She couldn’t breathe.

Not from the heat.
Not from the pressure.
But from the way he said it.

That might be the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.

God.

Her pulse skittered like he’d hooked a thread straight to her heart and tugged — slow and sweet and so sure of her it made her dizzy.

She swallowed the bite, slow and obedient, lips still tingling from his fingers.
But her eyes didn’t leave his.
Not even for a second.

“You really mean that?” she whispered, voice soft as the space between them. “Feeding me’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you?”

Her tone was light. Barely teasing.
But the question underneath was real.

Because he’d had a day.
And she knew him — knew that guilt and grief and tenderness all swam close together in that big, stubborn heart of his.
And if there was even the slightest part of him thinking he wasn’t enough, or that today had taken something from him she couldn’t give back?

She needed him to feel it.
Right here.
Right now.

She shifted in his lap — just enough to press herself closer, chest to chest, nose brushing his.
Her fingers slid up his neck, threading gently into the hair at his nape.

“Because if that’s true,” she murmured, still sweet, still playful, still hers, “you better hold me a long minute before I go fallin’ all the way in love with you.”

A beat.

“Oops,” she added, lips ghosting against his, “too late.”

She smiled then — soft and smug and just the tiniest bit bratty.
Because yes, she wanted him.
Yes, she was gonna let him feed her.
Yes, dessert was gonna get messy.

But more than that?

She wanted him to know he wasn’t alone.

That she saw everything — the flirty charm and the steady hands and the man who held her like he never wanted to let go — and she chose him.
Over and over.

Even when his hands were shaking.
Even when his heart was heavy.
Even when he needed to hold her more than he needed to touch her.

She touched her forehead to his.
Whispered it without words.
Then kissed the corner of his mouth — the same spot he’d kissed hers — slow and warm and full of every bit of love she had.

“Hold me,” she whispered, curling into him without hesitation. “Then I’ll take another bite.”

A pause.
A breath.
Then, lighter, like she couldn’t help herself—

“…and then I want you to feed me dessert with your fingers and that filthy mouth.”

She smiled against his skin.
Soft. Wicked.
His.

“Fair warning.”

The air left his lungs.

Not all at once, but in a slow, staggering rush, like she’d just reached into his chest and squeezed the damn thing herself.

Too late.

The words hung there, shimmering in the quiet of the kitchen, heavier and sweeter than the bite of pie he’d just fed her. She was looking at him with those eyes—clear and knowing and seeing right through the cracks in his armor he’d been trying so hard to plaster over all day.

She saw the shake in his hands. She saw the guilt eating at his gut.

And she wasn’t running. She wasn’t looking away.

She was telling him she was already gone for him.

He let out a rough, shaky breath, the fork clattering softly as he set it down on the plate. He didn’t care about the food. Not right now.

"Come here," he rasped, the command barely more than a whisper.
He didn’t wait for her to move. He wrapped his arms around her—one distinct, heavy band across her lower back, the other hand coming up to cup the back of her head, tangling deep in her hair—and he buried his face in the crook of her neck.

He held her.

Just like she asked.
Maybe tighter than she asked.
He held her like she was the only thing anchoring him to the floor, like if he let go, he might just float away or shatter completely. He breathed her in—soap and sugar and her—and felt the tension that had been riding his shoulders for twelve hours start to bleed out, replaced by a fierce, overwhelming warmth.

She loved him.
God, she loved him.

He stayed there for a long minute, just breathing, his heart hammering a heavy rhythm against hers. When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested against hers, his eyes dark, blown wide, and searching her face.

"You don't play fair, you know that?" he murmured, his voice thick, thumb brushing the cheek he’d just kissed. "Wrecking a man when his defenses are down."

He searched her eyes, finding that spark of bratty defiance he adored.

"And you're right," he admitted, his voice dropping an octave, rough with honesty. "I meant it. Feeding you... taking care of you... holding you like this? Best damn thing. Easy."

He let that sink in, his gaze dropping to her lips, then back up to her eyes, darker now. A slow, lopsided grin—the one that usually spelled trouble—tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"As for the rest of those demands..."

