Declan felt it—the way she followed him, the way her presence stayed right at his back like gravity—before he even turned around. He always did. It was a quiet awareness, the kind that didn’t spike or demand attention, just settled in his chest like certainty.

When she nudged him and said it—really good at following directions—his mouth tipped into that slow, crooked smile that only showed up when it was just her.

“Careful,” he murmured, low and amused, glancing down at her from the couch once she’d tucked herself in. “You keep saying things like that and I’m gonna start thinking you enjoy bossing me around.”

He adjusted the blanket without thinking, tugging it higher over both of them, making sure it covered her legs completely before settling his arm back around her shoulders. His hand rested easy there—heavy enough to be grounding, light enough to never cage.

Her elbow nudge worked. He looked down at her fully now, eyes warm, attentive, unhurried.

“I listen,” he said simply, like it wasn’t a brag. Like it was just a fact. “Especially when it’s you.”

The kiss to his jaw landed soft and sweet, and he let his eyes close for half a second at the feel of it—just long enough to savor it—before opening them again and brushing his thumb along her arm in response.

When she said he was the best part of all this, something in his chest shifted—subtle, but deep. The kind of feeling he didn’t rush to deflect or joke away. He held it. Let it sit.

His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter.

“I know,” he said gently. Not cocky. Not assumed. Just steady. “And you’re mine.”

He leaned his forehead briefly against hers, just enough to share the space, then pressed a soft kiss there—unshowy, familiar, full of intention.

“And for the record,” he added, pulling back just enough to look at her with that fond, almost-smiling seriousness, “I’d carry dessert for you even if there wasn’t a bribe.”

He reached for his bowl, scooping up a bite, but didn’t eat it right away. Instead, he held the spoon out toward her, brows lifting slightly in a silent offer.

“Though,” he conceded, amusement threading back in, “I’m not above accepting one.”

He settled back into the couch with her tucked against him, movie murmuring in the background, brownies and ice cream cooling into something perfect between bites. His thumb resumed its slow, absent circles at her shoulder, his attention split exactly where he wanted it—half on the screen, half on her, fully content.

“Stay right there,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I’ve got you.”

Hattie’s whole chest went soft at the way he said it—and you’re mine—like it wasn’t a line, like it was a fact he’d been living by the whole time.

She didn’t even try to pretend she wasn’t affected. What was the point, with him this close? With his arm around her like a steady bracket, with the blanket pulled up over both of them like he’d decided this was the perimeter and nothing got past it.

She let her eyes linger on him for a beat too long, taking in the quiet seriousness in his face, the warmth threaded through it, the way he looked at her like he’d already chosen her a thousand times today.

Then he offered her the spoon.

Brows up. Silent. Patient.

Hattie’s mouth tipped into a pleased, wicked little smile that didn’t have claws, just confidence.

“You do enjoy being useful,” she murmured, voice low and fond, and then she leaned in and took the bite from the spoon—slow on purpose, eyes never leaving his.

Chocolate. Ice cream. Warm brownie underneath.

Her lashes fluttered once, unavoidable, and she made a small, satisfied sound before she could stop it.

When she swallowed, she didn’t say thank you like a polite person. She said it like Hattie.

She lifted her chin an inch, smug and sweet at the same time. “Okay. That’s… obscene.”

Her gaze flicked to him again, bright with amusement. “You can’t be saying stay right there, I’ve got you and also feeding me dessert like this. Pick a struggle.”

She shifted closer—not because she needed to, because she wanted to—and tucked her shoulder more firmly under his arm, letting his weight settle where it clearly liked to live.

“And for the record,” she added, softer now, the teasing easing into something warm, “I do enjoy bossing you around.”

A beat.

“But only because you make it so easy,” she finished, and her smile went gentler, sweeter, like she couldn’t help showing him exactly how loved he was.

She reached for her own bowl, scooped up a bite, and this time she held the spoon toward him—an echo of his offer, a quiet little back at you.

“Your turn,” she said, eyes shining. “Since you’re apparently running a very organized operation tonight.”

The movie murmured on—voices, music, that cozy hum she’d wanted—and she stayed exactly where he’d told her to, like she was proving a point.

Not because he asked.

Because she liked being kept.

Declan didn’t rush the moment.

