Declan let out a low breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but softer — the kind that lived deep in his chest. He shifted just enough to nuzzle his chin into her hair, his arm tightening around her shoulders like muscle memory.

“Darlin’,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep and the kind of affection that didn’t have an end to it, “you ain’t runnin’ behind on anything.”

His fingers kept their slow path along her arm, brushing warmth into her skin in steady, reassuring lines.

“You wake me up every mornin’ just by bein’ in my arms. Coffee don’t stand a chance against that.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head — slow, unhurried, the kind that lingered a second longer because he didn’t want to pull away.

Her palm was still warm against his chest, and he covered it with his own, tangling their fingers gently.

“And as for blamin’ me…” He tipped his head just enough to catch her eyes, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll take all of it. Happily.”

He shifted his legs under the blankets, adjusting her higher against him so she wouldn’t have to carry even her own weight.

“You don’t gotta move yet,” he added, voice dropping low and earnest. “Not ‘til your body says it’s ready. I’ve got you.”

His thumb glided slowly across the back of her hand, grounding her.

“And cinnamon rolls?” he drawled, smiling into her hair. “Sweetheart, you make those at noon, I’ll still brag to the whole damn station that my girl got up early to make me breakfast.”

He tucked the duvet a little higher around her shoulders, fussing without even realizing he was doing it.

“You rest,” he whispered, kissing her temple. “I’ll get the coffee started in a bit. You just stay right here with me ‘til you feel steady.”

He squeezed her hand once, gentle but sure.

“Lord knows I ain’t lettin’ you go anywhere yet.”

She should’ve argued.

Should’ve insisted that she was perfectly capable of making breakfast. That he’d done enough, always did too much, and it was her turn to take care of him for once. She even opened her mouth to say as much — but then his hand slid over hers, warm and strong, fingers curling in that grounding, careful way of his.

And suddenly, fighting him didn’t seem nearly as important as staying exactly where she was.

Hattie let her forehead rest against his collarbone with a quiet exhale, her lips brushing the bare skin there like a sigh. Her fingers, still tangled in his, slipped free only to begin a lazy path across his chest — soft, wandering little dances that traced over his sternum, his ribs, the curve of his shoulder.

She wasn’t trying to start anything.

Not right now, anyway.

She just… liked touching him. Especially like this. Especially when the world was still slow and sleepy, and she didn’t have to pretend she wasn’t in love with every part of him.

The darker side of him — that feral, hungry kind of love he showed her with his body — that was unforgettable. It lit her up in ways she hadn’t known were possible. But this part? The part where he fussed over her blankets and held her close like she might slip away in her sleep?

That was what broke her wide open.

That was what made her fall.

“You take such good care of me,” she whispered, her voice soft and a little scratchy with sleep. Her fingers stilled over his heart, pressing just slightly. “You always do. Even when I try to beat you to it.”

She lifted her head a little, just enough to see the sun beginning to spill in through the curtains — pale gold and peach, slipping across the wall and over the curve of Declan’s shoulder like it wanted to touch him too.

Her smile tugged quietly at the corners of her mouth.

“We don’t have to go anywhere today,” she murmured, eyes tracing the light on his skin. “And even if we did… I think I’d still pick this. You. Right here.”

She curled closer, her nose brushing under his jaw, her breath warm against his neck as her arm looped tighter around him.

“I think I’d pick this for a long, long time.”

Declan didn’t move at first.
Didn’t breathe too deeply.
Didn’t risk shifting the moment even a fraction.

He just held her — held her like she was something he was still learning how to believe he got to keep — and let her words soak into him slow.

Her fingers on his chest, soft and wandering like she was memorizing him all over again, made his heartbeat stumble and steady at the same time. Lord, she had no idea what she did to him when she touched him like that — not wanting anything, not asking for anything, just being with him.

He dipped his chin a little, his nose brushing lightly through her hair. His voice came out low, warm, and pulled straight from the center of his chest.

“Angel… you don’t even know what you do to me when you say things like that.”

His hand slid up her back, not rushed, not hungry — just slow and reverent, fingers mapping the curve of her spine in soft lines.

“You lettin’ me take care of you?” he murmured against her temple. “That’s a gift. Not somethin’ you gotta fight me on.”

He pressed a kiss into her hairline, lingering there.

“You think I don’t notice all the ways you take care of me?” he whispered, voice soft like morning fog. “Every little thing you do… every look, every touch… darlin’, I feel it. Down to the bone.”

She tightened her arm around him, nose brushing his throat, and he exhaled — slow, shaky in a way he’d never admit to anyone but her.

Her next words made his whole body go still.

I’d pick this for a long, long time.

Declan’s fingers curled in at her waist instinctively, pulling her that inch closer, like he needed her fully against him to trust he’d heard it right.

“Sweetheart…” His voice caught, the kind of break only she ever got to hear. “You say things like that and I swear I don’t know what to do with myself.”

He shifted just enough to see her face, brushing her hair back gently with the back of his fingers. His thumb traced along her cheek, featherlight, like he was scared of waking her even though she was wide awake.

“You pickin’ me?” he said quietly, earnestly. “Still? Even on mornings like this, when I’m half asleep and hoggin’ the covers and keepin’ you trapped here?”

His smile was soft and lopsided, eyes warm enough to melt her completely.

“Baby, I’ll spend the rest of my life tryin’ to be worthy of that.”

He kissed her forehead.
Then her cheek.
Then the corner of her mouth — slow, careful, like she was breakable and priceless all at once.

“And far as I’m concerned…” he whispered, settling her back against his chest, holding her perfectly where she wanted to be, “we don’t gotta go a damn place today.”

His thumb stroked slow circles on her back, coaxing her into the curve of him.

“’Cause I’d pick this too,” he added softly. “Every time. Every day. Long as you’ll let me.”

He tucked the duvet a little higher around her shoulders, protective without even thinking.

“You stay right here with me, Hattie Monroe,” he murmured into her hair. “Ain’t a better place in the world than this.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Not because she didn’t have the words — she did, all of them, crowding warm and steady in her chest — but because for a second, she just wanted to feel it.

The quiet of the room.
The sun on the wall.
His arms around her like he didn’t ever plan to let go.

Her fingers slid over his chest again — not teasing now, just present. She traced the curve of his collarbone, the faint rise and fall of his breathing. She pressed her lips to the base of his throat, soft as a promise.

Then, finally, she tipped her head back enough to meet his eyes.

“I do pick you,” she whispered, her voice like linen warmed by sunlight. “Every morning. Every night. Every time you make me laugh when I’m trying to be annoyed, or fold my laundry even though you don’t know where half of it goes.”

Her smile curved gently, her hand lifting to rest against his cheek.

“I pick you on the hard days. I pick you when you snore. I pick you when your hair sticks up in the back and you don’t know it. I pick you when you’re too stubborn to ask for help but still make sure I never go without it.”

She nudged her forehead against his, eyes soft but sure.

“And you don’t have to earn me, Declan. You never did. I used to think I wasn’t good enough for you — that I’d somehow gotten lucky and you’d figure it out one day.”

Her thumb swept across the edge of his jaw, slow and reverent.

“But I don’t feel that way anymore.”

She watched the way his expression shifted — that quiet vulnerability he only ever let her see. And her next words came out steadier than they ever had before.

“You are worthy. Just as you are. Even half-asleep and hogging the covers.”

She kissed the tip of his nose.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me. Not ever. I’m yours. I want to be yours. Forever and always.”

Her voice dipped to a softer hum as she laid her head back on his chest, her fingers threading gently through his.

“And if that means we don’t move a muscle all day?” she added, a quiet smile in her voice. “Well… I think the world can wait.”

Her hand rested over his heart again, feeling the way it beat just a little harder beneath her palm.

“You already give me everything I need.”

Declan felt her words hit him like a slow, quiet sunrise — not all at once, not blinding, but warm enough to break him open in the gentlest way a man could break.

He didn’t speak at first.

Couldn’t.

Not with her fingers tracing his collarbone like it was something sacred.
Not with her lips brushing his throat, sweet and certain.
Not with her voice saying forever and always like it was the easiest truth she’d ever given him.

His hand slid up her back, palm warm and steady, and he pulled her just a fraction closer — enough that she could feel the breath he exhaled against her temple.

“Lord, honey…” he murmured, voice low and rough in that way it only got when he was feeling too much. “You’re gonna put me in the ground talkin’ like that.”

He tilted her chin up with two fingers, gentle as sunrise, needing her eyes on him. His thumb brushed her cheekbone — slow, tracing the warmth there like he could memorize the moment by touch alone.

“You think you ain’t good enough?” he whispered, brow bending just slightly. “Hattie, you’re the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.”

He said it simply. Plainly. Like it wasn’t even up for debate.

His knuckles grazed the line of her jaw before he bent to press a kiss to her forehead — firm and lingering, the kind a man gives when he’s not planning on going anywhere.

“You’re the one who made this place feel like a home the second you walked through the door,” he went on softly. “You’re the reason I sleep easy. The reason I wake up smilin’. The reason I wanna be a better man every single day.”

His hand found hers again, fingers threading tight, like letting go wasn’t an option.

“And as far as earnin’ you?” He shook his head, eyes softening the way they only did for her. “You just bein’ here… you reachin’ for me in the middle of the night… you sayin’ my name in that soft little voice… that’s more than I ever thought I’d deserve.”

He kissed her then — slow and tender, nothing rushed, just lips to lips, warm and sure, the kind of kiss that said I’m yours without needing any words.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers, nose brushing hers in a lazy, morning-soft way.

“You’re my always too, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Ain’t a doubt in my damn mind.”

She settled back against his chest, and he wrapped both arms around her, tucking her in as if the world outside didn’t exist. His thumb stroked the back of her hand in absent, loving circles.

And when she said the world could wait?

Declan smiled, low and boyish, one of those rare real smiles he only ever gave her.

“Good,” he hummed, pressing a kiss into her hair. “’Cause I’m not lettin’ you outta this bed ’til you want me to.”

He shifted just enough to kiss the top of her head, slow and soft.

“Far as I’m concerned?” he murmured against her hair, his heartbeat steady beneath her palm.
“This right here — you in my arms, this quiet, this mornin’ — this is all I need too.”

He held her a little tighter, warm and settled and entirely hers.

“And, Hattie?” he added, voice soft as honey. “Forever don’t sound near long enough.”

Hattie didn’t move at first.

Didn’t speak either.

Not when his arms folded tighter around her like he was afraid she might vanish.
Not when his voice — thick and trembling at the edges — wrapped around her like a second blanket.
Not when his kiss landed on her forehead with the weight of everything he hadn’t said before now.

She just breathed.

In the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
In the warmth of the duvet.
In the way his words unraveled her without breaking her apart.

It didn’t matter that the world was already awake outside the window. That the sun had crept past the curtains and spilled gold across the sheets. That time was moving.

Because here, in his arms, it didn’t move.
It paused.
Held its breath.
Let them belong.

Her fingers curled lightly at his chest, drawing soft, absent circles above his heart. Her cheek rested against his skin, her body nestled fully into the cradle of his. And for a while, she just let the silence hum.

Until the words in her throat got too warm to hold any longer.

“You make it so easy to love you,” she whispered, voice quiet but steady — the kind of steady that came from knowing, not hoping. “Even when I was scared. Even when I didn’t think I’d ever have something like this.”

She kissed the center of his chest, right over that heart he didn’t guard when it came to her.

“And I don’t need forever to decide,” she added, softer now. “I already have.”

Her hand slid up to cup his jaw, her thumb brushing the stubble there with the kind of reverence that only came after choosing someone completely. After staying.

“I’m not going anywhere, Declan Caldwell.”

She smiled, faint and full, eyes shining in the early light.

“Not now. Not later. Not ever.”

Her lips found his again — slow, adoring, lingering just because she could. Because she wanted to. And when she pulled back, she tucked herself right back into his arms, content to live there a little longer.

The coffee could wait.
The world could wait.
Because this — this soft, morning-slow kind of love — this was what home felt like.

[let's end here. I'll start a new scene soon]

The house felt too quiet without him.

Their house.

She let the key ring drop into the ceramic bowl by the door, toeing off her shoes while keeping her jacket on just a moment longer — the place held a chill that only ever settled in when he wasn’t home yet. She walked into the kitchen, thumb tracing the rim of the mug she’d left drying on the counter that morning, the one he always reached for second, right after his plain black one.

He was still out on a call when she left the station.
A bad one, judging by the clipped radio chatter.

She tried not to dwell on it.

Instead, she moved around their little rental, turning on soft lamps, lighting the candle he liked in the living room, opening the curtains a bit so the last stretch of late‑December evening could paint the walls in blue and gold. She folded the blanket on the couch. Straightened the coasters. Checked the time.

