Declan didn’t blink. He didn’t sigh. He didn't offer the groveling apology her posture demanded. He simply looked at his empty hands, where the suds were already dissolving, and then back up at her with a look of profound indifference.

"Strike two," he repeated, his voice flat, dry, and entirely unimpressed. "I'm trembling."

He didn't move toward her. He didn't try to coax her off the wall. Instead, he stepped back under the spray, letting the hot water sluice over his shoulders, washing away the suds she’d flicked at him without a second thought. He looked comfortable. He looked warm. And he looked like he couldn't care less that she was fuming.

"You're making a hazmat situation out of soap, Hattie," he said, reaching for the bottle of body wash and ignoring the glare she was drilling into his skull. "Your 'law' is neurotic. Gravity works the same way it always has: water goes down, dirt falls off. If you think a bubble of shampoo touching your back constitutes a tactical failure, you need to reevaluate your threshold for disaster."

He began to wash his own chest, methodically and without haste, treating her defiance as nothing more than background noise.

"And I’m not fixing anything," he added, not even looking at her as he scrubbed. "I’m taking a shower. If you want to stand there freezing against the glass to prove a point about 'dominance,' go right ahead. I’ll be done in five. Try not to slip on your ego."

God, he loved her—she looked like a wet, angry Valkyrie, and the urge to pin her against that glass and kiss the defiance right out of her was a physical ache in his chest—but he’d be damned if he showed it.

She wanted a contest of wills? She was playing in the big leagues now.
He reached for the shampoo—his shampoo, the cheap stuff she hated because it smelled like "generic man"—and lathered it up, taking his sweet time. He felt her eyes boring into his back, burning hotter than the water, but he kept his movements languid, unbothered.

After a long minute, he rinsed, shaking his head like a dog to fling water droplets everywhere, fully aware some would hit her. Only then did he slide a glance over his shoulder.

She was still pressed against the door, water dripping off her nose, looking miserable and magnificent.

"You look cold, Hattie," he observed, his voice casual, bordering on bored. He gestured vaguely to the steam rising around him. "Water’s great over here. But by all means, keep protesting. I’m sure the glass will warm up eventually."

He turned back to the showerhead, grabbing the bar of soap.

"And for the record," he called out over the sound of the spray, not looking at her, "I am fixing it. I’m removing the contaminant—me—from your sterile environment. Once I’m out, you can scrub the 'betrayal' off your scalp and restart your sacred rotation from step one. Until then... enjoy the view."

He smirked at the tile wall in front of him. Let her freeze. He wasn't cracking.

The audacity of the man.

Neurotic.

The word bounced around her skull, irritating her more than the rogue shampoo suds slowly sliding down her temple. It wasn’t neurotic to have a system; it was civilized. It was the difference between being a functioning adult and a chaos monster who probably put his socks on before his pants.

Hattie pressed her lips together into a thin, white line, refusing to let even a huff of indignation escape. If he wanted a reaction, he was going to have to work a hell of a lot harder than that.

She crossed her arms tighter over her chest, burying her freezing hands in her armpits to salvage what little body heat she had left. The glass door behind her was leeching the warmth right out of her spine, and the few stray droplets of water that splashed her way were lukewarm at best. Meanwhile, Mount Caldwell was over there luxuriating in a tropical storm, blocking the spray with his massive shoulders like a solar eclipse.

She glared at the back of his head. She hoped he used up all the hot water. She hoped he pruned.

When he shook his head like a wet Golden Retriever, flinging water onto her already shivering skin, her eye twitched. It took every ounce of restraint she possessed not to reach out and smack him right between those perfectly defined shoulder blades.
But she didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t wipe the water away.

She just stood there, a statue of frozen rage, watching him wash himself with that infuriatingly relaxed, rhythmic motion.

Enjoy the view.

She narrowed her eyes. The problem was, the view was objectively, unfairly spectacular. Water sluiced down the deep groove of his spine, over the taut muscles of his glutes, and down strong, powerful legs. He was a masterpiece of masculine form, and right now, she found him absolutely, infuriatingly impossible.

