Declan’s mouth curved the second she spoke—soft, fond, the kind of smile that lived in his chest more than his face. He stayed where he was for half a beat longer, just watching her blink herself back into the room like she was something precious he didn’t want to rush.

“Mm,” he said quietly, amused and gentle. “I can see that. Transitional consciousness in progress.”

He pushed off the counter and crossed back to her without any hurry, like there was nowhere else he was meant to be. He stopped close—close enough that she didn’t have to reach, close enough that his presence filled the space again—and rested one hand on the back of the couch near her shoulder, the other smoothing down the blanket she’d wrapped around herself like a cocoon.

“You were out just long enough,” he told her, voice low and steady. “Deep sleep. The good kind. The kind you only get when you’re comfortable.”

His thumb brushed the edge of the blanket at her collarbone, a quiet, absent-minded touch—protective, affectionate—before he leaned down a little so he was more level with her.

“And yeah,” he added, softer now, smiling when she mentioned the dream. “You smiled once. Like whatever was happening in there was… nice.”

He reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair back from her face, careful not to wake her any more than she already was, his knuckles lingering against her cheek for just a second.

“We definitely won,” he said with quiet pride. “Brownies are perfect. Crispy edges, soft middle. Smell’s doing half the work already.”

At her question about waking her gently, his expression shifted—just a touch more serious, more tender.

“Always,” he said simply. “You don’t rush someone you care about. Especially not when they’re safe enough to fall asleep on you.”

He chuckled under his breath at her last question, thumb giving a small, reassuring stroke where the blanket met her shoulder.

“And no,” he added, amused. “No sleep-quoting this time. Just a little hum. And you squeezed my hand like you were making sure I was still there.”

He leaned in then, pressing another soft kiss to her forehead—slow, unhurried—before resting his brow there for a beat.

“Take your time,” he murmured. “I’ve got the brownies. I’ve got you. Nothing else on the schedule.”

His hand stayed warm and steady where it rested near her, ready whenever she decided she was done transitioning and wanted to stand—or curl right back in.

Hattie’s chest did that small, ridiculous squeeze it always did when he said things like I’ve got you like it was the simplest fact in the world.
She blinked up at him, still wrapped in the blanket like a burrito with opinions, and tried—tried—to look unimpressed.
It didn’t land.

Not when his hand smoothed the blanket like he’d put her together on purpose. Not when his knuckles lingered on her cheek like he was afraid she might vanish if he stopped touching her.

Her mouth tipped into a sleepy, pleased smile anyway.

“Transitional consciousness,” she repeated, as if she’d just invented something scientific and important. Then she squinted at him with mild suspicion. “You’re making fun of me.”

But the accusation had no teeth. It came out soft. Fond. Like she didn’t mind being teased when it sounded like home.

His forehead kiss—slow, steady—made her eyes flutter for half a second before she caught herself. She liked that he didn’t rush her. Liked that he treated her sleep like something worth protecting. It made her want to melt back into the couch and stay there forever, brownies be damned.

Except brownies were… also not damned.

Her gaze drifted past him toward the kitchen, toward the pan sitting there like a victory trophy. The smell was real now, thick and warm in the air, wrapping around the room.

“We won,” she murmured, more to herself than him, and then her eyes lifted back to his with that soft, private spark. “I knew we would.”

She shifted under the blanket, scooting forward an inch, testing her limbs like they were rebooting. The couch creaked in a lazy protest.

“And I did not squeeze your hand because I was checking if you were still there,” she said, voice still sleepy but already gearing up into playfulness. She blinked at him once, slow and innocent. “I squeezed your hand because it was… dream etiquette.”

A beat.

“…Okay, fine.” Her smile tugged wider, giving her away. “Maybe I was checking. But you were. Obviously. You’re always… there.”

That last part came out quieter, almost shy, like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

She cleared her throat, as if she could shake the sincerity off like water.

“Alright,” she announced, rallying, even though she was still wrapped up tight. “I’m done transitioning. Mostly.”

She held her arms out slightly under the blanket like a dramatic little ghost.

“Help me up, kitchen warrior,” she requested, eyes brightening. “I need a brownie assessment. And you promised me crispy edges.”

She finally slipped one foot to the floor, then the other, standing slowly—more because she liked the way he hovered than because she needed it.

And once she was upright, she stayed right there in front of him for a second, letting her hands find his shirt like they belonged there—light, not tugging, just claiming her place.

