Declan wasn't sure where his body ended and the steam began. The only distinct reality in the world was Hattie’s hands—firm, relentless, and bordering on magic. When she dug her thumbs into the knot of tension at the base of his neck, he felt the exhaustion physically melting off him, dripping away with the suds down his spine. He wasn't ignoring her; he was just completely, utterly paralyzed by the sheer luxury of being taken care of. He had spent the last week in a state of hyper-vigilance; surrendering the wheel was a narcotic he hadn't realized he needed.

Her light slap to his pectoral brought him back to the surface, but only just. He peered at her through the veil of water, seeing the amusement dancing in her eyes. She thought he was broken because he wasn't trying to take control—a fair assessment, historically speaking—but she was missing the point.

"I'm not a zombie," he mumbled, the words vibrating against the wet skin of her neck as he refused to lift his head, content to treat her shoulder as his pillow. "I'm delegating. It's a sophisticated management strategy. Why would I micromanage you when you're clearly an expert? I’m just... supervising. With my eyes closed."

He let her move him, his body heavy and pliant, trusting her completely not to let him drown. It was a rare, vulnerable stillness for him, a silent admission that he felt safe enough to power down. But when her hands discarded the cloth and slid—slick and hot—down the ridges of his stomach to the sensitive dip of his hips, the wiring in his brain finally sparked.

The hitch in his breath was involuntary, a hard, electric reset to his nervous system that cut straight through the fog.

He tightened his grip on her waist, his thumbs pressing into her skin to ground himself against the sudden, sharp spike in his heart rate.

"Careful," he warned, a low, rough sound that was half-growl, half-invitation. He finally lifted his head, water dripping from his nose, to give her a heavy-lidded, heated look that was significantly more alert than it had been ten seconds ago. "The sensors are fine. You just don't want to accidentally trigger the 'awake' protocol before you're finished. It's a lot less docile than the bear."

The growl was effective—it proved the engine was definitely turning over—but it was the clarity in his eyes that actually made her shoulders drop an inch in relief.

She hadn't been poking him just to be bratty; she’d been genuinely scanning for data. Declan ran himself into the ground on a regular basis, and usually, this level of lethargy came with a fever or the start of a nasty chest cold. She had been half-expecting to feel heat radiating off him that had nothing to do with the shower, looking for that glassy, sick sheen in his gaze.

But the "awake protocol" threat? That was pure, unadulterated Caldwell. Sick Declan didn't make jokes about management strategies; sick Declan just grunted and tried to do everything himself until he collapsed.

"Okay, good," she said, her voice dropping the teasing lilt for something softer, more grounded. She reached up, cupping his wet face between her hands, her thumbs brushing away the water dripping from his lashes. "No fever, still snarky. You'll live."

She offered him a small, reassuring smile, leaning in to press a quick, hard kiss to his mouth—not a seduction, but a seal of approval.

"But let's keep the 'awake protocol' offline for now," she murmured against his lips. "I prefer the docile bear. He’s easier to scrub behind the ears."

She stepped back, retrieving the washcloth she’d discarded. She re-lathered it until it was heavy with suds, then placed a hand on his hip, guiding him with a gentle but firm pressure.
"Turn," she commanded softly. "Let me get your back."

He obeyed with a slow, heavy shuffle, presenting her with the broad expanse of his back. It was like washing a wall, if the wall was made of warm, shifting muscle and scarred skin. She took her time, moving the cloth in wide, soothing circles across his shoulder blades and down the deep groove of his spine.

This was her favorite part. Not the power trip of bossing him around, but the quiet, tactile reality of caring for him. There was an intimacy in this that felt deeper than what they’d done last night. It was the service of it. The act of washing away the sweat, the sleep, and the invisible weight of his job, stripping him down until he was just Declan—clean, warm, and safe in her hands.

She focused on the task with a loving efficiency, scrubbing his lower back, then moving to his arms, lifting each heavy limb to wash his biceps and forearms.

"Delegating," she scoffed softly, shaking her head as she worked the soap down to his wrists. "You know, for a control freak, you’re surprisingly good at being pampered. I might have to write this down in your performance review."

She squeezed his hand, interlacing her soapy fingers with his for a moment, just to feel him squeeze back.

"You're doing great," she whispered to his back, her cheek pressing briefly against his wet shoulder blade. "Almost done. But don't think you're escaping once I rinse you off."

She smoothed her hands over his traps one last time, rinsing the suds away.

"You're on standby," she told him, her tone settling into that comfortable, domestic range. "You can hang out here in the steam and keep me company while I get the 'gross' off me. And we’re skipping the hair today—I don’t have the patience for shampooing us both, and honestly, neither do you. Just bodies. Okay?"