She deliberately shifted her gaze, staring pointedly at a patch of grout near the ceiling. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of catching her ogling his ass while she turned into a popsicle. He could stand there and preen all he wanted; she was currently busy counting the tiles and planning exactly how she was going to press her freezing cold feet against his bare back the second he fell asleep later.

She wasn't budging. Not an inch. He thought five minutes would break her? Please. She’d stood in line for concert tickets in the rain for longer than that. She had waited out toddlers with more patience than he possessed.

Let him scrub. Let him act unbothered. She would stand here until she turned blue if that’s what it took to prove that her "ego" was just as durable as his.

She locked her knees, clamped her jaw tight to keep her teeth from chattering, and waited. The cold was miserable, seeping into her bones, but the fire of her own stubbornness was keeping her just warm enough to survive.

Your move, bear.

Declan felt the shift in the air behind him, the distinct, chilly radiation of a woman scorned. He didn't need to turn around to know exactly what face Hattie was making. It was the Glower—capital G—the one she reserved for slow internet, people who chewed with their mouths open, and apparently, him.

He rinsed the last of the soap from his hair, taking his sweet time. Usually, this was the part where he’d cave. He’d feel the guilt prickling at the back of his neck, turn around, pull her freezing frame into the steam, and let her siphon off his body heat while he apologized for things he hadn’t actually done. He was a sucker for her, and she knew it.

But not today.

He turned off the faucet—just the one controlling the pressure, leaving the temperature dial alone—and stepped out of the spray. The water continued to drum against the tiles, filling the silence she was so aggressively maintaining.

He grabbed the fluffy grey towel from the hook, whipping it around his waist and tucking it securely at his hip. Only then did he look at her.

She was huddled in the corner, arms locked, lips pressed so tight they were disappearing. She looked cold, wet, and absolutely furious. She also looked beautiful, in that prickly, untouchable way that usually made him want to poke the bear just to see what happened.

He didn't smile. He didn't offer a hand to help her into the warm stream. He just looked her over, noting the goosebumps rising on her arms and the stubborn tilt of her chin.

"Better hurry up," he said, his voice rough from the steam, flat and unyielding. "Water's gonna turn cold."

He didn't wait for a retort. He turned his back on her and walked toward the sink, catching his own reflection in the fogged-up mirror. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, just out of her line of sight. God, she was a pain in the ass.

He couldn't wait to marry her.

Hattie waited until he was fully clear of the enclosure before she moved. She counted to three—one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi—just to prove to the universe (and the annoying, retreating back of her boyfriend) that she wasn't desperate.

Only then did she step into the spray.

The heat was instantaneous and glorious, thawing her frozen limbs in seconds, but she refused to let out a sigh of relief. She scrubbed at her scalp with a frantic, aggressive energy, rinsing out the illicit shampoo. She didn't bother reaching for the conditioner. The routine was already shot to hell, and the idea of standing there for another three minutes letting product sit while Declan smugly existed at the sink was unacceptable.

She washed her body in record time, slapping the soap onto her skin and rinsing it off with zero ceremony. Throughout the entire process, she kept her eyes glued to the white subway tiles in front of her. She didn't glance at the glass door. She didn't peek to see if he was watching. She was a solitary island of efficiency.

She twisted the handle, cutting off the water with a squeak of pipes.

She stepped out onto the bathmat, the cooler air of the room instantly nipping at her wet skin. She grabbed her towel, but instead of wrapping it around her body like a shield, she dried her limbs quickly—just enough to stop the dripping—and then twisted the grey terrycloth up around her wet hair, securing it in a tight turban.

She dropped her hands. She was completely naked, skin flushed pink from the heat, water droplets still clinging to her collarbones, wearing nothing but a towel hat and an attitude.
She walked over to the vanity.

Declan was there, doing whatever it was men did at sinks—probably looking at himself and thinking about how stoic he was—but she didn't look at the mirror. She refused to acknowledge his reflection.

She stepped right up beside him, invading his personal space, her bare arm brushing against his bare arm.