Her eyes flicked past his shoulder toward the kitchen again, then back to his face with a sleepy little smirk.

“If these are actually perfect,” she said, voice still soft with leftover dream, “I’m gonna be so annoying about it.”

She tipped her head, lashes heavy, expression all sweetness with a quiet edge.

“I’m gonna make you stand there while I take the first bite,” she informed him, dead serious. “And I’m gonna chew slow. Like a food critic. With opinions.”

A beat—then her mouth twitched.

“And if you try to rush me,” she added, gentler now, looking up at him like she knew exactly what she was doing, “I’ll sit back down and go into transition again.”

She lifted her arms a little, blanket sliding down her elbows, and wiggled her fingers once—small, smug, affectionate.

“Now,” she said, brightening like she’d flipped a switch, “escort me to the brownie victory. I want the corner. The crispiest corner.”

Then she leaned in and brushed a quick kiss to the spot just under his jaw—warm, grateful, completely hers—before backing up half an inch with that pleased smile.

“C’mon,” she murmured, threading her fingers through his. “I’m awake enough to be trouble.”

Declan’s smile came slow—soft at first, then settling into something warmer, steadier, like it belonged there.

“Making fun of you?” he echoed quietly, brows lifting a fraction as his hands came up to her arms, thumbs brushing over her sleeves like he was checking in before he answered. “Never. Observing. Appreciating. Documenting a very important phenomenon.”

He leaned in just enough that his forehead brushed hers again, brief and easy, his voice dropping.

“Sleepy Hattie is… a gift.”

When she accused him of teasing, he gave a low huff of a laugh—fond, unmistakably pleased—and shook his head.

“And dream etiquette?” he added, amused. “Yeah. That tracks. Very on brand.”

But when she said you’re always there—quiet, unguarded—his expression shifted. Nothing dramatic. Just a softening around the eyes, a deeper calm settling into him like something clicking into place.

“I am,” he said simply. No flourish. No qualifier. Just truth. “I plan to keep that streak going.”

When she held her arms out under the blanket, he stepped in without hesitation, hands sliding to her waist, steady and warm. He helped her up like it mattered—slow, attentive, eyes on her face the whole time, making sure she was solid before he let go.

“Got you,” he murmured, like a reflex.

He didn’t move away once she was standing. Didn’t need to. Her hands found his shirt and his settled easily over her wrists, grounding her there for a second longer, like neither of them was in a rush to break the moment.

“Oh, I know,” he said at her warning, mouth tilting into a knowing grin. “If they’re perfect, I fully expect commentary. Notes. Possibly a rating system.”

He glanced toward the kitchen, then back to her, clearly entertained.

“And for the record,” he added, gently cocky now, “I’m prepared to stand there and watch you take the first bite. I earned that.”

At her threat to sit back down and re-enter transition mode, he chuckled and squeezed her hands once.

“That’s unfair leverage,” he said. “But I respect the strategy.”

When she kissed just under his jaw, his breath caught—barely—but the way his hand slid to the small of her back said everything. He dipped his head, brushing a kiss into her hair in return, slower, grounding.

“Alright,” he said, threading his fingers through hers as he turned them toward the kitchen. “Corner piece. Crispiest edge. No rushing. Full food critic experience.”

He walked her in like it was exactly where she belonged, hand warm in hers, attention entirely on her even as the smell of brownies filled the room.

“And trouble?” he added quietly, glancing down at her with that steady, affectionate look. “I’m awake enough to handle it.”

Hattie let herself be led.

She didn’t even pretend she wasn’t going to—didn’t bother with a brave little independence routine when his hand was warm around hers and his body moved with that calm, certain purpose that always made her nervous system unclench. The kitchen light felt brighter than the living room glow, but he stayed right there beside her, threaded to her like a promise that didn’t require words.

It was such a small thing. Walking with him, hand in hand, barefoot and sleepy and domestic.

And somehow it made her chest feel full.

She glanced up at him as they crossed the threshold, still wrapped in the blanket like she’d stolen it for personal use, her eyes half-lidded with that soft, waking haze.

“You can handle it,” she murmured, voice quiet and pleased, like she was humoring him. “Sure you can.”

His confident little line made her grin to herself, and she let her shoulder bump his arm—lazy, affectionate—before her gaze drifted to the pan on the stovetop like it was a holy artifact.

The brownies sat there, dark and glossy in the center with those slightly lifted edges, steam still curling faintly off the top. The whole kitchen smelled like chocolate and warmth and the kind of afternoon she wanted to live inside.