He should’ve been home by now.

Her stomach fluttered — not worried yet, just… ready.
She missed him today.

When the sound of his truck finally crackled into the driveway, her whole body loosened. A smile tugged at her mouth before she even reached the hallway. She brushed her hair behind her ear, smoothing her shirt automatically.

He was home.

But the moment the front door opened, something inside her went still.

He stepped inside with a weight she felt before she saw it — shoulders tight beneath his jacket, jaw set hard, hands trembling just enough that only she would notice. He didn’t look up right away. Didn’t kiss her hello or pull her into his chest like he always did.

He shut the door too quickly.
Too forcefully.
Not like him.

Her heartbeat fluttered — soft, confused, a little anxious.

Did I do something? Did I say something wrong earlier? Did I… miss a cue?

She stepped forward, slow, gentle.

“Hey, you’re—”

He moved past her.

Not violently. Not harshly.
But brushed by her like he hadn’t even realized he’d done it.

Her breath stumbled.

That tiny contact — the absence of softness where it always lived — felt sharp.

She turned to watch him shrug out of his jacket. His movements were clipped, jerky, unthinking. His boots hit the floor by the door with more force than usual. When he went to hang his jacket, the hook rattled on the wall.

He didn’t look at her.

That’s when her worry shifted — from Did I do something wrong? to something heavier, darker.

Something happened.

He raked a hand through his hair — not the slow, tired gestures she was used to after a long shift, but a rough drag, fingers curling tight at the back of his neck like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

Her chest tightened.

He was snapping — not at her, but around her, inside himself.
Quiet cracks in the air.

No words.
No anger.
Just a trembling tension that didn’t have anywhere to go.

She took one small, careful step forward.

“…Decl—”

He flinched.

Not away from her — away from the sound of her voice.

That was worse.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her fingers curled against her palms as she watched his shoulders lift and fall in a hard, uneven breath. He braced both hands against the edge of the kitchen counter, head bowed, back rising and falling too fast.

Something was wrong.
Really wrong.

And it wasn’t her.

She knew that now.

Hattie softened her stance, swallowed gently, and took another step into the quiet storm of him — slow, steady, careful not to crowd the tremble in his hands or the tightness in his shoulders.

Her voice dropped into something barely above a whisper, tender and brave all at once.

“…You’re home,” she said, not touching him yet.
“Come back to me when you can. I’m right here.”

She didn’t push.
Didn’t question.
Didn’t reach for him yet.

She just stayed.

Close enough that he could find her when the shaking stopped.

Declan didn’t hear her words at first.

He felt them — a soft thread of sound that reached him through the noise still roaring in his head — but they didn’t land, not the way they should’ve. His hands were still braced against the counter, knuckles white, breath sawing sharp and uneven as he tried to get oxygen into a chest that refused to expand.

Smoke.
Screaming.
Frozen air.
The weight of someone going limp in his hands.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

He’d gotten one out.
He hadn’t gotten the other.

His jaw clenched until something ached. His fingers curled hard against the counter edge.

He knew he should turn around.
Knew it was her behind him.
Knew she was worried — hell, he could feel it, could feel the soft patience she carried like a second skin.

But if he looked at her too soon, if he saw her eyes — steady, gentle, full of the kind of love he still didn’t know how to deserve — he was going to break apart right there on the damn kitchen floor.

Her voice came again, softer, steadying, giving him permission without touching him.

You’re home.
Come back to me when you can.
I’m right here.

He heard that one.

Declan’s breath hitched — a quiet, fractured sound he couldn’t swallow down fast enough. His shoulders jerked once, the tension in them pulling tight like a rubber band about to snap. He dragged one hand off the counter and pressed the heel of it hard against his brow, trying to quiet the pounding inside his skull.

But then she took one more step — not close enough to touch, but close enough that he could feel her, warm and patient behind him.

His whole body reacted.

A tremor went through him, sharp and visible.

He didn’t turn around. Not yet. His voice came out rough, low, dragged from somewhere he didn’t let people hear.

“Hattie… don’t.”

Not don’t be here.

Not don’t speak.

Don’t be gentle.
Don’t make this real.
Don’t let me fall apart in front of you.

Another breath — broken in the middle.

He shook his head once, jaw tight, eyes burning.

“I can’t—” His voice cracked, the words tearing on the way out. “Jesus, I… I can’t talk about it yet.”

His fingers curled against his thigh, hand shaking despite how tightly he tried to hold it still.

He wasn’t angry at her.
He wasn’t angry at anyone.

He was drowning in the sick, choking guilt of I should’ve done more.
The kind that sank into bone.

Declan forced another breath, but it stuttered, and that was what finally made him turn — slowly, like it weighed a hundred pounds.

When he saw her, standing there exactly where he’d left her, eyes soft and steady and brave… something inside him nearly buckled.

He swallowed hard, chest rising and falling too quickly.

His voice was barely a whisper.

“…I lost someone today.”

He didn’t give details. Didn’t need to. His eyes carried all of it — the helplessness, the failure he couldn’t shake, the desperate, furious grief he’d been holding together by threads.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, breath shaking again.

“I tried, Hattie. I swear to God I tried.”

He wasn’t crying.

Not exactly.

But he was close — and he hated it, hated the way it made him feel raw and exposed and unworthy of the way she was looking at him.

His voice dropped to something hoarse, broken at the edges.

“Please… don’t come closer yet. Just… just give me a second.”

Even as he said it, his fingers twitched toward her — a subconscious reach he didn’t mean to make, didn’t know he made.

The part of him that needed space was losing the fight against the part of him that needed her.

She didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe too loudly.
Didn’t blink too fast, like even that might startle the fragile balance between the pain in his eyes and the way he was barely holding it all in.

She just stood there.
Still.
Quiet.
Watching him.

Her heart ached at the way his shoulders rose and fell too fast, the way his fingers clenched like they were trying to grip something that wasn’t there. The way he wouldn’t — couldn’t — quite look at her.

Declan was the strongest person she’d ever known.
Steady. Capable. Brave to a fault.
He carried everyone else’s weight without ever complaining. He carried her, on the days she didn’t know how to stand.

And now he was standing in their kitchen, looking like the world had torn something out of him and left the rest barely upright.

When he turned — finally — she saw it.

Not the version of him everyone else knew.
The one only she ever got to see.

His face was pale under the stubble, his eyes red-rimmed and swimming in something he didn’t know how to let fall. His voice cracked like it had splintered around the words before they ever reached his mouth.

"I lost someone today.”
“I tried, Hattie. I swear to God I tried.”
“Please… don’t come closer yet. Just… just give me a second.”



She nodded. Soft. Barely perceptible.
Her throat was tight, but she didn’t speak.

She could give him a second.
She would.

So she stayed exactly where she was — a few feet away, hands at her sides, chest tight with the ache of watching him suffer and not being able to fix it.

But as the silence stretched, and his voice faded, and his body started to fold in on itself again —
Her own heart broke a little more.

His fingers twitched.
Just a small, aching flick of movement.

It was enough.

Her steps were slow. Barefoot. Quiet against the kitchen floor.
No rush. No noise.

Just closeness.

She didn’t throw her arms around him.
Didn’t kiss the pain away.
Didn’t ask questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

She just reached for one of his hands — the one still clenched tight — and wrapped her smaller fingers gently around it.

He flinched.

Not away. Just… reacted.
Like touch wasn’t something he thought he deserved right now.

But he didn’t let go.

She stepped in closer, until her chest was just shy of his, until she could feel the heat of him — shaking, raw, but real. She raised her other hand and rested it, feather-light, against the center of his chest.

“I know,” she whispered, finally. “I know you did.”

His breath caught.

Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back — not for herself. For him. He needed someone steady right now. He needed her steady.

“You don’t have to tell me anything else,” she murmured, soft as wind through leaves. “You don’t have to say another word.”

She brought his hand slowly up between them and pressed her lips to the back of it. Just once. Tender. Certain.

“But I’m not gonna let you carry all that alone.”

He swayed just slightly — a half inch forward, like gravity was finally winning. Like she was the gravity.

Her voice stayed gentle. Assured.
The kind she only used for him.

“You’re the strong one, Declan. Every day.” Her thumb brushed over his knuckles. “But I can be strong too. I can hold you. I want to hold you.”

Still no tears from him.
But his hand gripped hers a little tighter.

She stepped the rest of the way in and laid her head gently against his chest — against the place where his heart beat hard and fast and hurting.

Her arms wrapped carefully around his waist.
Not clinging. Not crushing. Just there.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered. “I’m right here.”

She felt him exhale then.
Not cleanly. Not fully.
But enough that she knew —
he believed her.

Declan didn’t know the exact moment his body decided to give up pretending he was fine.

Maybe it was when her fingers folded around his — small, warm, steady in a way that made the ground under him feel less like it was tilting.
Maybe it was when she pressed her forehead to his chest, right against the heartbeat he’d been trying to outrun since the call.
Or maybe it was when she said I can be strong too with that quiet certainty that went straight through every wall he’d ever built.

But something in him loosened.

Something in him broke.

Not the loud kind of break.
The soft, devastating kind — the kind that happens when someone finally reaches the part of you that’s been bleeding silently for hours.

His fingers tightened around hers — no, gripped — not out of anger, not out of panic, but like she was the only thing keeping him upright. His head dipped forward, chin barely brushing the crown of her hair.

He breathed in.

It shuddered through him.

Then another breath — worse, uneven, like his ribs didn’t know how to expand without shaking.

“Hattie…” he whispered, and her name cracked clean down the middle.

He didn’t pull away.
He didn’t step back.
He didn’t try to pretend.

He leaned.

Just enough that his forehead brushed the top of her head, his weight shifting toward her in a way that said more than any words he could form right now.

His free hand — the one still trembling faintly — lifted like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. But instinct won over shame; he rested it between her shoulder blades, fingers splaying wide, careful even in his unraveling.

Her arms around his waist steadied him more than she could possibly know.

“I—” The word broke off. He swallowed, hard, jaw working. His eyes squeezed shut like he was trying to hold the image of the call away, to keep it from swallowing him whole.

“You don’t… you don’t know how bad it was.”

His voice was rough, but quieter than before. Less snapping. Less bracing. It was the sound of a man who’d been strong for too long and finally met the one person he trusted enough to crumble near.

He shifted just a little, enough that his cheek came to rest on the top of her head, breath warm against her hair. His arm tightened around her, pulling her fully against him.

Her scent — soft, familiar, like home after a storm — hit him so hard his chest shook.

“You shouldn’t have to see me like this,” he murmured, barely audible. “I’m supposed to… I don’t know. Keep it together. Be the one who makes things okay.”

Another breath. Shaky, broken in the middle.

“You come home wantin’ warmth and dinner and some stupid movie, and instead you get—”

His voice failed.

It didn’t fade.
It crumbled.

His fingers fisted gently in the back of her shirt, like the only thing left he trusted to hold onto was her.

“I tried,” he whispered again, but now his voice sounded young, raw, like a confession finally tearing through the surface. “God, Hattie… I tried so hard.”

A quiet, helpless tremor rippled through him — the kind that wasn’t a sob yet, but was close, too close.

And when she held him tighter?

He broke the last inch.

His breath hitched, sharp and painful, and he let his weight rest fully in her arms — not collapsing, not buckling, but surrendering the part of him he never let anyone see.

She felt him exhale a shudder into her shoulder, felt the way his grip shifted from desperation to need.

“Hattie…” His voice trembled. “Please don’t let go.”

He didn’t have to ask.

She wouldn’t.

Not now.
Not ever.

Hattie didn’t cry.

She’d never been great at holding things in — not her emotions, not her heart, not the way she felt things too deeply for her own good — but tonight, she didn’t cry.

Not when he leaned into her like the weight of everything was too much.

Not when his voice broke open on her name like it was the only thing he could still hold onto.

Not even when he whispered please don’t let go like he thought she ever could.

She didn’t cry.

She just held him tighter.

One hand flattened across his back, the other sliding up to cup the nape of his neck, her fingers curling gently through the hair at his hairline. He was trembling still — maybe not enough for someone else to see, but she felt it. She felt all of it. The grief. The guilt. The way he hadn’t stopped bracing for impact since the moment he stepped through the door.

And still… he was hers.

Still the man who kissed her forehead every morning before work.

Still the one who made her feel safe without even trying.

Still Declan.

Her Declan.

She let her thumb stroke softly behind his ear before she finally spoke — quiet, calm, no trace of fear in her voice.

“Declan, baby,” she whispered, lifting her chin just enough for her lips to brush the underside of his jaw. “You don’t have to keep it together for me.”