He reached blindly for the fork again, skewering another piece of the pie without breaking eye contact.

"You take this bite," he said, bringing the fork to her lips, his voice low, vibrating with a promise that was equal parts tender and absolutely wicked. "And then I’m gonna show you exactly what this filthy mouth can do."

He waited, the fork hovering, his eyes daring her, promising her.
"Open up, darlin'."

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t smirk.
Didn’t sass.
Didn’t push back with a bratty remark or even a cheeky glance.

Because that look in his eyes—molten and dark and devastating—told her this wasn’t a game anymore.
Not really.

He’d held her.
He’d breathed her in like she was oxygen.
He’d let himself settle against her and finally, finally let the weight of the day slip from his shoulders.

And now?

Now he was hungry.

Not just for the pie.
Not just for her.
But for this.
For the quiet surrender she offered without question.
For the sweetness and heat in the space between them.
For the way her body softened when he told her what to do.

So when he raised the fork again, voice low and reverent and filthy all at once—

> "Open up, darlin'."



—she didn’t hesitate.

Her gaze stayed locked on his.
Lashes heavy, lips parted just enough to make the air between them hum.

She gave him a sultry little look—soft, obedient, reverent in its own quiet way—and opened her mouth for him, slow and deliberate.

The fork slid past her lips like a promise.
Sweet.
Sticky.
Warm from the pie and from him.

She made a quiet sound—not exaggerated, not theatrical—just a soft, involuntary hum that curled low in her throat and sent heat straight to his eyes.

Then she closed her lips around the bite.

Let him watch her chew.

Let him watch her swallow.

Let him feel how much she loved letting him take care of her.

Her fingers slipped lightly over his thigh beneath the blanket, not demanding, not pushing—just anchoring herself there.
Just reminding him she was his.

When the fork left her lips, she didn’t move back.
She leaned in—just barely—and let her mouth hover near his, breath brushing his skin like something between a prayer and a provocation.

“Still think I’m the one wreckin’ you?” she whispered, voice like melted honey.

She didn’t kiss him.
Didn’t press.

Just stayed close enough to let him feel the invitation in her breath.

She wanted him to choose it.
To take the next bite of her.
To ruin her like he was aching to.

And she’d take it.
All of it.
Whatever he needed to give.

Because the second he dared her with that pie?

She knew—

She was the only dessert he really wanted.

And she’d let him devour her.
Every slow, sweet, sinful bite.

The silver fork hit the ceramic plate with a sharp, dismissive clatter that echoed in the sudden quiet of the kitchen.

He didn’t look at where it landed. He couldn’t have dragged his gaze away from her face if the house had collapsed around them right then and there.

He just sat there for a heartbeat, his chest heaving with a breath he couldn’t quite catch, the air in his lungs feeling too thin, too hot. The taste of her closeness was already drugging him, but that soft hum she’d made? That innocent, obedient little vibration in her throat as she took the bite he offered?

It snapped the last frantic thread of his restraint.

The exhaustion that had been weighing on his bones all day—the grief, the stress, the noise—evaporated. It was incinerated by the sudden, roaring heat that flooded his veins. He didn’t feel tired anymore. He felt starving.

His hand—the one that had been holding the fork—didn't stay idle. It moved to her waist, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of her shirt, gripping the warm curve of her hip bone. He pulled her flush against him, hard, erasing the last millimeter of space until the rigid line of his desire pressed undeniably against her softness.

"Wrecking me?"

He repeated the words, his voice a low, jagged ruin of a sound that seemed to scrape its way up his throat.

He leaned in, his nose brushing hers, inhaling the scent of vanilla and blackberries and Hattie. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, burning with a raw, terrifying need that he was done trying to hide.

"Baby, look at me," he rasped, his thumb moving up to swipe a tiny smear of filling from the corner of her mouth. He held her gaze as he brought his thumb to his own lips, licking the sweetness away without blinking. "I’m a pile of rubble."