Slowly, deliberately, she turned her head to look at him directly. Not at his chest, not at his towel, but straight into his eyes. Her gaze was heavy, hooded, and dripping with a challenge that had nothing to do with hygiene. She held the eye contact for a long, silent moment—letting him take in the full, unobstructed view of exactly what he wasn't touching—before she reached out and snatched her toothbrush from the holder.

Your move, Caldwell.

She was going to be the biggest problem he had ever dealt with. She was going to stand here, naked and smelling like vanilla, and she was going to brush her teeth, and apply her skincare, and exist so loudly in his peripheral vision that his "willpower" would shatter into a thousand pieces.

This was chess. It was a high-stakes, ridiculous, stubborn game of emotional chicken, and she was determined to corner his King.

And the best part? It didn't actually matter who cracked first. If she won, she got the satisfaction of seeing his composure snap. If he won, she got to be handled by the "awake protocol."

Either way, the game ended in the bedroom. But she was still playing to win.

The mirror didn't lie, but neither did Declan’s ears.

He’d heard the water cut off. He’d heard the aggressive, frantic rustling of the towel. And because he knew Hattie better than he knew the layout of his own fire station, he knew exactly what she was doing. She was rushing.

He didn't turn his head when she stepped out. He kept his eyes locked on his own reflection, dragging the razor down his jawline with practiced, steady precision. But in his peripheral vision? It was a riot of pink skin, steam, and sheer, unadulterated bratty behavior.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi...

She stomped over—well, not stomped, she didn't have the heavy footing for it, but the intent was a stomp—and planted herself right next to him.

The air in the bathroom shifted. It wasn't just the steam rolling off her; it was the electricity. She brushed her arm against his. Skin on skin. Soft, damp, overheated female against his side.

Easy, Caldwell.

He felt the jolt of it go straight to his groin, but he’d spent ten years training himself to keep his heart rate low when the alarms were blaring. He wasn't about to let a five-foot-something vanilla-scented hurricane knock him off balance. Not when winning tasted this good.

He watched her in the glass. She was staring at him. Not the mirror-him, but the real him. Her eyes were dark, dilated, and practically screaming a dare. She snatched her toothbrush like she was unsheathing a dagger.

Check, he thought, suppressing the urge to smile. But not mate.

He rinsed his razor, tapping it against the porcelain with a slow, rhythmic clink, clink. He took his time washing his face, letting the silence stretch out until it was thick enough to choke on. She was vibrating beside him, brushing her teeth with a ferocity that threatened her gums, existing so loudly he was surprised the neighbors didn't file a noise complaint.

She wanted a reaction? She wanted his composure to snap?

Please. He was a professional.

He dried his face, folded the hand towel neatly, and finally—finally—turned to look at her.

He used every inch of his height, looking down at her from six-foot-five. He let his gaze drift over her. He started at the ridiculous, lopsided towel turban, dragged his eyes down over her flushed neck, the water droplets racing down her chest, the curve of her waist, all the way down to her toes, and then slowly, agonizingly back up to her eyes.

He didn't blink. He didn't flush. He looked at her with the cool, predatory appreciation of a man who knew exactly where his next meal was coming from, but who wasn't in a rush to eat it.

"You're dripping on the bathmat, Hat," he said. His voice was a low rumble, rough with sleep but steady as a rock.

He reached out, his large hand encompassing the back of her neck. His thumb brushed the soft, damp skin behind her ear, a touch that was tender but possessive. He saw her breath hitch. He felt the tiny shiver run through her frame.

Gotcha.

"And you've got toothpaste on your lip," he added, his thumb moving to wipe the smudge away, lingering just a second too long on her mouth.

He leaned down, bringing his lips right to her ear, dropping his voice to a whisper that scraped against the silence. "Finish up. If you're looking for trouble, you're doing a great job of finding it. But I’m finishing my coffee first."

He pulled back, smirked at the flare of indignation in her eyes, and slapped her hip—just once, a firm, resonant sound of flesh on flesh—before walking out the door.