He watched her take the bite—watched the way she did it on purpose, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on his like she knew exactly what she was doing to him. The little sound she made afterward hit him low and warm, the kind of reaction that stayed with you longer than the taste of chocolate ever could.

His mouth curved, not smug—never smug—but deeply, undeniably pleased.

“Obscene,” he repeated quietly, like he was filing it away as a personal victory. His thumb brushed once at her shoulder, slow and grounding, as if to say yeah, I know. Worth it.

When she teased him—pick a struggle—he let out a soft huff of a laugh, forehead tipping forward until it hovered just close enough to hers to share air.

“I’m very capable of multitasking,” he murmured. “Keeping you right here and feeding you dessert feels… manageable.”

She tucked closer, and he adjusted without thinking—arm tightening just a fraction, blanket shifted so it stayed snug around her back. He liked the way she fit there. Liked that she chose it. Liked that she said she enjoyed bossing him around and followed it immediately with softness.

“Easy,” he echoed gently. “That’s not an accident.”

Then she held the spoon out to him.

Declan’s gaze flicked from her eyes to the spoon and back again, something warm and fond settling behind his ribs. He leaned in and took the bite, careful not to scrape the spoon, eyes still on her like this was part of the ritual too.

He chewed, slow, thoughtful—more for show than necessity—and nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s a win.”

He reached out, catching her wrist lightly before she could pull the spoon away, thumb resting there in that familiar, anchoring way.

“And since we’re apparently taking turns,” he added, voice low and affectionate, “you should know… I don’t keep you because you listen.”

His thumb traced a small circle, matching the ones he’d been drawing all night.

“I keep you because you want to be here.”

He leaned back into the couch with her still tucked into his side, movie playing on, dessert balanced between them, the world narrowed down to this small, perfect pocket. His chin dipped, brushing the top of her head, and he pressed another quiet kiss into her hair—unhurried, certain.

“So,” he murmured, settling them both, “stay right there.”

Not a command.

A promise.

Declan didn’t move her.

That was the first thing he was careful about—about everything, really. He stayed exactly where he was, arm firm around her, shoulder relaxed, letting the weight of the moment settle instead of shifting it. The movie murmured on, forgotten but comforting, and the only thing that really registered was her breathing evening out against his side.

He glanced down at her, the way her lashes rested against her cheeks, the faint curve of her mouth like she was still half-smiling even when she wasn’t trying to. He loved that about her—how joy clung to her, even in the quiet.

His hand resumed its slow path at her waist, not restless, not searching—just there. Thumb circling, fingers warm through the fabric, a steady reassurance that didn’t need words. He liked knowing she could feel him. Liked knowing she let herself.

He shifted just enough to grab his spoon again, scooped up another bite, but didn’t offer it right away this time. He watched her for a second instead, head tipped slightly, expression open and fond.

“You look comfortable,” he murmured. “That’s my favorite version of you.”

He nudged the bowl a little closer to her so she wouldn’t have to reach, the motion automatic, practiced in the quiet ways that mattered. When he finally lifted the spoon again, it wasn’t teasing—it was gentle, patient.

His chin rested lightly against the top of her head, a subtle claim, a familiar shelter. Outside the couch, the house stayed calm—oven ticking as it cooled, evening light settling deeper into the rooms—but right there, everything felt held.

And Declan stayed exactly like that—present, attentive, quietly content—perfectly willing to let the rest of the night unfold at her pace, as long as she stayed tucked into him where she belonged.

Hattie didn’t move.

She just let him keep her there—tucked into his side like she belonged, like the world could do whatever it wanted outside the radius of his arm and it still wouldn’t reach her.

He nudged the bowl closer, considerate without making a show of it, and it made something warm bloom in her chest all over again. The quiet care. The constant check-ins that weren’t questions so much as instincts.

She angled her face up just enough to look at him when he murmured about her being comfortable, and she gave him a look that was equal parts pleased and obviously, like she could not believe he was still acting surprised by the fact that she loved being loved by him.

“That’s because you’re… aggressively good at this,” she told him, soft and smug, and then she leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to the underside of his jaw—just because she could. Just because he was there.