He didn’t give her time to smile about it. He didn’t give her time to breathe.
His hand slid up her spine, burying itself deep in the hair at the nape of her neck to tilt her head back, exposing her throat, and he crashed his mouth down on hers.

It wasn’t a sweet kiss. It wasn’t gentle.

It was messy and desperate and tasted like sugar and fruit and need.

He kissed her like he wanted to devour her whole, his tongue sweeping into her mouth to claim the taste of the pie she’d just eaten, to claim her. He groaned into her mouth, the sound vibrating through both of their chests, a surrender and a conquest all at once. He needed to be closer. He needed to be deeper.

"You want dessert?" he growled against her wet, swollen lips, nipping at her bottom lip before soothing it with a heavy, wet sweep of his tongue. "I’m gonna give you dessert."

He shifted, muscles bunching as he stood up, lifting her easily in his arms. He didn't break the kiss, his grip tightening like iron on her thighs as he wrapped her legs around his waist, needing her weight to ground him, needing to feel her clinging to him.

"Hold on tight, Hattie."

He moved blindly. He didn't check the hallway. He didn't care if he bumped a shoulder against the doorframe. All his focus was narrowed down to the woman wrapped around him—the dig of her heels into the small of his back, the heat of her core pressed against his stomach, the way her fingers were still tangled in his hair.

God, she was heavy in the best way. Solid. Real. A weight that grounded him when he felt like he was spinning out.

He carried her like she was a prize he’d stolen, his steps heavy and fast, eating up the distance to the bedroom. Every step sent a jolt of friction through him, a reminder of exactly where she was touching him, exactly how close she was.

"You have no idea," he muttered into the curve of her neck, his voice rough, scraping against her skin. "No idea what you do to me."

He didn't bother with the lights. The moonlight spilling in from the window was enough. It washed over the unmade bed, the sanctuary he’d been craving since he walked through the front door.

He didn't gently lay her down. He couldn't. He followed her down, his body covering hers, pressing her into the mattress until the springs creaked in protest. He braced himself on his forearms, trapping her, looming over her, his chest heaving as he stared down at her.

He looked at her hair fanned out on his pillow. He looked at her flushed cheeks. He looked at that mouth that had dared him, challenged him, saved him.

He reached down, his hand trembling slightly—not from weakness, but from the sheer effort of holding back—and traced the line of her jaw.

"You said you wanted my fingers," he reminded her, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper, dark and serious. He let his hand drift lower, trailing down her throat, over her collarbone, heading south with agonizing slowness. "And you wanted my mouth."

He smirked then—a dark, hungry thing that held zero apology.

"Well, you got 'em, Hattie. Don't you dare close your eyes."

Hattie’s eyes were wide, dark, and unwavering, mirroring the savage intensity in his. The moonlight illuminated the desperate lines of his face—the high, rigid cheekbones, the sweat-dampened hair clinging to his temples—and she felt a fierce, protective love coil in her chest, immediately followed by the hot, demanding thrum of her own need. He was a man drowning in the exhaustion of saving lives, and she was his anchor, the one person he allowed to see him broken and build him back up, often through this necessary, brutal intimacy.

He was heavy on her, a glorious, solid weight, and the friction of his rough uniform pants against her cotton sleep pants was a torment she welcomed. His thumb, still trembling, continued its descent, bypassing her shirt entirely. It slipped effortlessly under the hem of the fabric, warm against the curve of her bare stomach, then dove lower, finding the soft, yielding skin just above the elastic waistband of her pants.

He wasn't touching her there, not yet, but the proximity of his large, calloused hand—the hand that had pulled people from burning wreckage—made her hips twitch instinctively beneath him. The air was getting too thick, too charged to be only oxygen.

She knew what she was doing. She knew the line had been drawn, and she had already put a toe over it. Now, she planned to jump.

She pushed her hand further down his chest, past the straining cotton of his T-shirt, until her fingers found the unforgiving brass of his belt buckle. With slow, brazen defiance, she curled her fingers around the leather, not to unbuckle him, but to use it as leverage. She dragged her hips up, grinding her soft core against the rigid, undeniable proof of his desire pressed against her thigh, adding fuel to the roaring fire between them.