“Oh,” she whispered, and then cleared her throat like she hadn’t just reacted out loud. She blinked once, slow, like she was calibrating her personality back online.

She stayed close to him as she leaned in to inspect, head tilting.

“They look,” she began, very seriously, “like they know they’re better than everyone else.”

Then her eyes narrowed in faux scrutiny, lips pressing together like she was about to deliver a verdict on national television.

“Edges are… promising,” she decided. “Top has that little sheen. Center isn’t sinking. Which means—” she glanced up at him, bright with a sleepy kind of triumph, “—we are either geniuses or wildly favored by the baking gods.”

She didn’t drift far, but she did slip out from his side for a second—just long enough to open the drawer and grab a knife. The metal made a soft, familiar sound against the wood, and she moved with that half-awake concentration that made everything she did look a little sweeter than it had any right to.

Then she was right back at his side, shoulder almost brushing his, knife in her hand like she’d been appointed to an extremely important role.

“Okay,” she said, squinting at the pan. “Corner piece. Crispiest edge. Per your promise.”

She pressed the knife in with a careful, decisive line, slicing down the side and then across, freeing the first corner. The brownie separated with a soft, fudgy resistance—exactly what she wanted to see. She lifted it slightly, admiring the way the corner held its shape while the center looked rich.

Her mouth tipped into a pleased smile.

“Oh, yeah,” she murmured, like she’d just been vindicated.

She cut a second corner from the opposite side—mirroring the first—slow enough to make a point of it, but not so slow it turned into cruelty. Two perfect little squares, dark and warm and ridiculous.

She nudged one toward him first—because she could be bratty all she wanted, but she liked him fed.

Then she lifted her own corner piece, holding it up in front of her face like a trophy as she looked at him through her lashes.

“Alright,” she said, soft and happy, still not fully awake but absolutely herself. “We’re doing this properly.”

And then, with a tiny, satisfied breath, she brought the brownie closer—ready to take her first bite and deliver the kind of commentary she’d already promised him.

Declan stayed close without crowding her—close enough that his arm brushed hers when she leaned in, close enough that the warmth of him felt like part of the kitchen now. He watched the way she moved with that half-awake care, like the world still had soft edges, and his mouth curved into a quiet smile he didn’t bother hiding.

“Yeah,” he murmured at her verdict, eyes on the pan, then back to her face. “They’ve got confidence. I respect it.”

When she slipped away to grab the knife, his hand lingered at her back for just a beat longer before falling away, like his body hadn’t quite gotten the memo that she was capable of walking the three steps without him. He leaned his hip against the counter, arms loose at his sides, watching her with that steady, fond attention that never made her feel examined—just chosen.

“Wildly favored,” he said when she glanced up, voice warm with certainty. “Definitely that one.”

The knife pressed in, the brownie giving just the right amount of resistance, and he felt a small, irrational surge of pride at the sound. He leaned in a little as she lifted the corner, eyes flicking between the brownie and her face, reading her reaction like it mattered more than the result.

When she nudged one piece toward him, he didn’t take it right away. He looked at her first—sleep-soft eyes, blanket slipping at her elbows, that pleased little smile she wore when something felt right.

“Of course I get fed,” he said lightly, then reached out, fingers brushing hers as he took the brownie. The contact lingered on purpose, his thumb warm against her knuckle before he let go.

He watched her lift her piece, watched the way she held it up like a trophy, and his expression softened into something openly affectionate.

“Alright,” he said quietly, a hint of a grin pulling at his mouth. “I’m ready for the notes.”

He took a bite, unhurried, letting it cool just enough, then chewed thoughtfully—not playing it up, not rushing it either. His brows lifted a fraction, impressed.

“Okay,” he said, nodding once. “Crispy edge. Fudgy center. Zero regrets.”

His gaze slid back to her, patient, expectant, like her opinion was the only one that mattered.

“And?” he prompted gently, leaning closer, shoulder brushing hers again. “Tell me what you think.”

Declan stayed right there, close enough that his shoulder was a steady point beside her, close enough that if she swayed—even a little—he’d already be there to catch it. He didn’t rush her. Didn’t fill the space while she took her bite. He knew better than that.

He watched her instead.

Watched the way her teeth sank into the brownie, the way her eyes fluttered shut for half a second like she was cataloging the experience, the way her mouth curved before she even finished chewing. His own smile crept in slow and inevitable, pride blooming quiet and warm in his chest.