His spoon lifted again, patient, and she took another bite from it like she was making a point out of how willing she was to let him take care of her in small ways. She didn’t rush. Didn’t fidget. She let the dessert be sweet and warm and messy in that perfect way brownies were supposed to be when they met ice cream.

Then she scooped a bite for him—brownie and vanilla together—and held it out with a tiny lift of her brows.

“Open,” she said, not loud, not bossy like a drill sergeant—more like she was teasing him with a rule she knew he liked following.

When he leaned in and took it, careful, eyes still on her, Hattie’s grin turned helpless for a second. She swallowed her own bite and let her fingers slide over his wrist as if she needed to touch him just to confirm he was real.

“Mm,” she hummed, pleased. “Good boy.”

It slipped out before she could think too hard about it—soft, playful, not meant for anyone else in the world.

His thumb made one of those slow circles at her waist again, and Hattie melted closer with a quiet, satisfied sigh, like her body understood the assignment: stay here, enjoy this, let him keep you.

They ate like that—passing spoons back and forth, occasionally stealing bites from each other’s bowls, trading little looks that said I can’t believe this is my life and don’t you dare get up and you’re my favorite thing without either of them needing to say it out loud.

The movie kept going, dialogue washing over them like background music, and Hattie caught herself smiling at nothing more than the weight of his arm and the warmth of his chest and the fact that he kept kissing the top of her head like it was a habit he’d never want to break.

By the time the credits rolled, the bowls on the coffee table were scraped clean—two spoons abandoned inside them like evidence of a crime they’d gladly commit again.

Neither of them moved.

Declan stayed exactly where he was, his arm still around her, hand resting at her side like it had found its home and refused to leave. Hattie stayed tucked in, cheek near his chest, one hand spread lightly over his shirt, fingers curled there with quiet ownership.

The credits music filled the room.

Hattie tipped her head back just enough to look up at him, her eyes bright, her mouth still curved like she’d won something.

“Okay,” she said softly, a little sing-song. “Important meeting.”

She let the beat hang, just because she liked watching him focus on her.

“How do we spend the rest of our day off?” she asked, voice warm with the options like they were gifts. “We can keep cuddling right here and watch another movie…”

Her fingers traced a lazy line along his side, testing how much she could get away with without him calling her on it.

“Or,” she continued, playful, “you can pick something else for us to do.”

A pause—her eyes flicked to his mouth, then back to his eyes, like she couldn’t help it.

“Or,” she finished, sweetness laced with trouble, “do you want me to go back into bossy mode and tell you what to do?”

She held his gaze, all soft confidence and love, like whatever he chose was going to be perfect as long as it was with him—and she didn’t move an inch, making it very clear that option one already had her vote.

Declan didn’t rush his answer.

He never did with her—especially not now, not when she was tucked into his side like that, warm and trusting and exactly where she belonged. Instead, he leaned into her first, slow and deliberate, chin dipping so his cheek brushed the crown of her head. The contact was barely there, but it was intentional—the kind that said I’m here without needing the words.

His arm stayed firm around her, a steady bracket at her back, hand warm and settled at her side like it had found its natural resting place and had no intention of leaving. His thumb kept tracing those slow, familiar circles at her waist—unconscious, grounding, a rhythm he’d learned by heart. A reminder, for both of them.

Right here.
Together.
Safe.

He smiled when she called him aggressively good at this, the corner of his mouth tipping up in that quiet, pleased way he got when she noticed things he never thought to name. His eyes softened, gaze dropping to her face, taking in the way she looked curled into him—relaxed, content, glowing with that post-nap warmth that always made something in his chest go tender and protective all at once.

“Yeah?” he murmured back, voice low and fond, almost a hum against her hair. “Funny. I was thinkin’ you make it real easy.”

Her kiss under his jaw pulled a soft exhale out of him before he could stop it. He tilted his head just enough to return it, lips pressing into her hair—slow, unhurried, lingering a beat longer than necessary. The kind of kiss he didn’t think about because it felt like instinct now. Like breathing.

When she held the spoon up and said “Open,” he didn’t hesitate. No teasing. No pretending to resist. He leaned in and took the bite like it was exactly where he wanted to be, eyes still on her, attention never wavering. Chocolate and vanilla melted together on his tongue, but it was the look on her face that made it better—the way she watched him like this small act mattered.

