Declan’s smirk softened the second she touched him.

Not vanished—never that—but it eased, reshaped itself into something warmer, heavier with care than triumph. He leaned into her palms like it was instinct, like her hands were an anchor he trusted without question. When she called him pleased with himself, a quiet breath of a laugh left him, low in his chest, more fond than cocky.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice calm, grounded, steady in a way that was unmistakably him. “Maybe I am.”

He didn’t pull away from her grip. Didn’t make her reach any farther than she already had. Instead, he followed her tug, lowering himself carefully, deliberately, until the space between them disappeared the way she’d asked.

He came down slow—not collapsing, not overwhelming—just enough that his weight was a presence, solid and sure, braced on his forearms so she was cocooned without being trapped. His forehead brushed her temple. His nose traced the line of her cheek in a gentle nuzzle, affectionate and reverent, like he was memorizing her again at this distance.

His cheek rested against hers, warm skin to warm skin, his breath slow and even now, matching hers on purpose. One hand slid to cradle the side of her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone in a soothing, unhurried stroke. The other settled at her side, firm and grounding, the way he always held her when he wanted her to feel safe more than anything else.

When she said you have all of it, his eyes closed for half a second.

“Only because you gave it to me,” he replied softly, honest and unguarded. “And I don’t take that lightly. Ever.”

He pressed a kiss into her hair, lingering there, then another at her temple—nothing rushed, nothing demanding. Just affection layered thick and steady, like a promise made without ceremony.

“You good?” he asked quietly, the question not about anything physical—about her. About the way she’d gone soft beneath him. About whether she felt held the way she wanted to be.

He shifted just enough to settle more comfortably against her, careful with his weight, careful with her, his presence wrapping around her like a shield instead of a claim.

Declan let out a slow breath and shifted just enough to get comfortable, careful not to break the cocoon they’d settled into. He eased his weight so it was shared with the mattress, then let his head fall back against the pillows, eyes lifting to the ceiling as if he were grounding himself there for a second.

Not pulling away.

Just settling.

His arm stayed around her, secure and unhurried, and his fingers resumed those familiar circles at her side—slow, absentminded, deeply practiced. The kind of touch that wasn’t about anything other than reassurance. About presence. About staying.

For a moment, he just breathed. Let the room quiet again. Let the fan hum. Let the world shrink down to the steady rise and fall of her beneath his arm.

“Every time,” he murmured softly, more to the ceiling than anyone else, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You act surprised like I’m not gonna end up right here.”

His fingers traced another gentle loop, thumb brushing the same path over and over, like he was marking time.

“I don’t need to go anywhere,” he added, voice low and calm, still looking up. “This is… good. You’re good.”

He turned his head slightly, cheek brushing her hair as he glanced down at her again, expression warm and unguarded.

“You can just stay,” he said quietly. “I’ll keep watch.”

And he did—head resting back, body relaxed, hand moving in those slow, steady circles—holding her there like it was the easiest, most natural thing he’d do all day.

The heavy, steady pressure of him was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth. Without it—without that solid wall of muscle and heat pressing her into the mattress—she felt like she might have just floated away, dissolved into the ether by the sheer force of the release he’d wrung out of her.

She let out a long, shaky exhale, her ribs settling as his weight became her blanket.

His words—Only because you gave it to me—settled deep in her chest, right alongside the lingering tremors of pleasure. That was the secret, the thing that made the "dangerous game" safe to play. He could wreck her, he could overwhelm her, he could take absolute control, but only because she had handed him the keys and dared him to drive. He knew the difference between taking and accepting, and God, she loved him for it.

She closed her eyes, nuzzling her face into the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him—soap, skin, and the faint, underlying musk of sex.

Then came the circles. That rhythmic, hypnotic motion of his thumb at her waist. It was muscle memory for him, she knew—a soothing mechanism he probably didn’t even realize he was doing—but it worked like a sedative on her frayed nerves.

And then, the quiet murmur to the ceiling. I’ll keep watch.

A soft, tired smile bloomed against his skin. It was the most Declan thing he could possibly say. They were in their locked apartment, on a safe street, with nothing more threatening than a discarded pair of sweatpants on the floor, but he was treating her rest like a shift. Like she was a precious cargo that needed active guarding while she powered down.

"You're ridiculous," she mumbled into his shoulder, though the words lacked any bite. They were muffled, heavy with sleep, and dripping with affection. "Guarding me from the ceiling fan. Very heroic."