“There it is,” he said softly, when he saw it land. “That face.”

He shifted just a touch closer, lowering his voice like it was just for her, like the brownies couldn’t hear him praising them too loudly.

“Take your time,” he added, fond. “I can wait.”

His free hand lifted without thinking, thumb brushing a tiny smear of chocolate from the corner of her mouth—gentle, unembarrassed, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t pull away right away either. His knuckle lingered at her cheek, warm, grounding.

“See?” he murmured. “Worth the oven alarm trauma.”

He took another bite of his own, slower this time, eyes still on her over the top of it, like he was sharing the moment rather than the food. When he swallowed, he nodded once more, satisfied.

“We absolutely won,” he said. “And I’m saying that as someone who has eaten some deeply questionable station brownies in his life.”

His gaze softened as it lingered on her—sleepy, wrapped in the blanket, glowing in that quiet way she did when she felt safe and pleased.

“You look happy,” he said simply. Not a question. An observation. One he treasured.

He leaned his forehead briefly against hers, just enough to steal the warmth of her, just enough to make the kitchen feel smaller and more theirs.

“And for the record,” he added, brushing his thumb over her knuckles again, affectionate and sure, “I’ll stand here as long as you want while you critique. I’ve got nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Then, with a small, teasing smile:

“So,” he prompted again, softer now. “Final verdict, Monroe?”

Hattie’s eyes widened a little at his zero regrets—like she’d been expecting him to be dramatic about it and he’d instead gone annoyingly sincere.

Which, honestly, was worse.

She took her bite, and the brownie did exactly what it was supposed to do: crisp edge first, then the soft give of the center, warm and rich enough to make her shoulders drop. Her lids fluttered, not for show—just that involuntary little mm her body did when something hit the comfort button directly.

When she opened her eyes again, he was watching her like it mattered.

She swallowed, then lifted her piece in front of his face like she was presenting evidence in court.

“Final verdict,” she repeated, slow and pleased, voice still a touch sleepy. “These brownies are… extremely good.”

She leaned into the word extremely like it was a threat and a compliment at the same time.

Then she angled her head, giving him a look that was all soft triumph and quiet mischief.

“And that means,” she went on, gesturing with her brownie toward the rest of the pan like she was pointing at a kingdom they’d conquered, “no more questionable station brownies. Ever again.”

A beat.

“From now on,” she added, smug, “the firehouse is getting our brownies.”

She said our like she owned the concept. Like she was about to start a bakery cartel. Like she was already imagining the guys’ faces when they bit into something that didn’t taste like it had been made with a prayer and an expired box mix.

Her gaze flicked to him—his shoulder still close, his thumb still tracing those slow circles at her knuckles like he couldn’t help it—and her smile turned into something teasing.

“Which is… generous of us,” she decided. “Public service. Community outreach.”

She took another bite, smaller this time, and spoke around it like she was too happy to wait.

“Also,” she said, and her eyes sparkled as she glanced up at him, “we don’t have to tell them you helped.”

She let that hang there for half a second, pretending she was doing him a favor.

Then she tipped her chin, sweet and sly.

“Because they already tease you relentlessly for how soft you get when it comes to me,” she continued lightly, like it was the most obvious fact in the world. “And I would hate to give them more material.”

Her smile widened—playful, affectionate, impossible—and she bumped her shoulder into his, gentle.

“Besides,” she added, lowering her voice just a touch as she looked back at the pan, “I kind of like having you all to myself as my secret ingredient.”

And then she took another bite, deliberately slow, eyes still on him like she was enjoying the brownie… and the way he looked at her… equally.

Declan let out a quiet laugh when her eyes widened—low and warm, the kind that lived in his chest more than his throat. He didn’t rush to answer her. He never did when she was in this mode—half-awake, half-victorious, glowing like she’d just discovered something good and intended to keep it.

He watched her take that bite like it was the main event.

Watched her shoulders drop. Watched her eyelids flutter. Watched the exact moment the brownie did what it was supposed to do.

And yeah—his thumb kept tracing those slow, absent circles at her knuckles, like his body already knew this was where it wanted to be while she delivered judgment.

“Extremely good,” he repeated softly, mouth tipping into a grin that was equal parts smug and proud. “I’ll take it.”

When she declared the end of questionable station brownies, his brows lifted, amused.

“Oh, they’re done for,” he agreed easily. “You just changed lives.”

He glanced at the pan like it really was a conquered territory, then back at her—sleepy, smug, brilliant.

