo.

He didn’t jostle her. Didn’t do the clumsy, obvious shift that would fully wake her. He just adjusted her with quiet precision, easing her off his chest and deeper into the couch so she was supported by cushions instead of him. He tucked her closer to the backrest, guiding her shoulder into place, pulling the blanket up again so it stayed around her without slipping.

Hattie blinked once.

Then again.

Her lashes felt heavy, her eyes only half opening, the couch suddenly very comfortable in a new way—like she’d been transferred from one safe spot to another.

She heard the timer still beeping, muffled now, like it was happening in another room. She also registered the absence of his chest under her cheek and didn’t like it, even in her sleep-fog.

Her hand drifted out, searching.

Not dramatic. Just instinct.

A small, sleepy frown formed as her fingers met air.

Then she felt him—his hand catching hers, steadying it, giving her something to hold even as he shifted his weight to stand.

Her eyes opened a little more at that, hazy and slow.

“Mm…” she breathed, voice thick with sleep, more sound than language—an unconscious don’t go far.

She didn’t sit up. Didn’t fight him.

She just watched, blinking, as he carefully eased free, still keeping her hand in his until the last possible second. The couch dipped and then lifted as his weight left it, and her body sank into the cushions with the blanket tucked around her like he’d wrapped the whole room tight.

Hattie’s gaze tracked him, unfocused but devoted.

The timer kept insisting.

She let her eyes drift shut again for a heartbeat—only a heartbeat—then opened them just enough to watch him head toward the kitchen, her fingers curling lightly into the blanket where his hand had been.

Still half asleep.

Still dreaming around the edges.

But waking, slowly, because he’d moved—and because some part of her always wanted to be awake when he was doing something for them.

The beep snapped him out of the softness like a switch flipping.

Declan’s whole posture changed in an instant.

Not rushed. Not panicked. Just… focused.

Firehouse brain kicked in the same way it always did—clean, efficient, already mapping the steps before his feet even moved. He gently slipped his hand from hers, making sure the blanket stayed tucked around her, and leaned down to brush a quick, reassuring kiss into her hair.

“Got it,” he murmured, soft enough that it felt like a promise more than an announcement.

Then he was up.

Long strides across the living room, bare feet quiet against the floor, body moving with that familiar purposeful grace. He reached the kitchen in seconds, silenced the timer with one firm press, and immediately bent to peer through the oven window like he was assessing a scene.

Brownies. Rising. Edges pulling just right.

“Look at you,” he muttered under his breath, impressed like they were tiny overachievers.

He grabbed an oven mitt, tested the pan with a careful touch, then slid it out just far enough to check the center with a toothpick. Clean. Just a hint of crumb.

Perfect.

He straightened, a grin tugging at his mouth, and glanced back toward the couch automatically.

She was watching him.

Half-lidded. Sleep-soft. Still wrapped up in the blanket he’d tucked around her.

That look alone made his chest tighten.

“Hey,” he called gently, not wanting to startle her but needing her to hear. “Rescue mission successful.”

He set the pan on the stovetop, resting it on a trivet like he’d been trained for brownie emergencies specifically. Steam curled up into the air, rich and chocolatey, and he inhaled like it was victory.

Then he leaned against the counter for a second, eyes still on her.

“You awake, Monroe?” he asked quietly, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear her voice. “Or am I interruptin’ a very important dream?”

His hands stayed braced on the counter, but his body angled toward her, ready to go back the second she made a sound. Like no matter what mode he snapped into, she was still the priority.

Firefighter instincts.

Boyfriend heart.

Both locked in at the same time.

Hattie blinked slowly, the room coming back into focus in soft pieces—warm light, the hum of the oven fan winding down, Declan leaning against the counter like he belonged there as much as he did everywhere else.

She was still half in the dream.

Still wrapped in that heavy, syrupy comfort that only happened when she fell asleep on him.

Her fingers flexed against the blanket he’d tucked around her, the echo of his warmth lingering like her body hadn’t quite forgiven him for moving. She watched him for a second without speaking, eyes sleepy and fond, taking in the way he stood there: focused but relaxed now, shoulders easy, mouth curved with quiet pride.

Brownie hero.

Her lips curved into a small, pleased smile.

“M’awake,” she said finally, voice low and soft with sleep, vowels blurred together in that way that always gave her away. “Just… transitioning.”

She shifted on the couch, not sitting up yet—just rolling enough to prop her cheek against the back cushion, blanket still snug around her shoulders. Her gaze never left him.

“What was I dreaming about?” she murmured, squinting thoughtfully like she might catch it if she tried hard enough. “You. Obviously. And brownies. Possibly snow? It was very… cozy-coded.”

Her eyes drifted shut for a second, then opened again when the smell hit her properly—warm chocolate, rich and sweet, threading through the room like a promise.

That did it.

She pushed herself up just a little, enough to be more awake than asleep, still wrapped in the blanket like she had no intention of giving it back.

“Did we win?” she asked, already knowing the answer by the way he was standing. By the way he’d said successful like it meant something. “Because I feel like we won.”

Her gaze dropped briefly—to the pan on the stovetop, steam still curling—then lifted back to him, softer now.

“You woke me up real gentle,” she added, quieter. Not a complaint. A thank-you. The kind she didn’t always say outright.

She stretched her feet toward the floor but didn’t stand yet, blinking the last of the sleep from her eyes.

“How long was I out?” she asked, a hint of a smile tugging at her mouth. “And be honest… did I quote the movie in my sleep?”

Her eyes crinkled with sleepy amusement as she held his gaze, warmth spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with brownies.

Still safe.
Still comfortable.
Still exactly where she wanted to be.