She adjusted her leg, tangling it with his, needing that extra point of contact. She felt the rumble of his chest as he breathed, a slow, deep metronome that her own heart was already syncing up to.

This was why she poked the bear. This was why she teased him until his eyes went dark. Yes, the fireworks were spectacular, and the adrenaline was addictive, but this? This aftermath? This absolute, bone-deep certainty that she could close her eyes and the world would stop spinning because he was holding it steady for her?
That was the real high.

"Okay," she whispered, her voice fading as the exhaustion finally pulled her under. She pressed a clumsy, open-mouthed kiss to the pulse point on his neck, her hand going slack where it rested on his chest. "You keep watch, Caldwell. I'm going off duty."

She didn't need to check if he was still there. She knew he wouldn't move an inch. And knowing that, she let go completely.

Declan let out a low, quiet breath when she said it—ridiculous—more air than laughter, the sound vibrating gently against her where she was tucked into him.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice soft and unbothered, eyes still angled toward the ceiling fan like it genuinely deserved his attention. “Occupational hazard. Once you clock in, it’s hard to clock out.”

His thumb never stopped its slow path at her waist. If anything, it eased—smaller circles now, unhurried, intentional. The kind of touch that said rest without needing to say anything at all.

When she shifted her leg and tangled it with his, his body responded automatically. He adjusted just enough to make room, to anchor her there, his breathing deep and steady beneath her cheek.

At her whisper—off duty—his jaw softened, the tension draining out of him in real time.

“Copy that,” he replied quietly. “I’ll stay right here.”

He dipped his head just enough to press his mouth to her hair, not a kiss meant to wake her, just a warm, lingering contact. His arm stayed firm around her, protective without being tight, like he’d settled into a long watch he didn’t mind one bit.

Declan didn’t move after that.

Didn’t speak again.

He just stayed—breathing slow, fingers tracing those familiar circles, letting her weight sink fully into him while sleep claimed her—holding the world steady by doing absolutely nothing at all.

Morning didn’t arrive with a burst of sunlight; it crept in slowly, manifesting as a heavy, gray softness that filtered through the blinds and a warmth that was entirely too comfortable to leave.

Hattie surfaced from sleep in stages. First came the awareness of weight—the heavy duvet pulled up to her chin, and the even heavier arm draped across her waist. Then came the smell: the familiar, comforting blend of laundry detergent and Declan’s skin. She was cocooned, plastered against his side, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder where she had apparently been drooling for hours.

She shifted slightly, stretching her legs beneath the covers, expecting the slide of bare skin against the sheets.

Instead, she felt the soft, worn friction of cotton.

She paused, blinking her eyes open to stare at the fuzzy outline of his chest. She wiggled her hips. Definitely cotton.

She frowned, confusion fighting through the morning fog. The last thing she remembered was being utterly boneless, her body humming with aftershocks, mumbling something about him taking the night watch before she passed out cold. She certainly hadn’t had the coordination to find her pajama bottoms, let alone put them on.

A small, sleepy smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as the realization landed.

Declan.

Sometime in the night, while she was dead to the world, he must have gotten up. He’d found her shorts—probably kicked into a corner somewhere—and had gently, painstakingly maneuvered her into them. He would have had to lift her hips, guide her legs, and pull them up, all without waking her.

It was such a ridiculously Declan thing to do. The man who had wrecked her with such devastating precision only hours ago was the same man who couldn't stand the thought of her getting cold in the middle of the night. It was the "keep watch" promise translated into flannel and cotton.

She tilted her head back to look at him.

He was fast asleep, his breathing a deep, rhythmic rumble in his chest. The stark, predatory intensity from the night before had vanished, replaced by a slack, boyish softness. His dark lashes rested against his cheeks, and the stubble on his jaw was darker than it had been yesterday. He looked heavy, solid, and immovable.

Even in his sleep, his hold on her hadn't loosened. His arm was a dead weight across her stomach, anchoring her to him, keeping her exactly where he wanted her.

She didn't try to move him. She didn't want to.

Instead, she shifted just enough to bury her face against his neck again, breathing him in. She pressed a soft kiss to the warm skin just below his ear, her hand coming up to rest flat over his slow-beating heart.