“Our brownies,” he echoed when she said it, like the word fit his mouth just fine. Like it belonged there. “Community service. I’ll back that.”

At her suggestion that they not tell the guys he helped, he snorted quietly and shook his head, leaning a fraction closer.

“Yeah,” he said, fond. “Let’s not give them more ammunition. They already think I’ve lost my edge.”

His gaze dropped to her for a beat, softer now, unguarded in that way he only ever was with her.

“And for the record,” he added, lowering his voice just enough to match hers, “I don’t care.”

He bumped her shoulder back gently when she nudged him, his hand lifting to rest at her waist this time—steady, familiar, like it had always belonged there.

“They can tease all they want,” he continued, eyes still on her face, watching the way she took that slow bite, watching the way she held his gaze. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

At her secret ingredient line, his smile softened into something quieter—something that looked a lot like devotion if anyone had been close enough to see it.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I like being yours.”

He leaned in just enough to brush a kiss to her temple—unhurried, warm, affectionate—then stayed there for a second longer than necessary, forehead resting lightly against her hair.

“Eat,” he said gently, thumb giving her knuckles one more slow circle. “I’ll guard the rest.”

And he meant it—her, the brownies, this whole soft little kingdom they’d built in the kitchen—standing right there with her, nowhere else he’d rather be.

Hattie’s mouth tipped into that pleased, private smile that always made her feel a little like she was getting away with something.

Not because he was saying the right things—though he was, of course he was—but because he was standing there looking at her like this was the prize. Like she was.

And she was so stupidly, helplessly smitten that it made her want to do something sweet and a little extra, just because she could.

Her eyes flicked toward the couch in the open living area—TV still glowing quietly in the background, the scent of chocolate hanging between rooms—and then back up to his face with a spark that said I have an idea.

“Okay,” she said, voice light but decisive, like she’d just been promoted to CEO of Dessert. “Hold on. Don’t move.”

She slipped out from his side just long enough to grab two small bowls from the cabinet, the kind they usually used for cereal or whatever excuse she could come up with to eat something on the couch. She set them on the counter beside the pan, then scooped the remainder of her corner piece into one with deliberate care.

Then she turned and pointed at him—one finger, bossy and cute about it.

“Your corner,” she directed, tone playful but completely certain he’d obey. “In the other bowl.”

She watched him with a satisfied little smile as she gathered a bit more brownie from the pan—just a little extra, because why would they be reasonable about this—and added it to her bowl, then did the same to his, making them feel like treats instead of “samples.”

She grabbed two spoons, dropped one into each bowl with a light clink, and looked up at him again like she was building a ritual.

“Perfect,” she murmured, pleased with herself.

Then she crossed to the freezer and pulled out the vanilla ice cream, cold air rolling around her hands. She didn’t overthink it—she just scooped one clean, generous scoop into her bowl, then one into his, the ice cream sitting right on top like a soft white crown.

She slid the container back into the freezer, shut the door with her hip, and turned around with an expression that was pure mission accomplished.

“Alright,” she said, stepping back into his space.

And because she was who she was, she made the last part feel like a game.

She nudged both bowls toward him, then lifted her chin and gave him a look that was sweet, flirty, and absolutely in charge of nothing except the vibe.

“Hold these,” she instructed, like it was an honor. Like it was his job.

Once he had them, she pointed toward the couch just a few steps away, finger still out like a tiny general giving orders.

“Go,” she told him, eyes bright. “Back to the couch. We’re eating our treats and finishing the movie.”

A beat—her smile turning softer as she watched him, because she couldn’t help it.

“And you better keep your hands steady,” she added, teasing, already following him across the open space, “because I’m not scraping ice cream off the rug. That would be tragic.”

Declan didn’t move at first—because the way she said it, the way she slipped into command so naturally, had caught him mid-smile.

He watched her.

Really watched her.

The quiet competence. The tiny bossy gestures. The way she treated dessert like a ceremony instead of a snack. The way she moved around the kitchen like it was already muscle memory—like this wasn’t a special moment she was trying to get right, but a life she was already living.

His mouth curved wider the longer she went on, amusement softening into something fonder, heavier in his chest.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said easily when she pointed at him, tone playful but sincere, already stepping in to do exactly what she’d told him. He scooped his corner into the bowl just like she asked—careful, deliberate, like it mattered. Like she mattered.

When she added extra brownie to both bowls, his brows lifted.