And when she murmured “Good boy,”—

He stilled for half a beat.

Just enough for the words to land.

Then his thumb pressed a little more deliberately at her waist, the circles slowing, deepening, grounding. His head dipped until his lips hovered near her temple, breath warm against her skin.

“You say that like you know what you’re doin’,” he said quietly, amusement threaded through warmth, through something unmistakably affectionate. “Dangerous information to give me.”

He didn’t pull away. Didn’t change his posture or loosen his hold. If anything, he leaned into her more, letting her feel exactly how steady he was—how content.

They ate like that, unhurried and close, trading bites, sharing spoons, stealing tastes from each other’s bowls without apology. Every so often, he pressed another kiss into her hair, or the top of her head, or her temple—small, habitual gestures that spoke louder than anything he could’ve said.

When the bowls were empty and the credits rolled, neither of them moved.

Declan stayed exactly where he was, arm still around her, hand resting at her side like it had found home and refused to budge. The room was quiet now except for the soft swell of the credits music and the faint hum of the house settling around them.

He felt her hand spread lightly over his shirt, fingers curled there with quiet ownership, and it made his chest ache in the best way.

When she tipped her head back and said, “Okay. Important meeting,” his attention snapped fully to her. His brows lifted slightly, expression shifting into mock-serious focus like he was clocking in for duty.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said lightly. “I’m present.”

At “How do we spend the rest of our day off?” his gaze flicked down to her fingers tracing his side, then back to her eyes. His expression softened even more, something warm and certain settling in his chest.

“Well,” he said, thoughtful but clearly not conflicted, “option one’s got a lot goin’ for it. You’re already settled. I’m already comfortable. And I like you right here.”

When she added “Or you can pick something else for us to do,” his mouth curved again, slow and fond.

“Could,” he agreed easily. “But I don’t feel much urgency to improve on this.”

And then she said it—“Or do you want me to go back into bossy mode and tell you what to do?”

His gaze dropped to her mouth for a split second before returning to her eyes, something warm and unmistakably devoted there. He leaned his forehead gently against hers, noses almost brushing, voice dropping just a notch—softer, more intimate.

“I like all your modes,” he said honestly. “But I gotta say… bossy Hattie who doesn’t move and keeps me right here?”

His arm tightened just slightly around her, affectionate, certain, like the choice had already been made.

“That one’s real hard to argue with.”

He brushed his thumb along her side again, slow and grounding, the way he always did when he wanted her to feel held without being crowded.

“So my vote’s we stay put,” he continued quietly. “Another movie. Maybe a nap. Maybe you tell me what to do later.”

A beat.

Then a small, unmistakably pleased smile.

“And whatever we pick,” he finished, leaning into her fully now, voice steady and sure, “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

He stayed right there with her—warm, attentive, completely content—like the rest of the day could take its time, because he already had everything he needed.

Hattie let his last line settle like a warm weight on her ribs.

I’m not goin’ anywhere.

He didn’t say it like a dare or a promise he might have to wrestle himself into later. He said it like gravity. Like truth. Like the simplest thing in the world.

And the thing was—Hattie believed him.

Which was exactly why her brain did what it always did when she felt too safe: it got mischievous.

She studied him for a beat, eyes flicking over the details that always told her more than words ever could. The way his arm stayed firm at her back. The way his hand remained planted at her side like it had staked a claim. The slow, steady circles of his thumb at her waist—unconscious, consistent, grounding.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

So she didn’t have to brace.

She could just… be.

And if she could be, then she could also be a menace.

Hattie’s mouth tipped into a small, satisfied smile. She shifted just enough to look up at him, the movement minimal—because she wasn’t actually leaving his hold, and neither of them pretended she was.

“Okay,” she murmured, businesslike. “Decision has been made.”

Then she added, with the calm authority of someone who had been appointed to an imaginary position five seconds ago, “As Chairwoman of This Couch, I’m invoking my executive powers.”

She reached for the remote without asking, because asking would imply there was any other outcome. Her fingers closed around it, and she felt his arm subtly tighten as she leaned forward—like his body had a reflex for keeping her tethered even when she stretched.

Good.

That was exactly the kind of cooperation she liked.