She felt the tremor run through him, a stark reaction to her sudden, explicit movement, and she leaned into the moment, her breath catching in her throat as she waited for the consequence.

“I won’t close them,” she managed, the words a husky, breathless promise. She shifted her grip on his belt, pulling him down an infinitesimal inch, closing the space that had begun to feel like a chasm. “I won’t miss a thing. I want to see every bit of what you’re going to do to me.”

The groan that ripped from his chest was jagged, a raw, guttural sound of surrender mixed with something darker, something starving that had been clawing at the back of his throat since he walked through the door. Her hips moving against him—that deliberate, maddening drag of soft cotton against the coarse, fire-resistant weave of his uniform—obliterated the fatigue weighing on his bones. It didn’t matter that his muscles were screaming from hours of hauling hose and debris, or that the mental weight of the shift still clung to him like soot; all that existed right now was the blinding heat of her, the softness of her stomach under his hand, and the way she looked at him like he was the only thing keeping the world from burning down.

Her challenge hit him like a physical blow to the sternum. She wasn't hiding from the wreck of him; she was inviting it in, demanding to witness the breakdown.

"You want to see?" he rasped, his voice wrecked, barely recognizable even to his own ears as the adrenaline spiked, flooding his veins with a fresh, heavy heat.

He didn't pull back. Instead, he crushed the remaining distance between them, letting his full, crushing weight settle into the cradle of her thighs. The hand that had been teasing the edge of her waistband flattened completely against her skin, slipping further beneath the fabric. His fingers splayed wide to possess the curve of her hip, the rough, calloused pads of his fingertips digging into her soft, yielding flesh, desperate to anchor himself to her reality. He needed the friction, the tactile proof that she was here, that she was his.

"Then don't look away," he commanded, the words hot and wet against her mouth, his breath mingling with hers. His eyes locked onto hers with a terrifying, predatory intensity, searching for any sign of fear and finding only that same mirroring need. "Don't you dare look away, Hattie."

He dipped his head, his lips brushing hers—a tease, a threat, a promise of the storm to come—before he moved with sudden, possessive urgency. He drove his hips down, the hard ridge of him pressing through the layers of clothing, answering her brazen defiance with a slow, heavy roll of his own. It was a movement that left no question about the state of him, a grinding pressure that forced a gasp from her lips—a sound he drank down like it was the oxygen he’d been missing all night.

He didn’t give her a moment to recover, didn't give her a second to rethink the promise she’d just made. He took her mouth in a kiss that was less a greeting and more a collision—a starving, searing claim that tasted of salt and desperation. He kissed her hard, his tongue sweeping into the warmth of her mouth with a rhythmic, commanding stroke that mimicked what he wanted to do with the rest of his body, demanding she meet him at this fever pitch.
Beneath the hem of her shirt, his hand was a rough, invading heat. He didn’t stop at her hip this time. With a focus that narrowed the world down to the square inch of skin beneath his fingertips, he slid his hand lower, his palm scraping deliciously against her stomach before slipping past the elastic waistband of her sleep pants. The contrast was staggering—the abrasive, scarred texture of his working hand against the satin-soft, vulnerable skin of her lower belly.

He felt her stomach muscles contract sharply under his touch, a reflex that sent a jolt of satisfaction straight to his groin. He watched her eyes, his own burning with a dark, heavy fire, ensuring she held his gaze. He wanted to see the exact moment the sensation hit her. He pushed his fingers deeper, cupping her through the thin cotton of her panties, the heel of his hand pressing firmly against the sensitive mound, grounding her, claiming her.

"Good," he growled against her lips, the vibration of his voice humming through her chest as he kept up the heavy, rhythmic grind of his hips against hers, the friction of his uniform trousers acting as a coarse, maddening abrasive against her sensitive skin. "Keep them open. Watch me take what’s mine."

The fabric of her shirt was suddenly an offense, a barrier he couldn't tolerate for another second. He needed skin—miles of it, uninterrupted and glowing in the pale wash of moonlight.