"Good boy," she whispered, the words silent, mouthing them against his skin as she let her eyes drift shut again. The day could wait. She was exactly where she was supposed to be.

Declan stirred at the brush of her lips against his neck—not fully awake, not startled—just a slow, instinctive shift like his body recognized her before his mind did.

A quiet breath left him, warm against her hair. His arm tightened the smallest amount at her waist, not possessive, just confirming contact. Staying put.

When her whispered words reached him, he didn’t open his eyes right away. The corners of his mouth lifted, barely there, like the smile happened somewhere deeper than consciousness.

“Mm,” he murmured, voice low and rough with sleep, the sound vibrating against her cheek. “Morning to you too.”

His hand moved then—unhurried, familiar—sliding from her stomach up her side, thumb tracing a slow, absent-minded line like he was taking inventory. Still here. Still warm.

He shifted his head just enough to nuzzle into her hair, breathing her in, forehead resting lightly against hers. His lashes fluttered once before finally lifting, eyes heavy but soft when they found her.

“You comfortable?” he asked quietly, the question more habit than concern, like checking the locks even when you know they’re already secure.

His thumb resumed its lazy rhythm at her side, anchoring her without thinking about it. He pressed a gentle kiss into her temple—no rush, no intent beyond affection—and settled back into the pillow, keeping her exactly where she was.

“Day can wait,” he added, voice still half-dream. “Stay right there.”

And with that, he relaxed again, breathing slow and even, content to let the morning hover at the edges while he held onto the part that mattered most.

Declan shifted fully awake then—not all at once, but with that quiet decisiveness he carried into everything. One second he was heavy with sleep, the next his arm tightened with intention.

Before she could protest—or tease him for it—he rolled them gently, careful and practiced, until she was gathered closer instead of merely tucked in. He scooped her up like it was the most natural thing in the world, pulling her higher against his chest so her head fit perfectly beneath his chin, her legs drawn in and cradled between his.

A full-body cuddle. No escape routes. Deliberate.

“There,” he murmured, voice still low, still warm, as if he were solving a problem only he’d noticed. “That’s better.”

He adjusted the duvet with one hand, tucking it back around her shoulders, sealing the heat in. His other arm curved around her back, broad palm resting between her shoulder blades, thumb moving in slow, grounding strokes that matched the rhythm of his breathing.

Declan dipped his head, pressing a kiss into her hair—then another, lingering this time, like he had nowhere else to be and no reason to rush. His cheek rested lightly against the top of her head, stubble scratching softly against her skin.

“You’re freezing,” he added quietly, even though she wasn’t. Even though this was clearly just an excuse.

He shifted again, minutely, until her body aligned even more snugly with his—chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. His leg hooked over hers, anchoring her there with a kind of absent-minded protectiveness that felt older than thought.

Nothing in him was hurried. Nothing was demanding.

Just holding.

He exhaled, long and content, and let his eyes fall shut again.

Freezing? She was practically incubating.

Between the heavy down duvet and the furnace-like heat radiating off the man wrapped around her, Hattie was pretty sure she was closer to heatstroke than hypothermia. But she knew a tactical lie when she heard one, and she certainly wasn’t going to sabotage her own comfort just for the sake of meteorological accuracy.

She hummed a soft, vibrating sound against his chest, shifting just enough to tuck her nose against the warm column of his neck. It was a token gesture, a little performance of "brr, I'm cold" to validate his excuse, even though they both knew he just wanted to be a giant, clingy octopus.

She loved it, though. She loved the sheer, solid presence of him in the mornings. For someone so capable and alert during the day, Morning Declan was heavy and languid, operating purely on instinct and the desire to keep her within a two-inch radius.

She let herself drift there for a few minutes, tracing a lazy pattern on his bicep with her fingertips, listening to the slow, rhythmic thud of his heart. It was the best kind of trap.
But eventually, reality—and the sticky, lingering memory of exactly why she had slept so hard—started to creep in.

"Liar," she whispered into his skin, the word devoid of any actual bite. She pressed a kiss to his throat, feeling the pulse jump slightly under her lips. "I am toasty warm and you know it. You’re just hoarding me."

She tried to shift her hips back, just a test to see if he was actually asleep or just playing possum, but the arm wrapped around her tightened instantly. It wasn't a hard grip, just a firm, immovable reminder that he wasn't done holding her yet.

She sighed, a dramatic little puff of air that ruffled the hair near his ear.