She clicked out of the credits. The screen shifted, menu glow washing the room in soft blue. Hattie scrolled like she was selecting something important—like she wasn’t, in reality, choosing a prop.

Because she had no intention of watching. Not really.

Not when Declan was right there. Not when his hand was warm at her side and her own pulse had been doing obnoxious things ever since he said vote and stay put and not goin’ anywhere like he meant it down to the bone.

Hattie paused on a title and let her eyes widen just a fraction, as if she’d stumbled across cinematic gold.

“Oh,” she said, pleased with herself. “Perfect.”

She angled the screen just enough that he could see it too, because she wanted him to know she’d chosen something ridiculous on purpose.

Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.

Hattie’s smile turned downright angelic.

“There,” she declared. “That’s our next movie.”

And then, before the world could argue, she hit play.

The opening music started—overly dramatic, absurd in the best way—and Hattie didn’t even pretend this was about the film. She immediately turned her full attention back to the real priority: placement.

“Alright,” she said, brisk. “Adjust.”

She didn’t shove him. She didn’t have to. She just put her palm on his chest and guided, patient but decisive, until he sank lower into the cushions. Until his shoulders found a more reclined angle. Until his arm could do what she wanted it to do—wrap around her properly.

Then she wedged herself in the way she liked best: tucked between him and the back cushions, snug and sheltered, like the couch had been built to hold exactly this shape. She nudged her hip closer, eliminating any remaining space. She hooked her fingers lightly into his shirt at his ribs like a tether.

His arm stayed around her without question. His hand slid, adjusted, settled—warm and heavy at her side. His thumb resumed its slow circles like nothing had changed, like everything was exactly as it should be.

Hattie exhaled, satisfied.

“Better,” she murmured to herself, and then—because she couldn’t help it—she rearranged him one more time. She guided his forearm higher across her middle, tucked it in so it was secure, then laced her fingers through his hand and pinned it there like a seal.

“Hold,” she instructed softly.

Declan didn’t say anything.

He just did it—fingers curling around hers, grip firming in that quiet, steady way that made her chest ache and her smile go smug at the same time.

Hattie settled her cheek to his chest and listened to his breathing. Felt the steady rise and fall beneath her ear. Felt the warmth of him at her back, at her side, around her like a boundary line the world wasn’t allowed to cross.

On the TV, a tomato rolled ominously across the screen like it was about to commit a crime.

Hattie’s lips twitched.

“This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever chosen,” she whispered, not bothered in the slightest.

She waited a few seconds—long enough for the movie to make an earnest attempt at being serious—then shifted, just barely, the kind of movement that wasn’t about comfort.

It was about testing.

She let her shoulder press a little more into him. Let her thigh slide a fraction. Let her fingers give his hand the tiniest tug, as if she might steal him closer than close.

His thumb slowed—just for a beat—then deepened its pressure at her waist like a silent answer.

Hattie smiled into his shirt.

There it was.

So she pushed her luck, because she was Hattie and because he’d just told her he wasn’t going anywhere.

A minute later, she felt his body make the smallest adjustment—barely there, like he might shift his leg or resettle his shoulder.

Hattie’s hand immediately slid to his side, palm firm in a quiet correction.

“Uh-uh,” she murmured, sweet as sugar. “Don’t move. You’re perfect.”

Declan went still again.

No words. Just compliance. Just that steady, contained patience he had for her nonsense.

Hattie’s grin widened, pleased with herself in a way that was almost embarrassing.

She tipped her head back just enough to look up at him. His gaze was already on her—warm, amused, attentive. The kind of look that made her feel both seen and spoiled.

So she rewarded him.

Not with words. Not with anything that would break the rule she’d just set.

Just a slow kiss to the underside of his jaw—deliberate, unhurried—then another softer one near his throat, like punctuation.

Then she settled back into place as if nothing had happened, cheek to his chest, fingers still threaded with his, his arm still locked around her like it belonged there.

On-screen, the tomatoes continued their ridiculous reign of terror.

Hattie watched for approximately ten seconds before her eyes drifted shut again, not because she was tired—

because she liked how it felt to be held while she misbehaved.

Her mouth curved, satisfied.

“Good,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “We’re staying right here.”

And she did what she’d decided from the start: she didn’t watch the movie at all.