His breath hitched again, but she didn’t pull back.

She didn’t loosen her hold.

“I work there too, remember?” Her voice cracked just barely — not from emotion, but from knowing. “I see the reports. I hear the calls. I know what the job asks of you.”

She swallowed, slow and sure.

“And I knew exactly what I was signing up for the day I fell in love with a firefighter.”

That made his hand clutch her shirt tighter.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” she murmured, lips brushing his cheek now, slow and reverent. “I just need you to be mine.”

She shifted her head to rest against his chest again, listening to the uneven rhythm of his heartbeat. Still too fast. Still jagged. But steady enough now that she knew he wasn’t slipping.

“I can’t change what happened,” she added softly, voice like a lullaby made of truth. “I can’t take the weight off you, not really. But I can stand beside you while you carry it. I want to stand beside you.”

She tilted her head back just enough to look at him. Her hand lifted to his face, fingertips brushing the curve of his cheek with the gentlest touch she had.

“Don’t shut me out,” she whispered. “Not when I’m right here.”

And she was.

Right here.

In their kitchen. In his arms. In his life.

Exactly where she’d always promised she’d be.

When he didn’t answer right away, she leaned up just enough to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth — light, lingering, a quiet I’m not going anywhere.

Then her forehead pressed to his again, her hands still firm against him.

“I love you,” she said into the hush. “More than I know how to say.”

She didn’t ask him to be okay.

She just stayed. Warm and soft and steady.

And when she finally moved, it was only to shift her hand to his chest, flat over his heart.

It was still beating.

So was hers.

Together.

Declan didn’t just look at her.

He took her in — the way her eyes softened when she saw him hurting, the way her breath steadied for him, the way her touch never wavered even when his did. The kitchen around them felt blurry, distant, like the world had pulled back and left them standing in their own small, aching universe.

His hand lifted again, slow and careful, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered at her cheek, tracing the warmth there with an almost reverent hesitation, like he needed to relearn what it felt like to be touched by someone who loved him without conditions.

“Hattie…”

Her name left him in a rough whisper, but this time it wasn’t cracked or unstable — it was simply full. Full of everything he’d been carrying. Everything he’d been scared to say. Everything he’d almost lost the ability to feel tonight.

When his forehead settled against hers, his breath mingled with hers in slow, uneven waves. His chest rose and fell against her palms, every exhale loosening something inside him he didn’t realize he’d kept bolted shut.

“You’re the only thing in this whole damn world that doesn’t ask me to be anything but myself,” he murmured, voice low and unguarded. “You… you make it safe to come home, even on nights like this.”

His thumb dragged gently from the corner of her mouth to the soft curve of her cheek, memorizing the shape of her like it grounded him — like it pulled him out of the burning building still trapped in his head.

“Hattie,” he said again, softer, nearly breathless. “I love you.”

This time, the words didn’t come from exhaustion or unraveling.

This time, they came from clarity.

From strength.

From a man realizing the only place he wanted to put the weight of his heart was in her hands.

“I love you more than I know what to do with,” he went on, voice trembling but sure. “More than I ever thought I’d get to love anybody.”

His fingers slid along her waist, pulling her closer until her body settled fully against his. His chin dipped into her hair, his breath warming the side of her neck as he held her like he needed the physical proof she wasn’t going anywhere.

“You stay,” he whispered, awe threading through every syllable. “Even when I’m a mess. Even when I can’t look at myself. You stay.”

He let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sob but held all the weight of one — deep, shaking, relieved.

“And I love you for that, sweetheart,” he said, voice thick with emotion he didn’t bother hiding. “More than I’ve ever loved anyone. More than I ever thought I was allowed to.”

He eased back enough to see her face — really see it — his hand rising to cradle the side of her head, thumb sweeping softly along her temple.

“I’m yours,” he murmured. “I’m here. And I’m not leavin’. Not tonight. Not ever.”

The tear that spilled from his eye fell onto her cheek before he even realized it had escaped.

And instead of pulling away… he leaned forward.

He kissed her.

Not urgent.
Not desperate.

Slow.
Full.
Steady.

A grounding kiss — the kind that said thank you, I need you, I love you, I’m still here.

When he pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed to hers, eyes closed, breath warm and uneven against her lips.

“Don’t let go,” he whispered, more vulnerable and honest than he’d ever been. “Not yet.”

And he melted into her arms like she was the only thing in the world capable of holding him together — because tonight, she was.

She didn’t let go.

Not when his voice cracked with her name.
Not when his hand trembled at her waist.
Not when the first tear slid from his lashes and landed, warm and salt-soft, on her cheek.

She just wrapped her arms tighter around his middle — as far around as she could reach — and stood on the very tips of her toes to press herself closer. Her cheek nestled against the curve of his shoulder, tucked just under his chin. She could feel the shudder in his chest, the weight of every breath he couldn’t seem to take fully.

So she took one for him.

In. Out.

And whispered against his skin, “I’ve got you.”

Her words were feather-light, but certain. No room for doubt. No trace of hesitation. Just the truth — spoken in that soft, Southern-touched cadence that always made his name feel like home.

“You don’t have to hold it all by yourself tonight,” she murmured, voice so gentle it was almost a secret. Her fingers slid up the back of his shirt, slow and reassuring, her palm settling between his shoulder blades. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

She leaned in, brushing her nose lightly against the curve of his neck, grounding him in the simple fact of her presence. The scent of smoke still clung to his collar, but underneath it was him. That familiar warmth she knew better than her own heartbeat.

“You did everything you could,” she whispered. “I know that. And I know your heart, Dec. I know how hard you try to carry the world.”

Her words shook a little then, but she didn’t pull back. She let her hands keep moving — slow, tender passes over his back and through his hair, over the edge of his jaw, like maybe if she touched him enough, he’d believe it wasn’t his fault. That he didn’t fail. That he was still good.

“You can take all the time you need,” she breathed, her thumb gently stroking under his eye. “I’ll still be here. I’ll always be here.”

She tilted her head just enough to press a kiss — soft, reverent — to the hollow of his throat. She felt him inhale sharply, felt the way his arms cinched tighter around her, like he didn’t know how to ask but couldn’t bear to be without her.

So she gave him what he needed before he could even ask.

“I’m yours, too,” she whispered, so quiet only the space between them could hear. “You’re not alone in this. You never will be again.”

Her hand slid to his chest, pressing over the rhythm that hadn’t steadied yet — but would. She’d wait for it. She’d match her breathing to his for as long as it took.

He didn’t need to speak.
He didn’t need to move.
He didn’t even need to look at her.

He just needed to rest — not on the couch, not in their bed, but here. In her arms. In the one place the world couldn’t touch him for a little while.

So she held him, quiet and firm, swaying just slightly like she could rock the ache out of him.

And when he breathed her name again — a breath, a prayer, a plea —

She closed her eyes and answered simply, “I’m not letting go.”

Not tonight.
Not ever.

The moment she said “Not ever,” something in him finally broke in a way that didn’t feel like failure — it felt like surrender.

A surrender he’d been fighting for hours.
Maybe years.

His breath stuttered against her shoulder, a shaky exhale that wasn’t controlled or contained or shaped for anyone else. Just raw. Just real. Just his pain finally finding someplace soft enough to fall.

“Hattie…” Her name left him on a whisper, torn open at the edges.

He didn’t try to swallow it back.
Didn’t straighten his spine.
Didn’t force the soldier-steady posture he always wore when everything hurt too much.

Instead, he wrapped both arms fully around her — not careful, not measured, but all-in, pulling her tight against his chest like she was the only thing keeping him upright. His big frame trembled, a low shake starting deep in his ribs and working outward until she could feel every shiver against her palms.

He buried his face into her neck, breath warm and uneven, his nose brushing the soft skin there as if he needed the anchor of her scent just to breathe.

“Sweetheart… I don’t—”
His voice cracked hard.
He pressed his forehead to her collarbone, trying to steady himself and failing.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

His hands fisted gently in the back of her shirt, not to hold her in place — but to keep himself from falling apart completely. She was small in his arms, but God, she held him like someone twice his size, steady and unshakable.

He felt her chest rise against his.
Matched his breath to hers — in, out, slow, steady — until the shaking in his muscles softened from violent tremors to something quieter, something survivable.

Her whispered I know your heart…
Her I’m yours…
Her I’m not letting go…

It undid him.

He shifted just enough to look at her — eyes red, lashes wet, jaw clenched to keep another sob from breaking loose. His thumb brushed her cheek first, then her jaw, needing to feel that she was real and here and his.

“You’re the only thing that’s makin’ this day bearable,” he said, voice low and rough and honest in a way he didn’t let anyone else hear. “The only thing that brought me home instead of… stayin’ out there with all that in my head.”

His forehead dropped gently to hers, their breaths mingling, the heat of her steady against the raw edge of him.

“You hold me together, Hattie.”
A breath.
A broken laugh that wasn’t really a laugh.
“You don’t even know how much.”

He tightened his arms around her again, lifting her slightly off the floor in an instinctive pull of closeness before setting her back down — but not loosening his grip.

“I ain’t lettin’ you go either,” he whispered, voice barely there. “Not now… not ever.”

He pressed a kiss to her temple — long, lingering, almost trembling — his lips brushing there like a vow he didn’t have the strength to speak again.

And for the first time since he’d walked through the door, his breathing finally slowed.

Not enough to say he was okay.
Not enough to say he was done breaking.

Just enough to show he could breathe again.

Because she was holding him.

Because she wasn’t letting go.

And neither was he.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t try to fix it.

She just held him.

Her arms stayed wrapped around him the moment he collapsed into her — all trembling weight and shattered breath, that tall, strong body finally letting someone else be the anchor. She didn’t flinch when his shoulders shook or when the raw edge of his voice cracked against her neck. She simply closed her eyes and leaned into every part of him that needed steadying.

Her hands moved in slow, grounding patterns — one splayed wide against the middle of his back, the other curled up behind his neck, fingers buried in his hair. She stroked gently, rhythmically, like she could ease the aftershocks out of him with nothing but touch. And maybe she could. Maybe she was.

Because he didn’t fall apart.

Not completely.

He let her hold the pieces.

He let her be the pieces.

And she would’ve stood there forever if it meant keeping him stitched together.

He said her name like it meant something — everything. Said he didn’t know what he’d do without her. Said she was the only thing making this day survivable. And she didn’t cry. Not because it didn’t shake her down to her bones — it did. But because this moment wasn’t about her.

It was about him finally letting go of the weight he’d been carrying for so long without help.

And she wouldn’t let it fall.

She felt his breath on her collarbone, uneven and human and real. Felt the way he clung, not out of fear but out of faith — like some part of him finally understood she wasn’t going anywhere.

When he pulled her off the floor for just a second, when his arms wrapped tighter and his voice rasped not now… not ever — something fierce and tender bloomed in her chest. She pressed her face to the side of his neck, nodded against his skin even though he couldn’t see it.

He didn’t need to.

He’d feel it.

And then, with her lips close to his ear — soft, steady, true — she whispered the only thing she thought might matter:

“You don’t ever have to go through it alone again.”

She stayed quiet after that, even as his breathing slowed. Even as the trembling ebbed. Even as the storm inside him began to quiet, breath by breath, because she wasn’t letting go.

Not tonight.
Not ever.

He’d never have to know what it was like without her again.

Declan didn’t answer her right away.

Couldn’t.

His throat went tight — not the kind he could swallow past, not the kind he could grit through with brute strength and stubbornness. This one was different. This one was from the way she said it. The way she held him. The way she stood there, all soft arms and steady heart, and meant every single word.

You don’t ever have to go through it alone again.

It broke him in a brand-new way.
A better way.
A way that felt like healing instead of collapse.

His arms tightened around her — slow first, then stronger, then all the way until her toes lifted just barely off the floor again. He tucked his face into the side of her neck, nose pressed into her skin like he needed to breathe her in just to stay standing.

And when he finally found his voice, it was low and rough and scraped raw, the words trembling as they came out against her shoulder.

“Hattie… sweetheart… I don’t wanna know what my life looks like without you anymore.”

His hand slid up her back, broad palm spanning more than half of it, holding her like she was the only solid thing left in a world that had just ripped itself open in front of him. His fingers trembled, but they were gentle — reverent — tracing over the line of her spine as though touching her steadied his soul.

He pulled back just enough to see her face — not far, just inches — and his eyes were wrecked. Red, wet, vulnerable in a way he’d never let another human being see. Not his crew. Not the chief. Not anyone.

Just her.

His thumb brushed under her eye, not wiping tears from her — she wasn’t the one crying — but touching her like she was something fragile and holy and absolutely his.