The heat of the shower was finally starting to seep into his bones, but it was Hattie’s touch that actually grounded him. When she cupped his face, Declan leaned into the contact instinctively, his eyes fluttering shut as her thumbs swept away the water. The worry he’d seen in her eyes earlier—the kind that made his chest ache with a mixture of guilt and gratitude—was fading, replaced by that confident, loving assessment he relied on more than he cared to admit.

"Hard to kill," he murmured against her palm, his voice rough with exhaustion but sincere. When she pressed that hard, sealing kiss to his mouth, he didn't just accept it; he chased it for a fraction of a second when she pulled away, a silent request for just a little more fuel.

Her comment about the "awake protocol" drew a low, vibration of a laugh from his chest. "Offline sounds good," he agreed, his eyes staying heavy-lidded. "I like the docile bear. The docile bear gets taken care of."

When she commanded him to turn, the order bypassed the stubborn, command-driven part of his brain and went straight to the part of him that trusted her implicitly. He turned slowly, the movement feeling sluggish, like moving through deep water. He let his forehead rest against the cool, wet tile of the shower wall for a moment, breathing in the steam, submitting to her care.

As the washcloth began its work on his back, Declan let out a long, ragged exhale. The tension that lived permanently between his shoulder blades—the physical manifestation of every fire he’d had to put out that week—began to unravel under her firm, circular motions. It was humiliating how good it felt, and yet, with Hattie, there was no shame. Just relief.

He listened to her scoff about his delegation skills, a smirk touching his lips even though she couldn’t see it. When she interlaced their fingers, he squeezed back, anchoring himself to her.

"Make sure you note the high level of cooperation in that review," he rumbled, his voice echoing slightly in the tiled enclosure. "I expect a significant bonus."
He leaned into the pressure as she moved to his arms, the sensation of the rough cloth and her slick, soapy hands making him feel human again. He wasn't Caldwell right now. He wasn't a problem solver. He was just a man being washed by the woman he loved.

"I’m not escaping," he promised quietly when she mentioned rinsing him off. "Legs feel like lead anyway. You couldn't pay me to run."

As she finished rinsing him and stepped back, declaring him on "standby," Declan finally turned back around. He slid down the wall just a few inches, bracing his weight comfortably so he could watch her. The steam curled around them, but his vision was clear, focused entirely on her.

"Standby. I can do standby," he confirmed, watching her reach for the soap.
He crossed his arms over his chest, not defensively, but to keep the warmth in, his gaze following the movement of her hands as she began to wash herself. He felt a profound sense of peace settle over him—a rare commodity.

"Just bodies is perfect, Hattie," he said, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a lazy, appreciative affection. "No hair. No thinking. Just us."

He watched the suds glide over her skin, his mind quiet for the first time in days. He wasn't analyzing threats or calculating timelines; he was just admiring the curve of her shoulder and the way the water sluiced down her spine. "Need me to return the favor?" he offered, though he made no move to take over, happy to let her dictate the pace. "Or are you keeping the pampering strictly one-sided today?"

Hattie grabbed her own washcloth—a soft, textured white square that hung on the hook next to his—and reached for the pump of her body wash. The scent of shea butter and warm vanilla instantly bloomed in the steam, weaving through the lingering, woodsy notes of his sandalwood.

She glanced up at him as she worked the soap into a rich lather. He looked devastatingly good like that—leaning back against the dark tile, arms crossed over that broad, wet chest, water dripping from the ends of his hair. He was watching her with a heaviness that wasn't just sleep; it was a potent, quiet appreciation that made her skin prickle with heat before the water even touched it.

"Strictly one-sided," she answered, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "If I let you wash me, we both know you’ll either fall asleep mid-scrub or get distracted and try to start something your legs definitely can't finish right now."

She stepped back under the spray, letting the hot water cascade over her head and down her back, plastering her hair against her skull. She moved the cloth over her neck and shoulders, relishing the slide of the soap. She could feel his eyes tracking the movement, heavy and tactile, like a physical touch. It was a different kind of intimacy than the frantic energy of last night; it was slow, domestic, and incredibly grounding.

"Besides," she added, dragging the cloth down her arm and over her chest, not rushing, letting him have his view. "I like having an audience. It keeps me efficient."

She scrubbed her stomach and legs quickly, knowing the water was starting to cool just a fraction and that he really did need to get horizontal again soon.

"Just relax, Caldwell," she murmured, catching his gaze again as she rinsed the suds away. "Your only job right now is to stand there and look pretty. And you’re crushing it, by the way."