"Declan," she murmured, pitching her voice to that sweet, reasonable tone she used when she was trying to get him to do something he didn't want to do. She walked her fingers up his arm to scratch lightly at the back of his neck. "I really need to shower. I feel gross. And not the good kind of gross anymore."

She waited for him to release her. He didn't. The grip on her back remained steady, his breathing didn't even hitch, and he made absolutely no move to uncage her. He was stonewalling her with cuddles.

"Okay," she whispered, accepting her fate with a small smile pressed against his collarbone. "I guess I’ll just be dirty forever. This is my life now. Held hostage by a stubborn heater."

"Mmm. Hostage," he rumbled against the top of her head. It was a lazy admission of guilt, completely devoid of remorse.

Then, without warning, the world tilted. Declan didn't release her; instead, he shifted his weight, swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, and stood up, hauling her up with him effortlessly. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, and the heavy duvet—robbed of its anchors—slid off their backs to pool on the floor in a neglected heap of feathers.

He let out a long, ragged groan that vibrated right through her ribs, a sound that was half protest at leaving the horizontal world and half pure, sleepy exertion.

"Well, if you’re showering, I’m showering too," he rasped, his voice rough with sleep and absolute stubbornness.

He carried her into the en-suite, his bare feet padding silently against the tile, and lowered her onto the closed lid of the toilet. He stood there for a second, swaying slightly, blinking specifically at her with heavy-lidded eyes. Then, with a slow, heavy exhale, his hands moved to the waistband of his boxers. He fumbled slightly, his fine motor skills clearly still recharging, peeling the fabric down while looking like he might fall back asleep standing up.

He kicked his boxers aside, not bothering to check if they actually made it near the hamper. The air in the bathroom was cooler than the bed, and he resented it immediately.

He pulled the glass door open and reached in, his shoulder muscles bunching as he twisted the handle. He didn't waste time finding a middle ground; he cranked it all the way to the right. The pipes gave a shuddering clank, and then the water hissed to life, drumming hard against the tile.

He kept his hand under the spray for a second, waiting for the icy bite to turn into the scalding steam he needed to actually function. When the steam finally started to curl up around his wrist, he didn't step in yet. Instead, he leaned his forehead briefly against the cool glass of the enclosure, eyes sliding shut again for just a heartbeat before he turned his heavy gaze back to her.

"Get in," he muttered, the command soft and gravelly, extending a hand toward her. "Before I fall asleep standing here."

Hattie sat on the closed toilet lid for a moment longer than necessary, just drinking him in. There was something obscenely endearing about watching a man capable of hauling heavy gear up a flight of stairs be completely defeated by the concept of morning.

He looked like a sulky, overgrown bear that had been poked out of hibernation too early—leaning his forehead against the glass, eyes squeezed shut against the harsh reality of being awake, looking massive and warm and ridiculously pathetic. He had managed to get the water temperature perfect without even opening his eyes fully, a testament to that innate, sleepy competence that she found frustratingly attractive.

She stood up, suppressing a grin.

"You are tragic," she told him affectionately, the words soft in the steam-gathering room.

She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her cotton shorts, skimming them down her hips and stepping out of them with a quick, efficient shuffle. She kicked them toward the general vicinity of his boxers—close enough for government work—and then grabbed the hem of her tank top. She peeled it up and over her head in one smooth motion, the cool air biting at her skin and making her nipples harden instantly.

She tossed the shirt aside and reached out.

His hand was still extended, waiting for her in the open space between the shower door and the vanity, a silent, stubborn invitation.

She slid her palm against his. His fingers curled around hers instantly—an automatic, magnetic latch that didn't require conscious thought. It was a grip that said gotcha.

Hattie stepped past him into the spray, gasping softly as the scalding water hit her chest. It was intense, bordering on too hot, exactly how he liked it. She didn't let go of him, though. She turned back, water streaming down her face, and gave his hand a firm, insistent tug.

"Come on," she urged, pulling the mountain to Muhammad. "In you get. The water’s fine."

He followed her lead, stumbling slightly over the threshold before the water hit his broad back, instantly darkening his skin. He groaned again, a rumble of appreciation for the heat, and practically slumped against the tiled wall, looking down at her through wet lashes.

Hattie reached for the bar of soap and the washcloth, lathering it up with brisk, capable movements while he just stood there, swaying imperceptibly like a skyscraper in a high wind. She stepped into his space, pressing her wet front against his wet front, tilting her head back to catch his sleepy gaze.