“You stayin’ through this?” he whispered, voice cracked but certain. “Through… through the ugly parts too? Through days like today?”

His jaw shook.
His breath hitched.
And then—

“I don’t deserve it,” he rasped. “But God, Hattie… I need you. I need you more than I’ve ever needed anyone in my life.”

He leaned forward, forehead settling against hers, his big frame folding down to meet her small one like he was being held up by her alone.

“You’re the only thing that got me home,” he whispered. “The only thing that makes any of this make sense. The only thing I trust to keep me human after the shit I see.”

His hand slid up to cup her cheek, thumb sweeping along her skin with aching tenderness.

“I’m yours,” he murmured. “I’m yours, sweetheart. I don’t wanna carry one more piece of this world without you.”

He leaned in and kissed her — not desperate, not hungry, not needing anything from her except the connection itself. It was slow. Shaking. Deep in a way that felt like confession, apology, and devotion all at once.

When he pulled back, his voice was barely more than breath.

“You said you’re not lettin’ go,” he whispered. “So I’m beggin’ you… stay right here with me.”

And then, with the softest, most broken kind of honesty — the kind he’d never shown anyone:

“I love you, Hattie. I love you in a way that scares me and saves me all at once.”

His arms tightened again, pulling her flush to his chest as if he could fuse her to him.

“Please… just stay.”

Her heart could’ve broken at the sound of him.

But it didn’t.

It held.

Because that’s what hearts were made to do when they were in the right hands.

And hers was already in his — no takebacks, no conditions, no halfway promises.

So when he said please stay, when he said he didn’t deserve it but needed her — Hattie didn’t flinch. She didn’t blink. She didn’t let go.

She rose on her toes and kissed his temple — slow and steady, just above his ear — before brushing her cheek against his in the kind of touch that didn’t demand anything, just offered everything.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered into his skin, soft but fierce. “Not now. Not when you need me most. Not ever.”

Her hand drifted through the back of his hair, fingers gently combing through the thick waves she loved, grounding him with every pass. He felt huge in her arms — broad and broken and trembling just beneath the surface — but she wasn’t scared of the weight. She was already carrying half of it. Willingly. Steadily.

“And you do deserve this, Declan,” she added, her voice just above a murmur now, warm and sure against his jaw. “Every bit of it. Every second of love I’ve got to give. You think I give this heart away easy?”

She leaned back just enough to look up at him, her hands slipping down to press flat against his chest where his heart thudded beneath her touch.

“Please. You had to drag a couch for me before I let you kiss me.”

There it was — the flicker of a smile, a twitch at the corner of his mouth like she’d struck gold. And she wasn’t done yet.

“Then you fixed my leaky sink,” she went on, eyes soft but mischievous, “and my porch light, and replaced all my batteries, and checked my smoke detectors twice like some kind of golden retriever in a uniform—”

That one got him.

Not a full laugh, but a huffed breath through his nose. A tilt of his lips. A little more light in his eyes. It was enough.

She grinned up at him, then pressed a kiss right where his smile had almost landed.

“You earned me, Declan,” she said, tone gentle again. “Every piece. You don’t have to beg me to stay. I already chose you.”

Her hands came back to his face — one cradling his cheek, the other brushing beneath his eye where a single tear clung stubbornly to his lashes.

“And I’ll keep choosing you,” she whispered. “Even on the hard days. Especially on the hard days.”

She leaned in and kissed him again — sweet, steady, lips lingering as if she could press her calm into him. As if she could be the balm to everything burning inside his soul.

And then, softer still, with the kind of playful tenderness that only came from knowing someone all the way down:

“You’re stuck with me.”

She pressed her forehead to his and added one more quiet promise, just for him.

“I’m your home now.”

And this time, when she felt him exhale against her mouth — slower, steadier — she knew he believed it.

She knew he was finally letting her carry him.
And she knew he wasn’t falling apart.

He was falling into her.
And she’d be right there to catch him.

Declan kept his forehead pressed against hers for another long, steady breath — the kind that didn’t shake anymore, didn’t catch, didn’t split him open. Just… settled him. Her hands were still on him, warm and sure, and something in his chest finally loosened enough for the world to feel real again.

He blinked slowly, grounding himself in the familiar shape of her face, the faint smell of her shampoo, the quiet hum of the house around them. The devastation of the day was still there — heavy, unmovable — but it didn’t own him now. Not with her hands tracing slow lines at the base of his skull, not with her eyes soft and steady on him.

He swallowed once, thickly, and then let his hand slide down her arm until their fingers threaded together.

“Hattie,” he murmured, voice rough but no longer breaking, “if I stay right here, I’m gonna end up standin’ in this kitchen all night.”

She gave the smallest smile — the kind that always punched right through his ribs — and squeezed his hand.

He brushed his thumb over her knuckles, exhaled a long breath, then nodded once toward the hallway.

“C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s get outta this room.”

Not a command.
Not a plea.
Just a quiet suggestion — the first one he’d been able to form since stepping through the door.

He didn’t let go of her hand as he turned, leading her toward the living room. His steps were slow, deliberate, like he was relearning the weight of his own body now that he wasn’t holding everything alone. She stayed close at his side, their arms brushing with each step.

The glow of the lamp cast a warm pool of light across the couch. Normally, she’d have teased him about sinking into it like an old man. Tonight, she just let him tug her down with him, pulling her gently into his lap instead of beside him — a wordless request for closeness he didn’t have the energy to hide.

He rested his chin on her shoulder, his arms looping loosely around her waist. Not desperate this time. Not shaking. Just… needing her there.

After a moment, he huffed a breath against her collarbone — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh.

“I don’t wanna talk about the call,” he said quietly. “Not yet.”

Her fingers slid into his hair, combing slow and soft.

“But I am starvin’,” he added, voice low and almost sheepish. “Did you eat?”

It was such a normal question — so startlingly ordinary after everything — that she felt his chest relax a little more against her back. A grounding shift toward something simple, something human.

His hand traced her hip in a small, absent stroke.

“I can order somethin’,” he murmured. “Somethin’ easy. Or… I dunno. Maybe we just sit here for a while.”

He pressed a faint kiss to the curve where her neck met her shoulder — not heavy, not needy, just grateful.

“You tell me,” he whispered. “What do we need right now?”

What they needed… was this.
No more talking.
No more unraveling.
Just stillness.
Just them.

Hattie didn’t move for a long moment. She stayed curled into his arms like she’d been built to be there — because maybe she had. Because maybe when your heart knew where it belonged, you didn’t question it. You just stayed.

She let her cheek rest lightly against his. His breath was warm on her skin, his heartbeat steady and slow beneath her hands. And even if the weight of the world hadn’t left him, at least now it wasn’t sitting squarely on his shoulders.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” she whispered, her voice gentle as her fingers brushed softly through the hair at his nape. “Not now. Not later. Not unless you want to. I’m not here for answers. I’m here for you.”

She kissed his jaw — light and sure — then nuzzled her nose against the spot just beneath his ear in quiet reassurance.

His grip on her tightened just slightly.

“And we are not getting up yet,” she added, just enough teasing warmth threading through her tone to coax the smallest breath of a laugh from his chest. “Because as much as I love your appetite, I think what you need right now is to let me hold you for a little longer.”

Her fingers continued their slow, calming path across his shoulders, over his ribs, until her arms were looped around him in a steady, anchoring embrace.

“I’ll get up eventually,” she murmured, almost like a promise against his skin. “I’ll grab my phone and order your favorite from Smokey’s — full plate, extra cornbread, and those weird spicy pickles you like for some reason…”

His chest shifted with the softest, most reluctant huff of amusement, and it was everything.

“But not yet,” she whispered. “Because right now, what we need is this.”

Her lips found the corner of his mouth — a tender brush of love and claim — before she settled fully into him again, letting his warmth and weight fold around her like a familiar quilt.

“I’m right where I belong,” she added quietly. “And so are you.”

She felt his hand slide up her back again, no longer shaking — just resting. Just home.

And with the fire low and the night wrapped around their little house like a blanket, Hattie held him a little closer.

Because this wasn’t just how you stayed.

It was how you healed.
Together.
Quietly.
One breath at a time.

Declan didn’t answer her right away.
He didn’t need to.

Her words landed in him slow and heavy, the way rain sinks into dry earth — soaking into places he’d kept sealed for years. And the way she said we need this, the way she pressed that soft kiss to his jaw, the way she fit against him like she’d been carved for that exact spot on his chest…

It undid him in the quietest, most merciful way.

He tightened his arms around her, not in desperation now, but in something steadier — something that sounded a whole lot like relief. His nose tucked into her hair, breathing her in deep, like he was relearning what safe felt like.

“Hattie,” he murmured, and it came out on an exhale warm against her temple, gentler than he’d sounded all night, “you got no idea what you’re doin’ to me.”

His voice had weight again.
Not the sharp, breaking kind — the grounded kind. Full. Warm. Present.

He shifted just enough to press his lips to the side of her head — a lingering kiss, slow and grateful, the sort that said thank you without needing the words. His hand slid up her spine in a broad, steady sweep before settling between her shoulder blades, palm warm and sure.

And when she teased him about his weird spicy pickle habit, the smallest, unwilling smile tugged at his mouth. It wasn’t big. It wasn’t bright. But it was real.

“You makin’ fun of my pickles,” he murmured against her skin, “oughta be illegal when I’m tryin’ my best to brood.”

There it was
— the soft rumble of humor she’d been coaxing out of him bit by bit —
quiet, tender, familiar.

His fingers slid to her waist, curling there, not pushing her closer because she was already exactly where he wanted her.

“That’s what you do to me,” he said, voice low, brushing a slow kiss along the shell of her ear. “I come home broken… and you make it feel like maybe I ain’t as alone as I thought.”

His chest rose and fell under her palms, slower now, syncing to her breathing without him even trying. He let his forehead rest against her temple, eyes closed, letting her hold him, letting himself be held.

“No, we’re not gettin’ up,” he added, answering her earlier words, the barest smile touching his voice as he pulled a blanket from the back of the couch and draped it around them both. “Door could fall off its hinges and I’m still stayin’ right here.”

The blanket settled around their shoulders, warm and heavy.

His hand found hers under it, fingers threading through in a slow, deliberate weave.

“This…” he said quietly, squeezing her hand once, “is the first time all damn day I’ve felt my feet on solid ground.”

He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles — not out of habit, but devotion.

“And yeah,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over her fingers, “this is exactly what we need.”

He leaned back into the couch, pulling her more fully against his chest, settling the blanket around them both like a shared heartbeat.

“No noise. No calls. No sirens.”
Just his breath warming the side of her face, his fingers stroking steady circles at her hip.

Then, in a softer voice — almost shy, almost boyish:

“Stay right here with me a little longer, darlin’.”

Not because he needed saving now.
Because he needed her.

Because holding her wasn’t reminding him of the bad anymore.
It was reminding him of everything he still had.

Declan didn’t rush it.
Didn’t shift or straighten or try to get control again.

He just held her.

Held her like every part of him had finally stopped fighting the urge to collapse into her — not out of weakness, but out of finally understanding that she was the one place he didn’t have to pretend.

His thumb kept tracing slow, absent circles at her hip beneath the blanket. Small, steady motions. The kind a man made when he wasn’t trying to soothe her, but trying to keep himself tethered to the moment. To the warmth of her body. To the comfort of her breath brushing the side of his throat.

“Feels good,” he murmured after a long stretch of quiet, voice low and rough, but gentler now. “Just… havin’ you on me like this.”

It wasn’t flirtation.
Wasn’t heat.
Just truth.

Soft and simple.

He tucked his chin on top of her head, letting his lips rest in her hair — not kissing, just breathing her in. Her shampoo. Her warmth. The clean, familiar scent of someone who didn’t just take up space in his house, but in his heart.

“I don’t—I can’t tell you how many times today I wished I could just walk off that truck and land right here,” he said quietly, tightening his arm around her waist. “Right in your arms. Right where you’re lettin’ me be now.”

His chest rose beneath her cheek in a long, steady breath. Deeper than any he’d managed since walking in the door.

“You’re somethin’ else, Hattie Monroe,” he whispered, voice fond and cracked in the same breath. “You hold me like you’ve been doin’ it your whole life.”

He shifted just enough to press a soft kiss to her forehead, letting his lips linger there.

“You don’t know how good that feels,” he added. “Or maybe you do. Maybe that’s why you keep holdin’ me tighter every time I start to fall apart.”

His fingers slipped down her spine, slow and warm, then back up again — memorizing her all over, reminding himself she was real.

“Think you saved me tonight,” he said, the words almost swallowed by the fabric of her shirt as he spoke them into her shoulder. “Just by bein’ here. Just by stayin’.”