He didn't look back. He didn't need to. He knew exactly who was going to win this game, and he knew exactly how much fun he was going to have collecting his prize in ten minutes.

The sting of his hand on her hip lingered long after the bathroom door clicked shut, a phantom heat that matched the flush rising on her cheeks.

Dripping on the bathmat.

Hattie stared at the closed door, the toothbrush hanging loosely from her lips, her chest heaving with a mixture of indignation and a sharp, reluctant arousal. He had walked away. He had slapped her, told her to hurry up, and then casually sauntered out to drink coffee as if he hadn’t just turned the master bath into a combat zone.

She spat the toothpaste into the sink and rinsed her mouth, her movements sharp and deliberate.

Hurry up?

She looked at her reflection—wild eyes, damp skin, towel turban askew.

"Absolutely not," she whispered to the empty room.

She reached up and unraveled the towel, letting her wet, unconditioned hair tumble down around her shoulders. She hung the damp grey terrycloth on the hook with meticulous care, smoothing out the wrinkles, before turning back to the vanity.

If he wanted to wait, he could wait.

She didn't rush. In fact, she moved with the slow, luxuriant pace of a woman who had nowhere to be, despite the fact that they were both due at the station in forty-five minutes. She applied her toner, patting it into her skin. Then the serum. Then the moisturizer. She reached for the body lotion—vanilla and cashmere—and took her time massaging it into her legs, her arms, her chest, reclaiming the body he had refused to touch.

Then came the hair. It was a tangled, unconditioned mess—a casualty of her own stubbornness—but she refused to let it look that way. She grabbed the round brush and the dryer. She smoothed it out section by section, creating soft, voluminous waves that framed her face. She kept her makeup natural and fresh-faced—just a little blush to highlight the color he’d put there, and a coat of mascara to make her eyes pop.

Finally, she exited the bathroom into the bedroom, leaving a cloud of humidity and perfume in her wake.

She dressed with the same calculated precision. She pulled on a pair of sheer black tights, the delicate nylon shielding her legs from the winter chill while still showing a hint of skin. She stepped into a textured tweed mini skirt in warm brown tones, the fabric structured and chic, paired with a fitted cream ribbed turtleneck that hugged her frame perfectly. She paused to fasten a small gold hoop in her ear, catching her reflection one last time.
She looked cozy. She looked professional. She looked touchable.

She walked down the hallway, the floorboards cool beneath her socked feet, following the scent of dark roast coffee to the open-concept living area.

Declan was there, leaning against the island, a mug in his hand. He was already dressed in his off-duty clothes for the commute, looking big and calm and annoyingly patient.

Hattie didn't stomp. She didn't pout. She didn't offer a snarky comment about the time.

Instead, she glided into the kitchen, a picture of morning serenity. She walked past him—keeping a deliberate, teasing distance—and trailed the scent of vanilla and heat in her wake. She reached for her travel mug from the cabinet—a sleek, insulated tumbler—and poured herself a cup from the pot he’d brewed.

She secured the lid with a snap, then turned around, leaning back against the counter just like him, mirroring his posture. She brought the to-go mug to her lips, blowing softly on the steam escaping the vent, and offered him a bright, blindingly sweet smile.

"Good morning," she chirped, her voice light and airy, completely ignoring the war they had just waged in the shower.

He hadn't won. He thought he had, because he’d denied her the satisfaction of breaking him in the shower, but he had miscalculated the cost. He had walked away from a sure thing. He had chosen coffee over the "awake protocol."

And now? Now they were going to work.

They were going to the station, where she would sit at the front desk in her skirt and turtleneck, organizing the chaos, and he would be in the bay or the day room, surrounded by the crew. They would have to be professional. They would have to be discreet. She would smile at him when he walked by, she would hand him paperwork with her fingers grazing his, and she would let him simmer in the knowledge that he could have had her ten minutes ago, but now he had to wait eight hours.

The game wasn't over. It had just moved to a larger playing field.

"Ready to go?" she asked innocently, taking a sip of her coffee. "I'd hate to be late."