"Okay, here’s the deal," she said, resting a soapy hand on his chest, feeling the heavy, slow thud of his heart beneath the muscle. She smirked up at him, her voice dripping with playful indulgence. "I will do all the work. I will scrub the grumpy bear clean. But you have to promise to stay upright on your own two feet, because if you tip over and squish me, the spa service is officially closed for business."

The accusation drifted through the steam—affectionate, but accurate. He felt tragic. His brain was wrapped in thick, damp cotton wool, and the only reality he was currently willing to accept was the heat radiating from the pipes and the cool glass against his forehead. He heard the soft rustle of fabric dropping to the floor, a sound that usually commanded his full attention, but right now it just signaled that help was arriving.

He kept his hand out, a blind, stubborn sensor in the void. When her palm finally slid against his, the contact was like a grounding wire snapping into place. The connection was instantaneous, cutting through the haze of exhaustion. He didn't need to open his eyes to know it was her; he knew the shape of her fingers, the specific strength in her grip.

Then came the tug—firm, demanding, and impossible to ignore.

He peeled himself off the glass with a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, stumbling obediently toward the heat. The moment he crossed the threshold, the water hammered against his shoulders, scalding and perfect. It was a physical relief so intense his knees actually buckled a fraction, and he slumped back against the tiled wall, letting the spray drown out the morning.

He was content to stay there, a static object in a moving stream, until he felt the brisk scrub of the washcloth and the sudden, glorious pressure of her body pressing into his. She was small and slick and solid, forcing him to focus. He cracked his eyes open, peering down through water-spiked lashes as she laid her hand over his heart.

He listened to her terms—the playful threat about the spa service closing if he crushed her—and a slow, heavy smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was a fair point; he felt swaying and massive, like a tree with shallow roots.

"I think," he rasped, his voice a wrecked baritone that sounded like it had been dragged over miles of gravel, "that is the most generous contract I’ve ever been offered."

He freed one hand from the wall, wrapping his arm heavily around her waist to anchor himself, burying his face in the wet curve of her neck. He breathed her in—soap and steam and Hattie.

"I promise to stay vertical," he murmured against her skin, the vibration humming against her throat. "Just don't stop."

"Deal," she whispered, leaning back just enough to create the space she needed to work, though she didn’t dislodge the heavy arm clamped around her waist.

She started at the top, just like she’d promised. She re-lathered the washcloth, the scent of his sandalwood soap blooming in the steam, and pressed it against the broad, wet expanse of his shoulders. She scrubbed firmly, digging her fingers in to work out the knots of tension that always seemed to live in his trapezius muscles. He leaned into the pressure instantly, his head lolling forward, offering her better access like a cat begging to be scratched.

It was satisfying work. There was so much of him to wash. She dragged the cloth down the center of his chest, swirling over the dark hair and the hard pectorals, watching the suds cascade down his ribs. He was pliable under her hands, shifting only when she nudged him, compliant in a way that was almost unnerving.

She paused as she reached his sternum, resting her soapy palm flat against his heart again. He hadn't tried to take the cloth. He hadn't made a move to wash her. He was just... existing.

"Hey," she said softly, giving his pectoral a light, playful slap with the wet cloth. "Earth to Declan. You still with me in there?"

She tilted her head, trying to catch his eye under the shower spray.

"You are operating at about ten percent capacity, pulling a serious zombie act," she teased, a smile playing on her lips as she searched his face. " Usually, by now, you've tried to steal the soap or micromanage the water temperature. You feeling okay?"

She didn't wait for a verbal answer—she knew he was likely saving his words for emergencies only—but she watched him closely. It wasn't worry, exactly, but a fond curiosity. It took a lot to drain the batteries of a man who ran on caffeine and adrenaline, and seeing him this subdued felt like a rare achievement.

Satisfied that he wasn't actually fainting, just luxuriating in his own laziness, she hummed and continued her work. She moved the cloth lower, scrubbing over the rigid definition of his abs. Her knuckles grazed the V-lines of his hips, and she felt his breath hitch, a small, involuntary reaction that proved the systems were definitely still online.

"Good," she murmured, discarding the cloth to use her slick hands instead, sliding them down his sides to grip his waist. "At least the reflex sensors are working."