There was no tremor left in his voice.
No shaking in his limbs.

She had steadied him.

And he knew it.

His hand found hers again under the blanket and threaded their fingers together, palm to palm, squeezing gently.

“I don’t take that for granted,” he murmured. “Not even for a second.”

Then, with a tired little half-laugh — warmer, softer, full of something like awe:

“Hell, sweetheart… you show up like this after every bad day, I might start survivin’ ‘em a whole lot easier.”

Hattie didn’t say anything right away.

She didn’t need to.

Because she could feel it — the way his breathing had changed. The way his body, all broad and strong and usually so taut with tension, had finally given in and relaxed into her. Like he’d stopped bracing for impact and started remembering what it felt like to rest.

Her heart ached with how much she loved him.

Not the shiny, movie-scene kind of love. But the kind that held steady when things cracked. The kind that showed up barefoot in the kitchen, wrapped in a blanket, holding all his sharp edges like they were holy.

Her fingers kept brushing slow along the curve of his back, soothing him without ceremony, just because he needed it. Just because he was hers.

And then—his voice.

Darlin’. Stay right here with me a little longer, darlin’.

The way he said it made her whole body melt into his. Made her want to hold onto him tighter, even though there was no space left between them to close.

So she kissed his shoulder, right where the collar of his shirt had rumpled from her cheek, and then tilted her head just enough to nudge her nose along the edge of his jaw.

“You get this whenever you want,” she whispered, her voice soft but certain. “You know that, right?”

He made a small sound, like he didn’t quite believe it even though he wanted to.

So she nuzzled him again, her mouth brushing the edge of his ear, and added, “It’s one of the many perks of shacking up with me. Lifetime supply of blanket-wrapped girlfriend cuddles — no call-ahead required.”

That pulled a quiet breath of a laugh from him — not loud, not full-blown — but real. She felt it in his chest beneath her palms, and the sound went straight to her heart.

“Only catch,” she went on, the smallest smile curling her lips now, “is that this couch’s got about five more nights like this in it before we leave a permanent Hattie-and-Declan-shaped dent right here.”

He didn’t argue.

Didn’t shift or tease back.

He just let her hold him. Let her be the warmth he could come home to. Let her keep talking like it was okay to find lightness in the middle of a heavy night — because it was okay. Because she was okay. Because they were.

She tucked the blanket closer around them and pressed her cheek back to his chest, her eyes fluttering closed.

“Don’t gotta worry about me lettin’ go,” she added, quieter now. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever, long as you want me here.”

Her voice stayed warm and sure, even as she softened it further.

“You’re mine, Declan Caldwell,” she whispered. “And I’m yours. That’s the whole of it.”

Her fingers traced slow, looping patterns at the base of his neck, feeling the steady thump of his pulse there. Not racing. Not fragile. Just there.

And even though her phone was in the other room, and she still had every intention of ordering that BBQ with the weird pickles later…

Right now?

This was where she needed to be.

Blanket tangled.
Legs draped over his.
Breathing in sync.
No sirens.
No uniforms.
Just them.

She could feel his thumb sweeping soft, slow circles along the edge of her hip, and the way he was holding her now wasn’t about need anymore.

It was about having.

And as her lips brushed his collarbone in the quiet that followed, she let herself smile — not big, not for show — but the kind that came from knowing this was exactly where she belonged.

“You keep holdin’ me like this, babe,” she murmured into his shirt, “and I might start thinkin’ the couch is the best part of the house.”

And when he huffed another laugh — small but real — she closed her eyes and let herself stay.

He didn’t laugh this time — not exactly.

It was more like a breath that broke open against her hair, warm and shaky and threaded with something he didn’t have a name for yet. Something that felt a lot like gratitude and a little like surrender.

Because she had him.
God, she had him.

Not just with her words — though those always landed in him like they’d been carved to fit — but with the way she fit herself into his arms like she’d always belonged there. With the way she smoothed her hand up his back like she was steadying him, the one thing he never let anyone see him need.

And when she whispered I’m yours, he didn’t try to swallow the way it hit him. Didn’t hide the way his breath stuttered, the way his fingers tightened just slightly at her hip, like they’d found something to hold onto that finally held back.

He let it happen.

His hand slid up her spine, slow and reverent, fingertips brushing the warmth beneath her shirt like he was memorizing her inch by inch.

“Hattie…” he murmured, and the way her name cracked in the middle wasn’t weakness — it was relief. Pure, bone-deep relief. “Sweet girl, you ain’t ever gonna know what that does to me.”

He tipped his chin forward, pressing a lingering kiss into her hair — not rushed, not searching, just there, like the touch itself was an oath he didn’t know how to say out loud.

She shifted just a little against him, enough that her cheek brushed his chest again, and he felt it — the smile she was trying to hide in his shirt.

It softened him even more.

“That couch could collapse under us right now,” he whispered, voice low and roughened with the kind of affection he only ever let her hear, “and I’d still call this the best damn place in the house.”

His thumb stroked slow circles at her hip, the steady motion matching the rise and fall of her breathing. He felt her legs tangled with his, blanket warm around them, the faint scent of whatever laundry soap she used clinging to her shirt.

“And you talkin’ ‘bout dents?” he murmured, mouth brushing the top of her ear, “Darlin’, they could replace this whole cushion tomorrow, and I’d drag it right back out here if it meant you’d lay on me like this again.”

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt at that, holding him like she knew exactly how the words unraveled him.

He slipped one hand up to cradle the side of her face, tilting her just enough that he could brush his lips against her temple — a slow, tender kiss that stayed there, lingered, breathed with her.

“I don’t ever wanna put you down,” he admitted quietly. Honestly. “Not after today. Not ever.”

A beat passed — soft, warm, settling.

Then, in a voice that vibrated right against her cheek, he added:

“You’re home for me, Hattie. Even when everything else… ain’t.”

She exhaled, and he felt her whole body melt a little more deeply into him — like she understood, like she took that truth and held it gently.

He wrapped both arms around her then, gathering her closer, tucking her against him until there was nowhere else she could possibly fit but here.

“Stay right here,” he whispered into her hair.
“’Cause I need this. I need you.”

And the way he held her wasn’t fragile anymore.

It was choosing.
It was claiming.
It was keeping.

Because tonight wasn’t about breaking.

Tonight was about the way she put him back together — piece by steady piece — without ever asking him to be anything but hers

She stayed.

Not because he asked her to — though he had, quiet and vulnerable in a way that made her want to cry a little into his shirt — but because how could she not?

Her arms curved tighter around him. Not suffocating. Not urgent. Just sure.

The way he said “home” still echoed through her chest, soft and reverent and so completely Declan it made her throat tighten. That low, rough drawl full of truth he never handed out easily — especially not when he felt this undone.

And God, she felt it.
Every ounce of the weight he let drop into her.
Every inch of the guard he let fall when he curled around her like she was the only thing holding him together.

So she held on.

Not because he was broken. But because she loved him.

Because she knew what he did out there — the way he carried people out of flames and grief and chaos and still somehow came home with enough of himself to wrap around her like this.

She let her fingers drift up into his hair, slow and light, gently combing through the curls at the nape of his neck. His breath hitched once, then steadied.

And for a long time, that was all they did.

Just breathe.

Tangled together under a blanket that had seen too many nap-battles on this exact couch. Warm in the way only worn things could be. Safe in a way that didn’t need to be spoken.

Her cheek rose and fell with the rhythm of his chest. His heartbeat was slower now, but still strong. Still steady.

She pressed a kiss there — soft and grateful.

Maybe she didn’t walk through the fires like he did. Maybe she didn’t hold the weight of someone else’s life in her hands. But she’d seen enough from the admin side of the station to know the look in his eyes tonight.

It wasn’t about her.
It wasn’t about anything she could fix.

It was just about being here.
About not leaving.

So she didn’t.

She let him breathe. Let herself breathe too. Let her fingers draw lazy patterns on his chest while the room settled around them in quiet evening gold.

Until—
Her stomach growled.

Loud enough that his chest shifted just slightly beneath her in acknowledgment.

She laughed softly, low and a little sheepish, and tilted her chin just enough to murmur near his collarbone.
“Well, that’s my cue. Might be time for me to go grab my phone and order us something before I start gnawin’ on your shoulder.”

Her tone was light, warm — a gentle shift back into the world, but only just.

She didn’t move yet.

Not until he let her.
Not until she felt him ready to let the outside in again.

But her hand gave his a quiet squeeze. A promise.
She wasn’t going far.

Just to the other room.
Just long enough to feed them.
Just long enough to come back and be this again.

And maybe — if he still needed it — all night.

Declan didn’t let her go.

Not even a little.

Not even when she joked about gnawing on his shoulder, not when she shifted like she might get up, not when the outside world nudged at the soft edges of the moment they’d carved out together. His arms cinched around her instinctively — gentle, but unmistakably claiming — like his whole body understood what his mind hadn’t quite caught up to:

He wasn’t ready to lose the feel of her yet.

He dipped his head, his lips brushing her hairline, the breath he let out warm against her temple. A sound rumbled low in his chest — half a hum, half a sigh — the kind he only made when something in him finally started to knit back together.

Her joke lingered in the air between them, and God, he loved her for it. How she could pull him out of the worst day of his life with nothing but a soft laugh and the promise of takeout. How she could hold the heavy parts of him without making him feel like a burden. How she always knew the exact second to lighten the weight and the exact second to keep him anchored.

His hand slid up her back, fingers sifting through the hem of her shirt just enough to feel the warmth of her skin. Not asking her to stay. Not begging.

Just… keeping her close.

“Mm,” he breathed, his voice low and honeyed against her hair, “you’re not goin’ anywhere yet.”

It wasn’t a command.
It wasn’t even a request.
It was a quiet truth, spoken in the rough-edged softness he reserved only for her.

His thumb traced slow, absent patterns at her waist, grounding himself in the shape of her. Not trembling now. Not unraveling. Just… holding.

“Food can wait a minute,” he murmured, tilting his head so his nose brushed her cheek. “I need another breath of you first.”

And he meant it.

Her scent — that warm, sweet, familiar blend of whatever lotion she stole from her sister and something that was just her — calmed his heartbeat more than anything else ever could. He pressed a small kiss against the top of her head, lingering there like it was the easiest place in the world to rest.

Then, feeling her fingers draw slow patterns on his chest — those soft, looping shapes that always managed to undo him — he let out another breath, softer still.

“You feel so damn good,” he admitted into her hair, barely above a whisper. “Like somethin’ I don’t wanna put down.”

His hand slid up to cup the back of her neck, thumb brushing the dip at her hairline — tender, reverent.

He wasn’t falling apart anymore.

He was falling into her.

And that was a whole different kind of undoing.

He shifted just enough to tuck her even closer beneath his chin, blanket bunching around them like a cocoon.

“Stay a little longer,” he murmured, voice rough and thick with honesty. “Just… let me have you like this a bit more.”

His lips brushed her temple again, softer than a breath.

“Then we’ll get food,” he added, the smallest smile threading through his words. “Promise I won’t let you starve. I need you too much.”

His hands tightened around her — warm, steady, whole.

And in the quiet, he let out the truth he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in all night:

“You’re what gets me through days like this, Hattie.”

Another kiss — this one slow, lasting.

“You. Right here.”

He breathed her in, chest rising under her cheek, body finally fully at ease.

The world could knock again later.

For now, he wasn’t letting her go.

She hadn’t really been trying to move.
She might’ve joked, might’ve shifted just a little — but she hadn’t meant it. And the second his arms tightened around her with that familiar, protective strength, she knew she’d be right here until he decided otherwise.

And honestly? That was just fine by her.

His body was warm and solid beneath her, his breath starting to even out against her skin, and she could feel the edges of his day softening. Could feel him easing, little by little, as if her being here — being his — gave him permission to let go of the things still clawing at the back of his mind.

She smiled, small and wry, against his shirt.
“Well,” she murmured, her voice low and teasing as her fingers stroked along the curve of his ribs, “someone’s clingy tonight.”

His grip didn’t loosen.
If anything, he pulled her closer — like he knew she didn’t mean a word of it.

And she didn’t.

She loved it when he clung to her.
Loved being his soft place to land.
Loved that in the aftermath of something too heavy to name, she was the one he reached for without question.

“You’re lucky I like you,” she added lightly, just to fill the quiet.

But her touch stayed tender — gentle swirls of her fingers on his chest, small press of her cheek into the curve of his neck. She wasn’t teasing anymore. Not really.

Because she knew.

Knew what days like this did to him.
Knew the weight he carried home and the guilt he never said out loud.
Knew how much it cost him to walk through the door and let someone see.