“Oh, we’re spoiling ourselves now,” he murmured, approving.

And then the ice cream.

He watched her crown each bowl like it was a reward, not an afterthought, and something warm tugged low in his chest—the kind of feeling that came from realizing this was how she loved people. Thoughtfully. Generously. With intention.

When she nudged the bowls toward him, he stepped in close enough that their shoulders brushed as he took them from her hands, steadying them without looking down.

“I’ve got it,” he said, calm and certain. “No casualties.”

He followed her finger toward the couch, walking slow on purpose, like he didn’t want to rush whatever this was. He kept the bowls balanced, careful, but his head turned just enough to glance at her beside him—eyes warm, mouth tipped with a quiet smile.

“For the record,” he added lightly, “this is a very good idea.”

When they reached the couch, he lowered himself first, setting the bowls down on the coffee table with practiced care, then reached for her without thinking—one hand settling at her waist, guiding her in like it was instinct.

“Come here,” he said softly, not an order—an invitation.

Once she was tucked in beside him again, he pulled the blanket back over her legs, reclaiming the spot like nothing had changed except the addition of dessert. His arm settled around her shoulders, thumb brushing a slow, familiar line along her arm.

He picked up his spoon, then paused, glancing at her with that look—the one that said you’re my favorite part.

“You do realize,” he murmured, gentle and amused, “this is exactly how you get me to do whatever you want.”

And then, finally, he took a bite—eyes closing briefly in appreciation before opening again to look at her.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, satisfied. “Worth every rule you made.”

And he leaned back into the couch with her tucked against him, movie playing, brownies cooling in the background no longer needed—perfectly content to stay right there, holding her, letting her lead them through another soft, ordinary, extraordinary moment.

Hattie followed him like it was the most natural thing in the world—like she wasn’t trailing behind a six-foot-something man carrying dessert like it was precious cargo, like her heart wasn’t doing that warm, stupid little flip every time he did exactly what she’d told him to do.

Yes, ma’am.

It echoed in her head in the best way.

Not because she needed to be in charge—she didn’t. It was the opposite. It was the way he could be steady and obedient to her little requests without losing any of what made him Declan. The way he could indulge her and still feel like the safest thing in the room. The way he didn’t make her feel silly for liking the small rituals. He just… followed. Like it pleased him to.

She stayed close as they crossed the open space to the living area, shoulder nearly brushing his back, eyes catching on the careful set of his hands around the bowls. His focus was calm, precise—like he was on a quiet mission and she was the only person who mattered enough to do it right for.

She smiled to herself, soft and smug.

Because she did realize it was a very good idea.

Sweet treats. Warm couch. Blanket. Her tucked into his side where he liked her.

It wasn’t manipulation. It was… strategy. The kind that felt like love.

He got them set up with that same steady competence—bowls placed down safely, spoons ready—like he was making sure nothing could ruin the little moment she’d built. And when Hattie climbed in beside him, the blanket that had been wrapped around her all earlier finally turned into what it was always meant to be: theirs.

She pulled it over both of their laps, scooting closer until she was snug against him, her shoulder tucked under his arm like it had a claim there. His warmth seeped into her immediately. Her favorite kind of comfort—earned, chosen, constant.

Hattie tilted her head up at him with that bright, satisfied look she couldn’t quite hide.

“You’re really good at following directions,” she said, voice light and affectionate, like a compliment and a tease tangled together. “I think I’m gonna make a habit out of giving them more often.”

She nudged his side with her elbow just enough to make him look down at her, pretending to study his expression with exaggerated focus.

“Yeah,” she mused playfully, drawing out the word. “You listen well, you’re calm under pressure, you carry desserts like a professional… I could get used to this.”

She reached for her bowl, then paused just long enough to lean in and press a quick, sweet kiss to his jaw—one that said thank you and I love you and I know exactly what I’m doing all at once.

When she spoke again, her tone softened—not teasing now, just honest in that quiet way that always found him.

“You know you’re the best part of all this, right?” she murmured, fingers brushing his wrist before wrapping around her spoon. “Not the brownies. Not the movie. Just… you. Right here.”

Then, because sincerity always made her heart beat too fast, she hid it the only way she knew how—by grinning up at him again, full of warmth and mischief.

“But also,” she added, “I’m not above bribing you with dessert to keep you that way.”

She settled back in, spoon in hand, perfectly pleased with her own planning—already cozy, already fed, already wrapped up in the man who made “yes, ma’am” sound like the easiest promise in the world.