Declan let out a low, rough sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a scoff and a groan, at her accusation. He didn't move from his spot against the dark tile, mostly because he wasn't entirely sure his legs wouldn't betray him if he tried, but the corner of his mouth kicked up in a tired, crooked grin.

"You have very little faith in my stamina, Hattie," he rumbled, his voice dropping an octave, deepened by the steam and the heavy weight of exhaustion settling into his bones. "I wouldn't fall asleep. Distracted... maybe. But I’d argue that getting distracted by you is a productive use of my time."

He watched the water sluice over her, his eyes dark and unblinking. The steam was thickening, blurring the edges of the shower stall, but she was vivid, the contrast of the white washcloth against her skin drawing his gaze like a magnet. The scent of her vanilla and shea butter hit him, cutting through the damp air and mixing with the sharp, clean smell of the soap on his own skin. It was intoxicating, a soft, sweet warmth that made his head swim more than the heat did.

As she claimed she liked the audience, he shifted his weight, wincing slightly as a dull ache rolled through his quads, but he didn't look away. He tracked the path of the cloth down her arm, over the curve of her shoulder, feeling a phantom friction against his own palms. He wanted to be the one doing that. He wanted to feel the slip of the soap and the heat of her skin under his hands, wanted to replace the cloth with his own touch, grounding himself in the reality of her here, safe and close.

When she told him to relax and just look pretty, he finally pushed himself off the wall, just an inch, the water drumming against his broad back. He reached out, his fingers brushing against her wet hip, a brief, anchoring touch before he let his hand fall back, frustrated by his own physical limits.

"But I want to," he murmured, his voice laced with a petulant, playful edge that softened the intensity of his stare. He leaned his head back against the tiles, water dripping from his lashes as he looked at her with half-lidded adoration. "I always stand here and look pretty."

Declan didn’t stay against the wall. The accusation that he was only good for "looking pretty" sparked a low, defiant heat in his chest that had nothing to do with the steam. He pushed himself upright, ignoring the heavy drag of gravity and the stiff protest of his muscles. He didn't want to just watch; watching felt too passive, too distant for the way his skin was itching to make contact.

He stepped fully into the spray, the hot water hammering against his shoulders as he closed the small gap between them. Before she could rinse the suds from her stomach, he reached out. His hand, large and wet, wrapped around hers, swallowing her fingers where they gripped the white square.

"Overruled," he murmured, his voice rough against the sound of the falling water.

He didn't tug; he just held her hand steady until her grip loosened, then he slid the soft, textured cloth from her palm into his own. It was warm and slick with her vanilla-scented lather, a stark contrast to the calloused roughness of his own skin.

"Turn around, Hattie," he commanded softly, not waiting for her to comply before he stepped closer, pressing his chest lightly against her back to steady himself. He brought the cloth to her shoulder, dragging it slowly down the curve of her spine. He wasn't efficient—he was deliberate. He washed her with a heavy, rhythmic pressure, tracing the muscles of her back as if he were trying to memorize them through the terrycloth. "I can handle a washcloth without passing out. Let me take care of you for a minute."

The "Overruled" hung in the steam between them, low and rumbly and unfairly attractive.
Hattie didn’t fight him for the cloth. She knew when she’d been bested, and frankly, the sudden shift from sleepy bear to stubborn protector was a transformation she always enjoyed watching. She let him take the white square from her hand, her lips curbing into a smirk that she hid by turning around as commanded.

She settled her back against his front, and immediately, she felt the difference. He wasn't swaying with sleep anymore, but he was heavy. As he pressed against her, she could feel the sheer, dense weight of his exhaustion—like gravity was pulling on him twice as hard as it was pulling on her. He was using her as a structural support, bracing his chest against her spine to keep himself steady while his hand went to work.

"You are the worst listener I know, Caldwell," she murmured, though she leaned back into him, locking her knees to take some of his weight. "I give you a direct order to relax, and you stage a mutiny."

She let her head fall forward, exposing the nape of her neck to the spray and to him.
His touch wasn't the brisk, efficient scrub she had given him. It was slow. Heavy. The washcloth moved down her spine in a long, dragging stroke that felt less like hygiene and more like a claim. She could feel the concentration radiating off him, the way he was pouring what little battery power he had left into this one, simple task.

"Mmm," she hummed as he worked the lather over her shoulder blades, the pressure firm and grounding. "Okay. I retract my statement. You can handle the washcloth. But you're leaning on me like a condemned building, just so you know."

She reached back, her hands finding the backs of his thighs, gripping the wet skin there to anchor him, turning herself into the steady foundation he needed.