And she wasn’t going to make him talk about it.
Not now.
Not later.
Not ever — unless he wanted to.

Her job wasn’t to ask.
Her job was to stay.

So she did.

She burrowed in closer, tangling her legs with his and letting her body become the anchor he didn’t have to ask for.

The sound of the room settled around them — the hum of the fridge, the soft creak of the couch as he shifted, the rhythmic beat of his heart beneath her ear.

And slowly, steadily, she felt it:

The moment his mind finally stopped spinning.

The moment the firehouse and the call and the weight of it all faded.
Not forgotten — but distant.
Manageable.

She was pulling him back to now.
To this.

Her thumb traced the underside of his jaw.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” she whispered, quiet and certain and full of love. “Food can wait.”

She felt his chest rise beneath her, then fall in a long, slow exhale — the kind that told her he believed her. The kind that told her she was doing exactly what he needed.

“I’ve got you,” she added, softer still, her words a promise and a balm.

She nestled her head under his chin and let her hand drift up to tangle in his hair, curling into the softness there like she was meant to live in this exact spot.

The blanket was warm.
The man beneath her even warmer.
And whatever was waiting outside the door?

It could wait.

Because she wasn’t moving.
Not until he was ready.
Not until he let her go.

And even then — only long enough to come right back.

Declan didn’t tighten his hold this time.
He changed it.

Instead of clinging, instead of anchoring himself in her like he had earlier, he shifted his hand up her spine and flattened his palm between her shoulder blades — steady, warm, intentional. Not desperate. Just present.

A breath left him, softer than before, and he turned his head enough to press his lips to the side of hers, slow and grounding instead of seeking.

“Darlin’…” he murmured, voice low but clearer now, calmer. “You know what I’m thinkin’ about?”

He didn’t wait for her to answer.
Didn’t make her guess.
Didn’t fall back into any earlier loops.

“I’m thinkin’ about takin’ you off this couch.”

His thumb brushed the back of her ribs in a way that wasn’t sexual — it was practical, gentle, like a man easing back into his body after being somewhere heavy.

“Not ‘cause I wanna stop holdin’ you,” he added, his voice dipping with a rough fondness, “but because this cushion is doin’ somethin’ terrible to my spine.”

A faint laugh — a real one — caught in his chest, surprising even him.

“And I know your little self is comfortable,” he went on, nudging his nose into her hair, “but baby, I’m losin’ the feeling in my right leg.”

Not dramatic.
Not heavy.
Just truth, softened by the affection threading through every word.

His hand slid to her hip, giving it a small, coaxing squeeze.

“How about we move to the bed,” he said, tone warm now, almost boyish in the way only she ever got to hear, “and you let me be a pillow that doesn’t creak every time either of us blinks?”

Another slow kiss — this one to her shoulder.

“And once we get settled,” he murmured, “you can decide if you still wanna order somethin’… or if you want me to make somethin’ real quick.”

He lifted his head just enough to meet her eyes.

“Your call, Hattie. I’m with you either way.”

She smiled against his chest, a slow curl of affection that melted through every part of her.

Because there it was.
That voice. That tease.
That dry little thread of humor laced with exhaustion and fondness and something only hers.

Declan.

Her Declan.

He was back.

And not all at once — not like flipping a switch — but piece by piece, word by word, breath by breath.
And now here he was, making jokes about his spine and calling himself a creaky couch pillow.
Hers, through and through.

She gave a soft laugh and tilted her head up to glance at him, one brow raised.
“Well, I was gonna ask if you wanted me to kiss it better,” she teased, “but I’m not exactly certified in spinal realignment, so I guess the bed will have to do.”

He snorted softly, and she grinned wider.

Then, with a contented hum, she sat up and slowly peeled herself off of him — which she could have done more gracefully, but his leg was half-numb and she may have giggled under her breath when he groaned a little at the blood rushing back.

“You poor old man,” she teased, standing and brushing imaginary dust off her thighs. “Come on, before I have to roll you in there.”

She extended a hand, palm up, and waited.
He took it instantly.

But instead of letting go, she curled her fingers tighter around his and tugged gently until his arm wrapped snug around her shoulders.

She leaned into his side like it was second nature — because it was — and guided them toward the bedroom.

“Let the record show,” she murmured as they passed the hallway light, “you asked for this relocation. If your back still hurts, I’m gonna start making you sleep with one of those little neck pillows like you’re on a red-eye flight.”

When they reached the bedroom, she stopped at the edge of the bed and turned to face him — hand still in his, smile crooked and full of something warm and shamelessly sweet.

She rose onto her toes and kissed him — slow and deliberate.
Not hungry. Not rushed.
Just theirs.

And when she pulled back, her voice went light again.

“Alright, Captain Clingy,” she said with a wink, “get comfy.”

Then she gave his chest a small push — playful but effective — and watched as he let himself fall back onto the bed with a contented huff.

She grinned at the sight of him sprawled out, rumpled and hers, then padded softly into the kitchen, bare feet warm against the hardwood.

Her phone was still where she’d left it on the counter.
Right next to the spot where he’d stood earlier — shoulders stiff, jaw locked, eyes stormy and tired in a way that had cracked something in her chest.

She paused there for a beat, thumb hovering above the screen.

Then she glanced toward the bedroom and smiled, soft and full of relief.

She made the call.
Two full plates from Rodeo Bar & Grill — one chicken-fried steak, one pulled pork sandwich, extra cornbread, spicy pickles for him.

“Thanks,” she said quietly into the phone, her eyes still on that same spot at the counter. “Delivery’s perfect.”

By the time she slipped back into the bedroom, phone in hand, her heart felt a little lighter.

Declan was exactly where she’d left him — stretched out, already settled, shirt rumpled and arms open in invitation.

She crossed the room, placed the phone gently on the bedside table, and then crawled back into bed without hesitation — curling herself into his side like a blanket he didn’t know he needed.

“Food should be here soon-ish,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to the curve of his shoulder as she tucked her arm across his stomach.

Then her fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt — slow, sure, and warm — seeking out the comfort of bare skin the way someone might reach for sunlight through curtains. Not to tease. Not to distract. Just to feel.

To remind herself he was here. Safe. Home.

She let her leg tangle with his, her nose nuzzling the space beneath his jaw as she breathed him in.

And then she just stayed.

Pressed close.
Soft, flirty, and entirely his.

Declan watched her crawl back into the bed like she’d been made for it.

For him.

For right here.

And somehow, even after the day he’d had — even after the storm that had ripped through him not an hour ago — she slid beneath his arm and all the leftover static in his chest finally eased.

He let out a low exhale, one he didn’t mean to let her hear, but she caught it anyway when she tucked herself against his side like she belonged in the space between his ribs.

“Lord have mercy,” he muttered, voice warm and dragging at the edges as his hand slipped beneath the blanket and found the small of her back. “You come in here smellin’ like lavender and actin’ all sweet… I’m supposed to relax with you temptin’ me like that?”

She hummed into his neck, fingers sliding under his shirt, soft and light and maddening in that way she always was — not on purpose, just by existing.

His hand drifted up her spine, slow as syrup, tracing the shape of her like he needed to memorize it all over again.

“You sure you ordered food for us,” he teased lightly, tilting his head just enough to brush his lips across her hairline, “and not just delayin’ the inevitable where I gotta scoop you up and carry you everywhere ‘cause you refuse to grow more than five-foot-two?”

Her palm flattened against his stomach in dramatic offense, and he laughed — a real, full sound that rumbled under her cheek.

“There it is,” he murmured, softer now. “That sound right there… hadn’t realized how bad I needed it today.”

He didn’t say thank you.
Not because he wasn’t grateful — but because that was too small a word for what she’d given him tonight.

Instead, he shifted just enough to pull her fully across his chest, guiding one thigh over his with a firm, gentle grip that made it clear he wasn’t letting her drift an inch away.

“That call’s done,” he said quietly, his lips brushing her temple as his thumb stroked the back of her shoulder. “Work’s miles from here. And whatever tried to chew me up today… you chased it out the second you touched me.”

He pressed a slow kiss to the side of her jaw — not hungry, not urgent.
Just steady.
Grounded.
Claiming her without needing to take anything at all.

“Reckon you should get some kind of medal,” he murmured into her skin, “for puttin’ a grown man back together with nothin’ but a blanket and them little hands of yours.”

He felt her laugh — felt it against his throat, soft and warm — and he turned his head enough to press another kiss just beneath her ear.

“And darlin’,” he added, voice dropping lower, “I ain’t complainin’ about your hands on me. Ever. But you keep slidin’ ‘em under my shirt like that, and I’m gonna forget we got dinner on the way.”

His fingers skimmed her hip, playful but tender, before settling her even closer — if that was possible.

“You can stay right where you are,” he said, cheek resting against the top of her head. “Matter of fact… don’t you dare move ‘til that knock on the door. I’m gettin’ selfish.”

He tugged the blankets around them one-handed, then breathed her in slow and deep — the kind of breath you take when you finally let yourself believe you’re safe.

“I’m good now,” he murmured, voice almost drowsy with contentment. “’Cause you’re here.”

Then, in a rare, boyish whisper — soft enough that only the pillow and her hair could hear:

“And I don’t ever wanna sleep without you again.”

Hattie didn’t say anything right away.

She just breathed.

Let herself melt into his chest, slow and warm and content, with her cheek tucked over the steady beat of his heart.
His voice rumbled beneath her — smooth and low and lazy now, like molasses catching the late sun — and she let the sound of it settle into her bones.

This was everything.
Not the medal. Not the joke. Not even the kiss, though she felt that one in her ribs.

Just… him.
Softer than he let most people see.
Speaking like she was the only place he ever wanted to land.

And God, she’d never needed any trophies.
Never needed praise.
She only ever needed him.

Her Declan.

The one who held her like this was sacred.
Like she was his safe place, too.

When he got to the part about her “little hands,” she turned her face — slow and deliberate — and rested her chin right on the center of his chest, blinking up at him with exaggerated innocence.

Her mouth curved, just barely, and she brought her hands up next to her face — dainty and dramatic — and wiggled her fingers.

“Excuse you,” she said, mock-offended, “these little hands are federally registered emotional support tools.”

Then she tucked them both under her chin with a flourish, curled sweetly against him like she hadn’t just made herself laugh.

“And they’re off duty until dinner gets here,” she added with a wink, her voice all soft Southern sass and affection. “Otherwise, I might be tempted to use them inappropriately.”

Her lashes dropped, just a touch.
Not enough to start anything.
Just enough to let him feel the tease.

But she didn’t move.

Didn’t climb on top of him.
Didn’t push the moment further.

She just stayed right there, chin resting lightly on his chest, eyes fixed on his face like she was memorizing him for the hundredth time.

And she was.

Because she could look at him like this forever and still find something new to love.

Her fingers wiggled once more under her chin — playful and impossibly soft — before she settled deeper into the circle of his arms.

“Don’t worry, baby,” she murmured, nuzzling her nose against the line of his collarbone. “We’ll behave… for now.”

And she sighed — content and a little dreamy — as her thumb traced slow circles on his chest through his shirt, just enough to keep his heart tethered to hers.

Dinner would come.
The night would stretch long.
But for this moment — wrapped around each other, safe and half-smiling — she was exactly where she wanted to be.

Declan froze the second she did the hand-wiggle.

Not dramatically — not like she’d shocked him — but in that slow, dawning way where a grin sneaks up his chest, pushes past the wreckage of his day, and makes itself comfortable right behind his ribs.

Lord help him.

He tilted his head down to look at her properly, the corners of his mouth tugging up in that crooked, boyish way he only ever let out when she pulled something like this.

“Emotional support tools, huh?” he drawled, voice thick with amusement, his hand sliding from her waist to the small of her back like he was claiming her without even thinking about it. “Sweetheart, those hands could file for hazardous-duty pay with the way you use ’em on me.”

She wiggled her fingers again — smug and impossibly adorable — and he had to tip his head back into the pillow and laugh, low and warm.

“You know what?” he said, pulling her a little higher on his chest, “I take back what I said earlier. I’m the one who’s lucky you like me.”

She blinked at him slowly, lashes fluttering in that way that made something in his stomach drop, and he groaned under his breath — dramatic, suffering, completely undone by her.

“And don’t even start,” he warned gently, thumb brushing the curve of her jaw. “You say ‘use them inappropriately’ one more time, and I promise you—food or no food—I ain’t gonna be the one behave-in’.”

His hand settled at her hip, warm and steady, thumb drawing a lazy arc against her skin as if his fingers had their own opinions about behaving.

Then she nuzzled into his collarbone, soft and sweet and completely unaware of the way it short-circuited every neuron he had left.