Declan didn’t turn right away.

He took another unhurried sip of his coffee first—because of course he did—eyes still down in the mug like nothing in the world was out of place. Like the bathroom hadn’t turned into a tactical error on his part. Like he hadn’t absolutely clocked the shift in the air the second she walked in.

Vanilla. Heat. Intent.

Then he looked up.

And yeah—there it was.

The skirt. The sweater. The calm. The weaponized serenity.

His mouth tugged into a slow, knowing grin, the kind that said he was impressed even as he absolutely clocked what she was doing. His gaze moved over her once, deliberately—not rude, not obvious—just enough to acknowledge the effort.

“Well,” he said, voice easy, low, amused, “good morning to you too.”

He leaned his hip more firmly into the island, mirroring her posture just like she’d mirrored his, lifting his mug in a lazy salute.

“Gotta say,” he went on, eyes flicking briefly to her travel mug and back to her face, “for someone who whispered ‘absolutely not’ at a bathroom mirror, you look real… cooperative.”

There was no bite in it. Just fondness. Just the satisfaction of knowing her well enough to enjoy this phase of the game too.

When she asked if he was ready to go, he glanced at the clock on the microwave, then back at her, eyebrows lifting just slightly.

“Oh, I’ve been ready,” he said lightly. “I was raised to respect punctual women.”

Then—because he was still her boyfriend and not an idiot—he softened it, stepping closer just enough to lower his voice so it stayed between them.

“But I see what you’re doin’,” he added quietly, a smile in his words. “And I respect the commitment.”

He reached out—not to touch her where it would be a problem, not to undo her composure—but to straighten the hem of her turtleneck where it had folded at her waist, fingers brief and careful, like a courtesy.

“Station’s gonna be real lucky to have you today,” he said, sincere underneath the tease. “And I’ll survive the wait.”

His eyes met hers again—warm, amused, very aware.

“Barely,” he added.

Then he stepped back, grabbed his keys, and nodded toward the door.

“C’mon,” he said, grin returning. “Let’s go be professionals.”

Of course he had heard her.

Hattie narrowed her eyes at him over the rim of her travel mug, fighting the urge to bite her lip to suppress a smile. The man had the ears of a bat and the observational skills of a hawk, which was usually very convenient for keeping her safe, but extremely inconvenient when she was trying to stage a private rebellion in the bathroom.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she lied smoothly, lowering her cup to the counter. "I am always cooperative. I am the picture of workplace compliance."

She watched him fix her turtleneck, the brush of his knuckles against her waist sending a little jolt of warmth through the wool that had nothing to do with the fabric. It was such a Declan move—fixing her, tidying her up, making sure she was perfect even while he was actively admitting that he wanted to wreck her.

When he dropped his voice and admitted he’d barely survive the wait, the last of her prickly armor dissolved into pure, liquid affection.

This was why she played. This was why she pushed. Because underneath the stoic, calm, capable firefighter exterior, she knew she was the only one who could make him admit he was struggling. She loved that she was his weakness. And god, she loved that he was hers.

She reached out and patted his cheek—a gentle, condescendingly sweet little tap that mirrored his earlier slap to her hip, but with a hundred percent more tenderness.

"Don't worry, Caldwell," she cooed. "I’ll try to go easy on you. I'll keep the flirting to a minimum. Maybe I won’t even look at you in the hallway."

She turned from him and walked over to the small bench in the entryway. She sat down, crossing one leg over the other to pull on her boots. She took her time zipping them up, smoothing her tights, knowing he was watching every movement.

Once the boots were on, she stood up and grabbed her coat from the hook, sliding her arms into the sleeves and buttoning it against the chill she knew was waiting outside. Only then did she reach back to the island to retrieve her travel mug, her fingers brushing his hand where it rested on the countertop—one last accidental-on-purpose touch.

She glanced up at him, her expression shifting from bratty to something softer, warmer, and undeniably besotted.

"But I make no promises about the ride home."

She winked—actually winked, because she knew it would make him roll his eyes—and pushed the door open.