"Lower," she instructed softly, peering over her shoulder at him through the steam. His jaw was set, his eyes dark and focused on her skin like it was the only thing in the room. "If you're going to prove a point, you might as well get the spot right above my hip."

"Condemned building," he repeated, the words vibrating low in his chest and humming directly against her spine. A rough, tired chuckle escaped him, breath ghosting over her wet skin. "That implies I’m a safety hazard. I prefer to think of it as... strategic structural reliance. You’re sturdy, Hattie. You can take it."

He didn’t pull back. Instead, he leaned into her even more, letting her take the brunt of his weight just like she offered, his body molding to the curve of her back. He pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the slope of her shoulder, tasting the water and the salt on her skin, lingering there for a long beat as if drawing energy from the contact.

"And I'm listening," he murmured against her neck, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "I'm always listening."

He obeyed her instruction seamlessly. He dragged the warm, soapy terrycloth down her ribcage, over the dip of her waist, and settled on that specific spot just above her hip bone. He worked the cloth there in slow, heavy circles, his thumb kneading into the muscle with a firmness that bordered on possessive. He took his time, washing away the day, the stress, and the distance between them.

But he didn't stop at her hip. The "mutiny" she’d accused him of was fully underway now.

He let the cloth glide lower, sliding heavily down the outside of her thigh before curving inward. He felt her breath hitch, the small expansion of her ribs against his arm, and that reaction was all the fuel he needed. He moved his hand between her legs, sliding the textured white fabric right against the slick, sensitive heat of her.

He didn't rush; he was too tired to rush, which only made it more intense. He cupped her through the washcloth, the rougher texture of the cotton acting as a maddening contrast to the slide of the soap. He applied a firm, deliberate pressure right against her clit, rubbing slowly, purposely. He wasn't just washing her anymore; he was wrecking her efficiency, using the friction of the cloth to draw a reaction out of her that had nothing to do with getting clean.

"Is that," he whispered, biting lightly at the sensitive cord of her neck as his hand kept its steady, rhythmic pressure between her legs, "low enough for you?"

Of course. This was exactly why she had tried to relegate him to "stand there and look pretty" duty. She had seen that heavy, half-lidded glint in his eye—the one that said he might be running on fumes, but the engine was still idling hot—and she knew that handing him a washcloth was essentially inviting a fox into the henhouse.

She gasped when the rough texture of the terrycloth slid between her legs, the sensation sharp and startling against the slick heat of the water. It felt good—undeniably good—but it wasn't what she wanted.

The cloth was a barrier. A warm, soapy, textured wall between his skin and hers. And Hattie, despite her earlier protests about showering efficiently, suddenly found herself craving the friction of his calloused palms more than she craved oxygen.

But she knew Declan. If she begged him to drop the cloth, he’d just smirk against her neck, murmur something about "being thorough," and keep torturing her with the cotton loops just to prove he was in charge.

No, she had to be smarter than that. She had to outmaneuver the exhaustion and the dominance.

She bit her lip to stifle the moan building in her throat, forcing her body to remain relatively still despite the rhythmic, maddening pressure he was applying. She leaned her head back against his shoulder, turning her face so her lips brushed his ear, and let out a soft, unimpressed sigh.

"It's... efficient," she murmured, pitching her voice to sound just a little bit bored. A little bit detached. "Very clinical, Caldwell. I feel like I'm being detailed at a car wash."

She felt him pause—just a fraction of a second—the insult registering in his foggy brain.
She pressed her advantage immediately. She wiggled her hips back against him, not in a grind, but in a restless, dissatisfied shift.

"I mean, I get it," she whispered, letting her voice drip with a sweet, poisonous sympathy. "You're tired. Your grip strength is probably shot. Using the cloth is easier... it’s safer."
She turned her head further, catching his eye with a look that was pure, high-octane challenge through the steam. She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial purr.

"It's smart. You're hiding behind the cotton because you know if you actually touched me—skin to skin—you wouldn't be able to handle the 'awake protocol' after all." She taunted him gently, her eyes dancing. "You're playing it safe, big guy. I didn't take you for the cowardly type."

Declan let out a long, ragged groan that vibrated directly against her spine, a sound of pure, unadulterated annoyance mixed with dark amusement. He knew exactly what she was doing. She wasn’t bored—her breath had hitched, he’d felt it—but she was manipulative as hell, and she knew exactly which levers to pull to get a reaction out of him.