She just stayed wedged in, snug and sheltered, being a brat on purpose—measuring the day in tiny, stolen moments and the silent, steady way Declan kept choosing her without saying a single new word.

Declan felt it the second she shifted.

Not just the movement—though he noticed that too, every small adjustment, every deliberate nudge—but the intent behind it. The way she tested the edges because she knew there weren’t any sharp ones left. The way she settled deeper because she trusted the ground wouldn’t give out beneath her.

He didn’t tense when she took the remote. Didn’t flinch when she guided him back, palm to his chest like a quiet directive. He went easily, willingly, letting himself sink lower into the couch because it put her exactly where she wanted to be—tucked in, sheltered, claimed.

When she said “Adjust,” his mouth curved before he could stop it.

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured, voice low and amused, already shifting to give her what she wanted before she had to say it twice.

Her body fit against him like it had been doing this forever. Like his arm had learned the exact shape of her without him ever needing to think about it. He wrapped it around her properly this time—firm, secure, no daylight—hand settling at her side with that familiar weight that said you’re not goin’ anywhere either.

When she guided his forearm higher and laced their fingers together, pinning his hand in place, he didn’t resist. His fingers curled around hers immediately, grip steady and warm.

“Got it,” he said quietly at her “Hold,” thumb brushing once over her knuckles in confirmation.

The movie started—ridiculous, dramatic, objectively terrible—and he barely spared it a glance. His attention stayed on her: the way she exhaled when she was satisfied, the way her cheek settled against his chest, the way her body softened once she’d rearranged the world exactly to her liking.

At her whispered “This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever chosen,” he let out a quiet huff of a laugh, chest vibrating under her cheek.

“Strongly agree,” he replied softly. “But I’m not complainin’.”

When she pressed closer—testing—he felt it immediately. Her shoulder. Her thigh. The subtle tug of her fingers. His thumb slowed, then pressed more firmly at her waist, circles deepening like an answer she hadn’t even asked out loud.

I’m here. I’ve got you.

So when she corrected him—“Uh-uh. Don’t move. You’re perfect.”—he went still without hesitation. No sigh. No teasing protest. Just settled deeper into the role she’d assigned him, arm firm, presence steady.

“Alright,” he murmured, voice warm with amusement. “Not movin’.”

Her kiss under his jaw drew a slow breath out of him. The second one—near his throat—made his hand tighten just a fraction at her side, protective and fond all at once. He tipped his head slightly, letting her do it, letting her take the moment she clearly wanted.

When she settled back in like nothing had happened, he smiled down at her, gaze lingering on the curve of her mouth, the way her lashes rested against her cheeks when her eyes drifted closed again.

At her soft “Good. We’re staying right here,” he leaned his cheek against the top of her head, lips brushing her hair.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, thumb resuming its slow, grounding circles. “We are.”

He didn’t try to move. Didn’t reach for the remote. Didn’t comment on the tomatoes wreaking havoc on-screen.

He just stayed exactly where she put him—arm around her, hand locked with hers, body a steady line she could lean into as much as she wanted.

Letting her be a menace.
Letting her be comfortable.
Letting her misbehave in peace.

And choosing her, again and again, in every small, silent way that mattered.

Hattie felt the danger of it immediately—the way her body started to soften the second she settled into him properly.

The couch was warm. His chest was warmer. His thumb kept that slow, steady circle at her waist like a lullaby written in muscle memory. And if she let herself do the normal thing—curl up, get comfortable, let the movie play—she was going to be out cold again in ten minutes.

Absolutely not.

She didn’t do naps twice in one afternoon.

(Except… she did. Sometimes. But she wasn’t going to admit that.)

So instead of melting, Hattie lifted her head just slightly and shifted with purpose—small, deliberate movements that had nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with mischief. She reached for his hand where it was laced with hers and, without asking, peeled their fingers apart.

Not in a rejection. In a reassignment.

“Mm,” she murmured, voice sweet, bossy in that way that meant she was about to cause a problem on purpose.

She guided his hand lower—not indecent, not rushed—just down from her ribs to the curve of her hip, settling his palm there with calm precision like she was placing it where it belonged.

“Stay,” she instructed softly.

Then she let go.