"Come on then," she called over her shoulder, stepping out into the crisp morning air. "Let's go save the city. Or whatever it is you do while I run the circus."

Declan huffed out a quiet laugh, the kind that lived low in his chest, eyes never leaving her face as she tried—adorably—to sell that lie.

“Uh-huh,” he said, tone dry but fond. “You. Cooperative. I’ll be sure to put that in the report.”

He watched her narrow her eyes at him, watched the way she fought the smile and lost anyway, and it hit him—again—how easy she was to read when she cared. How she could put on all the bravado she wanted, but she never hid from him. Not really.

When she patted his cheek, that soft little echo of her earlier defiance, his brows lifted just a fraction. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move away. Just leaned into it the tiniest bit, because he liked her hands on him no matter what form they took.

“Appreciate your mercy,” he said lightly. “I’ll take what I can get.”

Her promise to “keep the flirting to a minimum” earned her a look—slow, amused, calling her bluff without saying a word.

“Yeah,” he replied, lips twitching. “That’ll last… what. Three minutes?”

He followed her to the entryway, not crowding her, just there—watching her zip her boots, smooth her tights, button her coat with that calm, deliberate precision she used when she knew she was being observed. He didn’t rush her. Never did. He liked this part too much.

When her fingers brushed his on the counter, he turned his hand just enough to catch hers for half a second longer than necessary—nothing dramatic, nothing obvious—just a quiet acknowledgment.

Her look when she met his eyes again softened him right through the ribs.

The wink made him roll his eyes exactly like she knew it would, but the smile stayed.

“Oh, I’m countin’ on that ride home,” he said, easy confidence threaded with something warm. “Gives me something to look forward to.”

He grabbed his jacket, keys already in hand, and followed her out the door, pausing just long enough to lock up behind them. The cold air hit his face, sharp and clean, but she was already ahead of him—calling back over her shoulder like she owned the morning.

He shook his head, amused, and closed the distance in two long strides, falling in step beside her without even thinking about it.

“You run the circus,” he said, glancing down at her with that familiar, crooked grin. “I’ll handle the fires.”

Then, softer—just for her, just close enough—

“And try not to miss me too much before lunch.”

He opened the car door for her like it was the most natural thing in the world, because with her, it always was.

Declan’s jaw tightened—not in irritation, not in anger—just that quiet, telltale sign that he was very aware of exactly where her hand was and exactly what she was doing to him.

He didn’t look at her right away.

He started the truck instead, the engine dropping into a steady, low rumble that vibrated up through the cab and straight into his bones. One hand settled on the wheel. The other stayed relaxed on his thigh, right under hers—deliberate, contained, letting her feel the muscle there without giving her the satisfaction of pulling away.

Then he glanced over.

Slow. Unhurried. Dark eyes warm and sharp all at once, like he’d been counting the minutes too.

“Off the clock,” he repeated quietly, like he was tasting the words. His mouth curved just a little at one corner. “That’s what I was waitin’ on.”

He shifted the truck into drive and eased them out of the lot, smooth and careful, because he always was. Streetlights slid across the windshield, throwing light and shadow over her face, and he looked at her again—really looked—coat collar snug under her chin, eyes bright with that familiar mix of mischief and trust.

His free hand lifted then, not to stop her, not to scold—just to cover hers where it rested on his leg. Big palm, warm, steady. He didn’t move it away. He just held it there, thumb pressing once, slow, grounding.

“I remember exactly where you left me,” he said, voice low and even, like a promise that didn’t need dressing up. “And I’ve been thinkin’ about it all day.”

His thumb brushed another small circle over the back of her hand—controlled, restrained, but loaded.

“And for the record,” he added, eyes back on the road, focus locked in even as his attention stayed with her, “you’ve been cooperatin’ just fine.”

A beat. Then, softer—fond in a way that had nothing to do with games.

“Just don’t get impatient,” he murmured. “We’re almost home.”

The truck rolled on through the dark, warm and steady, carrying them toward exactly what they’d both been waiting for—no rush, no doubt, no question of whether he’d remember.

He always did.