"Clinical," he muttered, the word rough with disbelief. He stopped the pleasurable, rhythmic motion between her legs instantly, leaving her aching and cold where the warmth had just been. "You are pushing every single button I have, Hattie. And you’re doing it because you want me to lose control again. You want exactly what you got last night, and you think insulting my technique is the fastest way to get it."

He didn't pull away, though. Instead, he leaned down, pressing his chest firmly against her back, his mouth hovering right next to her ear, his wet hair dripping onto her shoulder.

"You better be careful, Hattie," he warned, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that cut through the steam. "Haven’t you learned anything yet? I don't respond well to being baited."

He nipped the sensitive skin below her ear, just hard enough to make a point, before soothing it with a slow swipe of his tongue.

"I can either give you exactly what you want," he whispered darkly, "or I can hold out just because I know my willpower is stronger than yours. Keep calling me safe, and see which one you get.”

To prove his point, he moved his hand. He didn't drop the washcloth, and he certainly didn't replace it with skin-to-skin contact where she wanted it most. Instead, he slid the cloth all the way down, abandoning her core entirely.

He bent his knees slightly, dragging the soapy cloth down her thigh, over her knee, and down the curve of her calf. He washed her ankle. He washed the arch of her foot. It was maddeningly thorough, completely non-sexual, and a blatant display of the control he’d just bragged about. He was cleaning her, just like he said he would, denying her the satisfaction of breaking him.

After a long moment of focusing on her feet, he straightened up, the water sluicing down his chest. He tossed the washcloth onto the shelf with a wet thwack.

"Now," he murmured, reaching blindly for the bottle on the ledge.
He pumped a quarter-sized dollop of shampoo into his palm, rubbing his hands together to emulsify it before he brought them to her head. His fingers slid into her wet hair, strong and firm, massaging the scalp.

"Let’s get the rest of you clean," he said, his tone shifting from teasing threat to something quieter, more intimate. "Since you're so concerned with efficiency."

The second his fingers dug into her scalp, lacing the heavy, floral scent of her shampoo through her wet hair, Hattie went rigid.

The soothing, rhythmic massage that normally would have turned her into a puddle of goo? It didn't even register. All she could feel was the cold, slimy slide of betrayal.

No hair. She had been very specific. She had been clear. She had issued a direct, easy-to-follow operational guideline: Just bodies.

And it wasn't just about the time. It was the order. Everyone knew—or at least, everyone who lived with her should know by now—that the hierarchy of shower operations was sacred. Shampoo, rinse, conditioner (let sit), body wash, rinse everything. If you shampooed after the body wash, the residue ran down your clean skin, and you had to scrub all over again. It was inefficient. It was messy. And coming from a man who prided himself on logistics, it was sloppy work.

She didn't lean into his touch. She didn't hum in appreciation.

Instead, she ducked.

She dropped her level sharply, slipping out from under his hands like oil, and spun around to face him. The water battered against her chest as she glared up at him, water streaming down her face, her eyes narrowed and sharp.

"Strike two, Caldwell," she snapped, her voice cutting clearly through the noise of the shower.

She reached up and aggressively wiped a sudsy drip from her forehead, flicking it onto his wet chest with a distinct lack of affection.

"I said no hair," she enunciated, spacing the words out like she was speaking to a toddler or a particularly slow probie. "I said it five minutes ago. 'Just bodies.' Remember? Or did the steam melt that part of your brain?"

She saw his hands hover in the air for a second, arrested mid-massage, looking large and empty. He blinked, looking confused and slightly offended, but she didn't soften. Not even a little bit.

"And now you’ve ruined the rotation," she continued, crossing her arms over her chest, not for modesty, but as a barrier. A wall. "Shampoo, conditioner, then body. That is the law. Now the shampoo is going to run down my back, which means I’m not clean anymore, which means this entire shower has been a waste of time."

She took a step back, pressing her spine against the cool glass door, putting maximum distance between them in the small space. She tilted her chin up, looking at him with a mix of defiance and absolute, unyielding stubbornness.

"You want to talk about willpower?" she challenged, her voice dropping to a cool, flat tone. "Fine. Let's test it. Because I am not moving. I am not turning around. And I am certainly not letting you finish that half-assed massage just because you think you can steamroll me with your 'dominance'."

She stared him down, her eyes wide and unblinking despite the water dripping from her lashes. She locked her knees. She set her jaw.

"You want to be in charge? Then fix it. Without touching me."

She knew exactly what she was doing. She was being difficult. She was being a nightmare. And she was absolutely certain that the exhausted, heavy-lidded man in front of her would crack long before she did. He wanted soft, pliable Hattie? Too bad. He got the stone wall. Let's see how his "patience" handled that.