Declan inhaled sharply.
Once.
Quiet.
Like she’d knocked the breath out of him without even trying.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he whispered into her hair, lips brushing the crown of her head. “Every damn time I think I’ve got a read on you, you hit me with—” he gestured vaguely at her wiggly-hand bit, “—whatever that was. And I swear, baby, it kills me.”

He didn’t let her lift her head.
Didn’t let her pull back even an inch.

He wrapped both arms around her, big and warm and sure, tucking her fully into the hollow of his chest like she belonged nowhere else.

And then—quietly, right against her hairline, so soft she could feel it more than hear it:

“Stay right here.”

Not desperate.
Not broken.
Just full of a fresh, glowing kind of need that came from loving her on purpose.

His fingers found her hand under the blanket and threaded through hers, slow and reverent.

“I don’t want this moment endin’ yet,” he murmured. “Not when you’re lookin’ at me like that. Not when you’re laughin’ in my shirt. Not when you’re makin’ the whole damn day make sense again.”

Her thumb traced circles on his chest.

His thumb did the same on the back of her hand.

Perfectly in sync.

Then—soft, teasing again, but dipped in warmth:

“And when dinner gets here?” he whispered, tipping his chin to nudge her forehead with his own. “You better believe I’m carryin’ you to the door so you don’t have to ‘use your emotional support tools’ on the delivery guy.”

He punctuated it with a slow kiss to her forehead, deep and sweet and grounding.

“Now c’mere,” he breathed, tightening the blanket around both of them, “and let me hold the woman who just brought me back to life with a damn finger wiggle.”

Hattie didn’t even try to hide her smile.

Not when he pulled her higher against his chest like she was something precious.
Not when he looked at her like she’d personally rewired the stars just for him.
And definitely not when he started talking about hazardous-duty pay like her hands were lethal weapons.

Because the truth was?
They kinda were.
At least when it came to him.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from giggling out loud — not because she was shy, but because she was dangerously close to doing something impulsive and thoroughly scandalous with said hands.
Instead, she let them rest innocently on his chest…for now.

“Just so we’re clear,” she murmured, lashes dipping as she traced her thumb over the cotton of his shirt, “these emotional support tools? Reserved for you only these days. Fully committed. Monogamous. Might even be retired after you.”

She tipped her head slightly, resting her chin more snugly against him as her eyes flicked up with pure mischief.

“Unless, of course,” she added, soft and slow, “you make me carry myself to the door. Then I might have to revoke your privileges temporarily.”

The low groan he let out beneath her was downright delicious.

She let herself settle then — for real. No more teasing. No more games. Just warmth and heartbeat and safety.

Because yeah, she could joke about her hands and make him laugh and flirt like she wasn’t already planning their future five minutes ago —
But what really got her?

Was how his arms curled around her like he meant it.
How his voice softened when he told her to stay.
How he held her like being close to her had healed something in him that no one else even saw was broken.

She closed her eyes and breathed him in.
Shampoo and skin.
Fresh laundry and something burned low at the edges — not firehouse smoke, but something weightier. Older. Grief maybe, or memory.

Whatever it was, he wasn’t carrying it alone anymore.

She had him now.
And he had her.

“You’re easy to look at,” she whispered after a long beat, her lips brushing the base of his throat. “Even easier to fall in love with.”

She felt his hand tighten gently around hers beneath the blanket.

They laid like that for a while — tangled up in warmth, half-lidded and full of something that buzzed just beneath the skin.
Not need.
Not quite.

Anticipation.

Because dinner was coming.
And after dinner?
She had plans.
Very specific, very intentional plans that required at least one full plate of food and a fair amount of carbs.

So for now, she was content to rest.

At least until a knock came from the front door — sharp, polite, and exactly on time.

She turned her face up to look at him again, already grinning.

“So what’s the verdict?” she asked sweetly. “You still plannin’ on carryin’ me like a southern gentleman? Or should I go flash my dangerous little fingers at the delivery guy?”

Her brow arched just enough to tease — not enough to rush him.

Because she didn’t mind waiting.
Not when she had this.
Not when she had him.

And the way he looked at her in that moment?
It made her think he wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

Not of her.
Not of the night.
Not of the finger wiggle that apparently brought him back to life.

Which meant she had a feeling she’d be getting her cornbread delivered personally.

Declan didn’t move when the knock hit the door.

Didn’t even twitch.

Not because he didn’t hear it — he did, loud and clear — but because the woman on his chest was currently smiling at him like she held the key to his entire nervous system.

And she did.

Every damn wire.

He let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite a groan — something caught halfway between being helplessly in love and thoroughly tormented.

“Flash those little fingers at anybody else,” he warned under his breath, “and I swear I’ll drag you right back in here before he can hand you the bag.”

But he still didn’t get up.
Not right away.

He just stared at her for a moment — really looked — like he was trying to brand the sight of her into his memory before the world interrupted.

Her hair a mess on his chest.
Her smile sweet and sharp all at once.
Her hands — those “dangerous tools” — tucked under her chin like she hadn’t just threatened to weaponize them on a stranger.

He lifted one large, warm hand to cup the back of her head, thumb stroking the soft line right behind her ear.

“You make it real hard to act civilized,” he murmured, voice rough in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

Another knock.
A little firmer this time.

Declan sighed dramatically — one of those long, put-upon exhales that belonged to a man who’d rather die of starvation than untangle himself from the woman stretched over him.

“Alright, alright,” he grumbled, sliding one hand beneath her thighs and the other behind her back in one fluid, practiced motion. “C’mere, trouble.”

Before she could protest or preen or attempt another finger wiggle assault, he scooped her clean off the bed.

Not bridal-style.
Not thrown-over-the-shoulder barbaric.

But something in between — strong and sure, like she weighed absolutely nothing and he’d carried her this way a thousand times.

Her surprised little inhale brushed warm against his neck, and he smiled — slow and shameless.

“That’s right,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to her temple as he walked them toward the front door. “You think I’m lettin’ you charm the delivery guy with those hands? Not a chance.”

She clung a little tighter around his shoulders — not out of necessity, but because she liked it. He felt it in the way her fingers curled, soft and instinctive.

“You sit tight,” he murmured, lowering his forehead to hers right before reaching the door. “I’ll get your cornbread.”

He set her down on the little entryway bench only long enough to open the door.

And the second the bag changed hands, Declan’s voice shifted — polite, steady, firefighter-professional.

“Thanks, man. Have a good night.”

Door closed.

Lock clicked.

And when he turned back to her?

He wasn’t professional anymore.

Not even close.

He held the takeout bag in one hand, his expression soft with something so warm it made her toes curl.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he extended his free hand to her — palm up, fingers open, like she was something he was asking to dance or worship or both.

“C’mere,” he said, voice low and full of that quiet, devastating affection that had undone her from the start. “Let me feed my girl.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes cutting over her face with aching fondness.

“And after dinner?”
A grin tugged his mouth sideways.
“I’m usin’ every emotional support tool I got to make sure you can’t stand without holdin’ onto me.”

He didn’t say it dirty.
He didn’t have to.

It was a promise wrapped in warmth, wrapped in love, wrapped in the same steadiness he’d held her with all night.

He offered his hand again — patient, gentle, sure.

“Come back to bed, Hattie.”

A beat.

“My arms aren’t done with you yet.”

Hattie didn’t protest when he scooped her up.

She could’ve.
Should’ve, maybe — something flirty, something dramatic.
But all that escaped her was the quietest little “oh” against his throat, breath catching as his arms locked around her like they were built to carry her.

And maybe they were.

Because good lord, he made it feel easy.
Not just the lift — but her.
Being with him. Being wanted by him.
Wanted like this.

By the time he kissed her temple, she was smiling into the curve of his jaw like she had a secret.

Because she did.

He was her secret.
This softness.
This safety.
This boyish, beautiful man with those massive hands and that quiet devotion in every movement.

She wrapped her arms a little tighter around his shoulders — just because she could — and nuzzled her nose against the side of his neck with an innocent hum, all warmth and mischief.

“I like this,” she murmured, just loud enough for his collarbone to hear. “Delivery service with a view.”

When he set her on the bench, she let her fingers linger — sliding slowly from the back of his neck down to his arm, reluctant to let go even for a second.
Not because she didn’t think he’d come back.
But because she didn’t want to.

She watched him open the door, polite and steady and just this side of protective.
Firefighter Declan.
Mister Reliable.

But the second he turned back to her?

It was her Declan again.

The one who looked at her like she was something he got to keep.
Like he was the lucky one.

And when he held out his hand — palm up, fingers open, like she was something precious he wanted to hold again — she felt it all at once.
Every inch of affection he didn’t know how to say except through gestures like this.

She reached for him without hesitation.

Placed her hand in his. Small. Willing. Steady.

And when he said “Come back to bed, Hattie”, her whole chest squeezed.

Not because he was asking.
But because he meant it.

Like the bed wasn’t right without her in it.
Like he wasn’t right without her next to him.

So she stood — letting him help, even though she didn’t need it — just to feel the way his fingers closed around hers.
And when he added that soft little promise about his arms not being done?

She leaned up on her toes, just barely, and brushed her mouth along his jaw.

Not quite a kiss.
Not quite not.

“Good,” she whispered, letting her smile curve slow and sweet as honey. “Because I don’t plan on goin’ far, sugar.”

She gave his hand a squeeze.

Then tugged him toward the bed with playful purpose — one step ahead, already plotting cornbread first and whatever came after slow.

Her stomach growled as if on cue.

She laughed — unapologetic.

“Alright, alright,” she teased, tossing him a look over her shoulder. “Feed me fast, Caldwell. These emotional support tools don’t recharge themselves.”

And just like that, they were back in bed.

Him with the takeout.
Her with the grin.
And both of them hungry — for food, for each other, for everything they hadn’t even dreamed of yet.

But tonight?

It started with dinner.
And ended with them.

Declan damn near dropped the food.

Not because she startled him.
Not because she tugged him toward the bed like she knew exactly what she was doing.
But because of the way she whispered sugar like it was something sinful and holy all at once.

His jaw flexed.
His fingers tightened around hers.
And when her little stomach growl followed right after?

He almost laughed — the real kind, the kind that loosened every muscle in his body and made him feel human again.

He set the takeout down on the nightstand with a soft thud, tossed the blanket aside just enough for her to crawl in, and followed her right onto the mattress — bracing himself on one knee as he watched her flop back into the pillows like she belonged there.

Which, hell, she did.

“Lord help me,” he muttered under his breath, not hiding the smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, “I swear you flirt harder when you’re hungry.”

He leaned in — slow, deliberate — and kissed the corner of her mouth, stealing the exact spot she’d brushed against his jaw.

Not deep.
Not filthy.
Just a warm, claiming press of lips that said I’m right here.

Then he settled beside her, propped on an elbow, and reached for the food.

“No rushin’ those support tools,” he teased, sliding the plate toward her. “Can’t have ‘em malfunctionin’ on me. They’re essential equipment.”

He watched her take the first bite — watched the way her shoulders relaxed, her eyes softened, her whole face lit up like he’d just handed her a miracle on a paper plate.

And God, it hit him right in the chest.

Her joy.
Her comfort.
Her ease with him.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just let the hush fill the room — warm, golden, steady.

Then, softer, almost like he couldn’t help himself:

“You know somethin’, Hattie?”
He brushed a knuckle down her jaw, gentle as a sigh.
“I think you’re the best damn view I’ve ever had while eatin’ dinner.”

He let the words hang there.

Not playful.
Not teasing.
Just true.

And then—because he had to keep it from getting too serious for her sake and his—he added with a low, wicked hum:

“Though if you keep talkin’ sweet to me, sugar… that cornbread’s gettin’ cold real fast.”

His eyes dipped to her mouth.

Not subtle.

Not sorry.

And his hand slid under the blanket, settling warm on her thigh like it had a homing instinct.

“Eat,” he murmured, voice dropping just a shade deeper. “Then I’ll take my turn.”

A beat.

“On dessert.”

He didn’t wink.
He didn’t need to.

The smile on his face said every damn thing for him.

She didn’t look at him right away.

Didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how fast her stomach flipped when he said “then I’ll take my turn.”
Didn’t let him know how thoroughly he’d already wrecked her with that hand on her thigh and that voice in her ear.

Instead, she took another bite.

Slow. Intentional.
Sweet cornbread, warm on her tongue.

And then — like she hadn’t just made a silent, full-body vow to ruin him after dinner — she let her lashes flutter and moaned just a little under her breath.

“Mm,” she hummed, licking a crumb from the corner of her mouth. “This is so good.”

Her foot brushed his ankle beneath the blanket. Innocent.
Except not at all.