Declan didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

His hand stayed exactly where she put it—heavy, warm, anchored—fingers flexing once like his body had registered the new instruction and agreed.

Hattie’s mouth tipped in a satisfied little smile. Good.

Now she could keep herself awake.

She slid her own hand under the hem of his shirt with slow intention, fingertips meeting warm skin. Not grabbing. Not rushing. Just tracing—testing the lines she already knew were there, like she was mapping him for fun. Her nails skimmed lightly over the definition of his stomach, following the ridges and dips with quiet, bratty curiosity.

Her touch wasn’t needy.

It was incendiary.

Occasionally, she drifted lower on purpose—not crossing any line, just hovering close enough to be a threat. Her fingers played near the edge of his sweats, brushing the fabric, lingering there like she was considering her options and enjoying the fact that he had no idea which one she’d pick.

Then she’d drift back up again, slow, innocent—like she hadn’t meant anything by it at all.

Like she wasn’t absolutely doing it to get a reaction.

Declan remained still, just like she’d ordered earlier. But Hattie felt the proof anyway—in the way his hand at her hip firmed, pressure deepening without moving. In the way his thumb paused for half a beat and then resumed, slower now, more deliberate. In the way his breathing shifted against her hair, controlled and quiet like he was refusing to give her the satisfaction of any sound.

Hattie’s eyes flicked to the TV.

A tomato rolled dramatically across the screen, ominous and stupid.

She made a face, unimpressed.

Then she turned her attention right back to the real entertainment.

She slid her hand higher, fingertips tracing the hard plane of his chest beneath the shirt, then back down again—unhurried, methodical. Like she was testing what kind of trouble she could start without ever technically starting it.

Her shoulder pressed into him just a little more. Her knee shifted. A tiny adjustment that put her closer, tighter in the wedge between him and the back cushions—snug enough that the warmth of him was unavoidable.

She tilted her head back just enough to glance up at him.

His gaze was already on her—steady, warmed through with that quiet, indulgent patience he had for her nonsense. The kind that made her feel powerful and spoiled at the same time.

Hattie smiled sweetly, like she’d done nothing wrong in her entire life.

Then she slid her fingers down his stomach again and let them hover at the edge of his waistband—just for a second. Just long enough to make it mean something.

She didn’t push further.

She didn’t need to.

Instead, she drew a lazy line back upward, fingertips skimming his skin like a promise she wasn’t cashing yet.

His hand on her hip tightened again—subtle, unmistakable—holding her in place like he was reminding her she was still exactly where she belonged, even while she acted like a menace.

Hattie let out a quiet little hum, pleased with herself.

“See?” she whispered, almost to the room, almost to him. “If I cuddle normally, I’ll fall asleep.”

She shifted her hips under his palm—just a fraction, just enough to make his hand notice—and then she stilled again, letting the tension sit there between them like a live wire.

Her fingers traced one more slow pattern under his shirt, gentle and taunting, and then she settled her cheek back to his chest like she was the picture of innocence.

The movie continued being ridiculous in the background.

Hattie didn’t watch a second of it.

She stayed right where she wanted—tucked in, held, awake on pure stubbornness and mischief—making sure the day stayed exactly the way she liked it: warm, safe, and just bratty enough to keep her heart racing.

Declan felt it—the shift from comfort into intention—the second she moved his hand and gave that quiet little “stay.”

He didn’t fight it. Didn’t question it. He never did with her.

His palm stayed warm and solid at her hip, fingers resting there like they’d been put somewhere important on purpose. When she let go, he didn’t chase her hand back or tighten his grip—just held steady, exactly as instructed, because that was the thing she trusted most about him: he listened.

And when her fingers slipped under his shirt, exploratory and light, his breath changed before his body did.

Not a sound. Just a deeper inhale. A slower exhale.

He let her trace him. Let her test him. Let her be exactly as mischievous as she wanted to be without meeting her with anything sharp or overwhelming. His thumb paused at her hip for half a second—long enough for her to notice—then resumed its steady path, grounding instead of escalating.

He tipped his head slightly so his cheek rested against the top of her hair, voice low when he finally spoke, warm with that familiar patience.

“You’re playin’ a dangerous game for someone who says she’s just tryin’ to stay awake,” he murmured—not a warning, not a threat. An observation. Amused. Fond.