She leaned back against the pillows like she had all the time in the world, one hand tucked behind her head and the other lazily dragging another bite of barbecue across her plate.
Taking her time.
On purpose.

Because he had told her to eat.
And he needed food too.

Which meant he was getting fed whether he liked it or not.

She peeked at him from the corner of her eye, watching the way he watched her — like she was some slow-motion movie he never wanted to end.

She loved that look.

“You know what I think?” she murmured, swirling her finger in the pickle juice at the edge of his container. “I think you’re about two seconds from forgetting you need fuel too.”

She plucked out one of his spicy pickles — the kind she’d only ever taken one bite of before declaring “absolutely not, this is a crime” — and held it up between them with a little flourish.

“For your health,” she said sweetly, biting back a grin. “You can’t live off dessert alone, baby.”

She wriggled her brows once, just to push her luck, and then gently tapped the pickle to his lips like she was feeding him a grape on a chaise lounge in some ridiculous old painting.

“There you go, tough guy. Open wide.”

His mouth twitched — she could feel the heat rolling off of him now — but she didn’t let her hand drop.
Didn’t stop smiling.
Didn’t stop playing.

Because even though she knew what came next — dessert, devouring, the kind of praise that made her toes curl — she also knew this moment mattered just as much.

This was hers.
The teasing. The tenderness. The control she had in the palm of her hand and the quiet way he let her keep it.

So she sat there, curled in the blankets beside him, every inch of her lit up with affection.

And waited.

Pickle in hand.
Heartbeat steady.
Grin locked and loaded.

He could take the bite — or take the bait.
Either way, she planned to savor every second.

Declan didn’t take the bite.

Not at first.

He leaned in like he would — like he was about to humor her and open his mouth and play the game she thought she was controlling — but then he stopped.
Right there.
Half an inch from her fingers.

Close enough that her pulse stuttered.
Close enough that his breath warmed her knuckles.
Close enough that she forgot for a second what, exactly, she’d been teasing him about.

But he didn’t take the pickle.

Oh no.

His hand came up instead — slow, deliberate — and he wrapped his fingers around her wrist. Not tight. Not restraining. Just enough to make her feel it.

Enough to make every nerve in her arm light up.

“Sweetheart,” he drawled, low and sinful, eyes locked on hers, “I’m real glad you’re worried about my health.”

His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist once — a lazy, warm pass that sent a shiver straight down her spine.

“But if you think I’m lettin’ you feed me a damn pickle like I’m some kinda baby bird…”

He leaned even closer — lips brushing the pad of her thumb — and her breath caught like he’d snapped it right out of her lungs.

“…you don’t know me half as well as you think you do.”

Then — because he was a menace — he tilted his head and took the pickle between her fingers.

Not from her hand.

From her.

His mouth brushed her fingertips as he bit down — slow, exaggerated — eyes still locked on hers, pupils gone dark with heat and mischief.

A quiet sound left her throat, something between a gasp and a caught breath, and he swallowed the pickle like it was nothing.

Like she was the only flavor he cared about.

He let go of her wrist just long enough to pluck the rest of the pickle from her stunned fingers and toss it back into the container.

Then he slid his hand onto her thigh again under the blanket — higher this time, confident, claiming — and tugged her gently closer until her knee bumped his hip.

“Hattie,” he murmured, his mouth grazing the edge of her jaw now, “I said you needed to eat.”

His lips brushed her cheekbone — soft, teasing, unfair.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t return the favor.”

His fingers squeezed her thigh.

Not subtle.

Not sorry.

“And if you keep lookin’ at me like that…”
His breath ghosted over her ear.
“…I’m not makin’ it to dessert.”

He pulled back just enough to see her face — flushed, dazzled, half-annoyed she’d lost control and half-ready to climb into his lap over a damn pickle.

Then he smirked — slow, wicked, fond.

“You wanna keep playin’?” he asked softly, brushing her hair back behind her shoulder, fingertips warm against her skin.
“Or you wanna come sit in my lap while we finish this food before I lose my mind entirely?”

The challenge hung between them.

Warm.
Charged.
Inevitable.

Either way?

He’d already decided dessert was being served in bed.

But he was giving her the next move.

She didn’t blink.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t so much as breathe for a second.

Not until he bit down and her fingers felt it — felt the slow pull of his mouth, the heat of his breath, the way he didn’t just take the pickle, he took her with it.

Her heart stuttered.
Her body flushed.
And her lips parted on instinct, like they needed to do something with all that air she suddenly couldn’t find.

She should’ve known better.
Should’ve known teasing him was never really teasing.
Not when the second he wrapped his hand around her wrist, she forgot what the hell she was even holding.

Because it wasn’t about the pickle.
It was never about the damn pickle.
It was about him — and the way he could unravel her with a look, a grip, a word.

She wasn’t mad she lost.
She liked losing to him.

Hattie swallowed hard, pulse drumming low behind her ribs, and let herself be pulled closer.

Her thigh pressed against his.
His palm was a brand on her skin.
And when he murmured her name like that — God, that voice — she thought she might actually melt right into the mattress.

But she didn’t pout.
Didn’t sass.
Didn’t play coy like she had any real power in this dynamic.

Instead, she set her plate down carefully on the bed next to them, every motion deliberate.
Her eyes never left his.

And then, without a single word, she climbed into his lap.

Smooth. Slow. Obedient.

Her knees bracketing his hips, her hands resting light on his shoulders — not to hold him down, but to offer herself up.
Because that’s what it was.
An offering. A surrender. A silent acknowledgment of his control.

She leaned in close, close enough that her lips nearly brushed his, but didn’t.
Her voice was low, sweet, laced with just the edge of defiance that got her in trouble every time:

“You gonna feed me now, or just stare at me like you’re already thinking about the second course?”

A beat.
A smirk.
A flicker of something dangerous in her eyes — but not dominant.

Not even close.

Because she might tease.
She might push.
She might play the brat with a smile and a tilt of her chin.

But at the end of the day?
She belonged right here.
In his lap.
In his hands.
At his mercy.

And she’d never wanted anything more.

Declan didn’t answer her.

Didn’t smirk back.
Didn’t tease.
Didn’t even pretend to hesitate.

The moment she settled onto his lap — warm, soft, pliant, exactly where he’d wanted her — something in him clicked into place with a quiet, feral kind of certainty.

His hands slid to her hips like gravity pulled them there, fingers spreading slow, deliberate, claiming the shape of her like she was something carved for him and him alone. He held her still — not harsh, but steady, grounding her in a way that made her breath catch right in the center of her throat.

He let her question hang there between them, trembling and charged:

You gonna feed me now, or just stare at me like you’re already thinking about the second course?

God help him.

He was thinking about the second, third, fourth — every course she didn’t even know she was offering.

His jaw worked once, slow, like he was trying to keep himself from devouring her too fast.

Then he slid one hand from her hip to the small of her back, guiding her closer, chest to chest, until her breath mingled with his and her lips hovered a heartbeat from his own.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low enough to vibrate through her, “I’ve been thinkin’ about the second course since you moaned over cornbread.”

His thumb swept the line of her waist — coaxing, appreciating, coaxing again.

“But you asked a question…”

He lifted his other hand without breaking eye contact, reached blindly for her plate, and plucked a piece of cornbread between his fingers — slow, controlled, with the quiet authority of a man who knew exactly what he was doing to her.

He brought it to her lips.

“Open.”

One word.
Soft.
Unassailable.
A command wrapped in velvet.

When she obeyed — and God, she did — he fed her the bite, fingertips brushing her mouth just long enough to make her shiver.

His gaze didn’t budge from her face.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, voice dipped in warmth and possession both.

He wiped the tiniest crumb from her lower lip with his thumb.
Dragged it slow.
Watched her try — and fail — not to react.

“You sit in my lap,” he continued, thumb drifting from her lip to her chin, tilting it up just enough to make her meet his eyes, “and ask me if I’m thinkin’ about dessert…”

His hand slid from her jaw to the back of her neck, curling into her hair.

“…and expect me to behave?”

He tugged her in just a little — not enough to kiss her yet, but enough that she felt the promise of it everywhere.

His breath brushed her mouth.

“You’re playin’ with fire, Hattie.”

His fingers tightened in her hair — gentle, but firm enough that her pulse jumped.

“And you’re gonna get exactly what you’re lookin’ for… if you finish your dinner like a good girl.”

He didn’t move his mouth to hers.

He let her feel the space, the restraint, the power thrumming low and steady in his voice.

Then he fed her another bite — deliberately, slowly — every touch intentional.

“Now,” he murmured, eyes dark and soft all at once, “you ready for another bite, darlin’? Or you already thinkin’ about skippin’ straight to dessert?”

She didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t smirk.
Didn’t push.
Didn’t pretend she had any power here.

Because she didn’t want it.

Not when his voice dropped like that — slow and Southern and edged with warning.
Not when his thumb dragged across her lip like he owned the shape of her.
Not when his hand was in her hair, fingers warm and steady, guiding her every move like he knew exactly what she needed before she did.

She took the second bite in silence.

Her lips parted the moment he lifted it — instinct, trust, offering.
Her eyes stayed on his, unblinking, and she felt it all the way down — the obedience, the intimacy, the heat coiled low and slow and certain.

He was feeding her like it mattered.
Like she mattered.

And when his thumb brushed her lip again, she leaned into it — not to provoke, not to flirt, just to feel.

A breath caught in her throat.
Small.
Telling.

And when she finally spoke, her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“I’m not thinkin’ about skippin’,” she said, chin tilted just enough to meet his eyes, every inch of her open and reverent. “I’m thinkin’ about how good it feels to be fed by the man I love.”

Her words landed soft between them — no bravado, no teasing. Just truth.

Because that’s what this was.
Not just a game.
Not just seduction.

It was his hands.
His voice.
His control, steady and sure and exactly where she felt the safest.

And God, didn’t she want him?

Not just on top of her — though that too, always that — but with her. Grounded in her. Wrapped around her. Claiming her with every look, every touch, every quiet command.

She stayed still in his lap.
Soft.
Silent.
Waiting.

Waiting for him to decide when she got her next bite.
Waiting for when his restraint would finally slip.
Waiting to be undone in the exact way he wanted her to be.

And not for one second did she try to move.
Not when his hand stayed firm on the back of her neck.
Not when his fingers curled tighter around her thigh.
Not even when her own heart stuttered and begged and ached with the anticipation of it.

Because she trusted him to take her there.
When he was ready.
How he wanted.

And if dessert was coming?

She’d earn it.
One bite at a time.

Declan didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Because the second those words left her mouth — quiet, reverent, so full of truth it rocked him to his bones — every ounce of teasing in him went still.

She wasn’t playing anymore.
She wasn’t provoking him.
She wasn’t trying to win.

She was giving herself to him with one soft sentence:

I’m thinkin’ about how good it feels to be fed by the man I love.

Something in his chest tightened, deep and aching and beautiful, and his hand in her hair softened instantly — not weaker, not looser, but tender. Like she’d struck something holy inside him.

His thumb stroked her jaw once.
Slow.
Possessive.
Loving.

“Hattie…” he murmured, her name slipping out like a prayer he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Then he guided her just an inch closer — not enough to kiss her, but enough that she felt the weight of him, the heat of him, the way his whole body responded to hers like it had always been meant to.

“Don’t say things like that,” he whispered, voice low and wrecked, “unless you want me to come apart right underneath you.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth — soft, parted, waiting.

“But since you’re bein’ honest…”

His other hand slid from her thigh up her hip, slow and deliberate, tracing the curve of her like he was mapping her body all over again.

“…you oughta know somethin’, too.”

He lifted another small piece of cornbread — tiny, intentional — and brought it to her lips.

This time, he didn’t look away from her eyes.
Not for a second.

“You bein’ in my lap like this,” he murmured, brushing the edge of the bite against her lower lip, “lettin’ me take care of you — that might be the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.”

She opened her mouth, obedient and trusting, and he fed her slow — deliberately slow — dragging his fingertips across her lip again before pulling back.

The sound that left her was soft, almost too quiet to notice.

But he noticed.

His thumb caught that tiny sound on her tongue and guided her chin up gently.

“And hear me real clear,” he breathed, his forehead nearly touching hers now, “I’d feed you every night of my life if it makes you look at me like that.”

His hand tightened in her hair — not to control her, but to steady him.

“You hear me? Every night. Every meal.”
A pause, heavy and intimate.
“Dessert included.”

He let that settle — warm and hot and full of promise — before he leaned in, brushing the faintest kiss to the corner of her mouth.

Not full.
Not consuming.
Just a taste.

Then he pulled back, barely, eyes dark and impossibly tender.

“Another bite, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low and sinful. “Or you want me to hold you a minute first?”