When she shifted under his hand, just enough to be noticed, his fingers tightened in response—not possessive, not demanding. Just enough pressure to remind her that she was held. Chosen. Exactly where she wanted to be.

“Mm,” he added quietly when she whispered her reasoning, a hint of a smile in his voice. “Yeah. I see your logic.”

He didn’t move her hand away. Didn’t trap it. Just let it rest where it landed, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath her cheek like he wasn’t about to let the moment tip into anything she hadn’t decided on yet.

His other arm adjusted slightly around her back—not pulling her closer, just securing the space she’d already claimed—keeping her tucked in, sheltered, exactly as she liked.

“You stay right there,” he said softly, echoing her earlier instruction back to her now, thumb pressing a little more firmly at her hip like punctuation. “I’ve got you.”

On the screen, the movie kept being absurd.

Declan didn’t look at it once.

His attention stayed on the way she fit against him, the quiet hum she made when she was pleased with herself, the way she tested and teased because she felt safe enough to do it.

He let her keep him right where she wanted him—steady, indulgent, unflinching—content to hold the line while she misbehaved.

And if she stayed awake?

Good.

If she didn’t?

He’d still be right here when she drifted.

Either way, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Hattie didn’t even pretend to look at the screen. The killer tomatoes could have started singing an aria for all she cared; the only entertainment she needed was the frantic, thumping rhythm of Declan’s heart against her palm.

Dangerous game.

She liked the sound of that. She liked even more that he knew exactly what she was doing and was letting her get away with it.

Her fingers, already warm from the heat of his skin, grew bolder. She stopped tracing the definition of his abs—fun as that was—and let her hand drift south, following the line of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his grey sweatpants. She felt his stomach muscles contract sharply under her touch, a reflex he couldn’t quite smother, but to his credit, he didn’t pull away. He didn’t grab her wrist. He just breathed, that heavy, deliberate intake of air that told her he was counting backward from ten.

She loved it when he had to count.

"Don't look at the TV, Declan," she whispered, the words barely more than a breath against his neck. She tilted her head back, catching his gaze. His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, and fixed entirely on her face. "Look at me."

He obeyed instantly. Of course he did.

She held his gaze, her expression innocent, while her hand under his shirt slipped past the elastic of his waistband. She wasn't subtle about it. She flattened her palm, sliding it down just far enough to graze the sensitive skin of his hip bone, then inward, teasing the very top edge of his boxers.

His entire body went rigid. The arm wrapped around her tightened like a steel band, trapping her against him, but he didn’t make a sound. He just watched her, his jaw set hard, waiting to see how much trouble she was planning to cause.

A lot, she decided.

She pressed her knee between his legs, shifting her weight so she was straddling his thigh beneath the blanket. The friction was immediate, but she ignored the delicious spark of it for herself to focus on him. She wanted to see the cracks in that famous Caldwell composure.

"You're so warm," she murmured, turning her face into his shoulder to hide her smirk.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she dipped her fingers deeper inside the waistband. She wasn’t touching him—not fully, not yet—but she was hovering in the danger zone, her knuckles brushing against the cotton of his boxers, teasing the heat radiating off him. She felt his hips buck, a microscopic, involuntary jerk upward into her hand, before he forced himself back down into the cushions.

He was trembling. Just a little. A fine, high-tension vibration that ran through his chest and into her own.

It was intoxicating. The big, capable firefighter who could carry her out of a burning building without breaking a sweat was currently being undone by three fingers and a little bit of bratty audacity.

She dragged her nails lightly, barely a scratch, across his lower stomach, right where the tension was highest. His head fell back against the cushion, his throat working as he swallowed down a groan, his eyes squeezing shut for a split second before snapping back open to pin her.

He looked wrecked. He looked desperate. And he was still perfectly, beautifully silent.
"You're doing so good," she praised, her voice dropping to a husky purr as she finally, mercilessly, cupped him through the fabric of his underwear. He was hard, heavy, and twitching against her palm. "Keeping perfectly still for me. Just like I asked."

She gave him a slow, firm squeeze, relishing the way his breath hitched and caught in his chest, abandoning the movie entirely to focus on the masterpiece of restraint she was unraveling in her arms.