With a low, impatient noise in the back of his throat, he reluctantly withdrew his hand from the warmth of her waistband, only to immediately snag the hem of her t-shirt. He didn't ask; he just pulled, dragging the soft cotton up and over her head in one fluid, demanding motion. He tossed it blindly aside, not caring where it landed, his gaze instantly dropping to devour what he had uncovered.
The sight of her, pale and soft and breathing hard for him, made his head spin. He braced himself on his forearms on either side of her head, caging her in, the muscles in his shoulders bunching tight as he held himself there, hovering just inches above her. The air between them was electric, crackling with the heat radiating off his overheated body.

"Beautiful," he breathed, the word rough, stripped of any poetic pretense and left raw.

He lowered himself slowly, deliberately, letting his chest brush against her bare breasts—the coarse, flame-retardant material of his station shirt rasping against her sensitive nipples. He saw her flinch, a sharp intake of breath, and he smiled grimly, a predator’s satisfaction curling his lip. He wanted that friction. He wanted her to feel the grit of his world so he could wash it away in hers.

He pressed his forehead against hers, his eyes burning into hers, refusing to let her blink, refusing to let the connection sever. He shifted his knee, nudging her legs further apart until she was wide open for him, settling his weight heavily between her thighs again.

"You're watching?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. He reached down, his hand finding the waistband of her pants again, but this time, he didn't stop at the edge. He hooked his thumbs into the elastic and the silk of her panties beneath, his knuckles brushing her hipbones. "Because I'm not going to stop. I'm going to take you apart, Hattie, and I need you to be right here while I do it."

Hattie's vision swam, everything blurring around the edges until only his face—the dark, demanding eyes and the grim, beautiful set of his jaw—remained in sharp focus. The pressure of his weight, the glorious invasion of his hand, and the heavy, possessive grind of his hips were stripping away every layer of control she possessed. He was taking her apart, piece by piece, exactly as he’d promised, and the exquisite violation made a small, choked sound claw its way up her throat.

When his chest, rough with the station shirt material, scraped against her newly exposed, sensitive nipples, a fresh wave of need ripped through her. It was a friction that should have been unpleasant, but it was just another reminder of the world he was carrying, a world she alone had the power to make him forget.

I'm going to take you apart.

The words, dark and heavy with intent, were the breaking point. She was supposed to lie still, eyes open, and simply absorb his pleasure, his control, his discipline. But the core of her, the small, demanding creature he had cultivated, couldn't bear the thought of passive surrender when her own body was thrumming with such a desperate, chaotic need.

Her hands, which had been resting demurely on his shoulders, suddenly shot upward. They wrapped around the back of his neck, her fingers twisting into the short, damp hair at the nape. It wasn't a gentle caress; it was a tight, possessive grip that hauled his head down the final inch, smashing his mouth against hers in a reckless, seizing kiss that felt like she was stealing the air right out of his lungs.

She was kissing him back with a fury that contradicted her soft appearance, her tongue pushing hard against his, demanding space, demanding dominance, challenging the very foundation of his command. She knew what she was doing. She knew the consequences of initiating contact like this, of taking instead of receiving. It meant a harder hand, a fiercer punishment, and her core clenched in anticipation.

Beneath the rough, deliberate pressure of his thumbs hooked into her waistbands, she twisted her hips again, a brazen, hungry arch of her body aimed squarely at the friction point between them.

"Then start," she gasped against his mouth, the words thick and nearly incoherent, a direct, bratty order thrown into the face of his control. She didn't let him pull back; she followed his mouth, clinging to him, her fingers digging deeper into his scalp, silently daring him to hold himself back for another second. Punish me, Declan. I've been bad.

Her defiance snapped the last thin tether of his restraint. He didn't pull away from her kiss; he devoured it, meeting her fury with a dark, crushing dominance that tasted of iron and smoke. But when she tried to take the lead, when she dared to issue an order to him while he was in this state, the shift in his demeanor was instantaneous and terrifyingly absolute.

He broke the kiss with a ragged, savage sound, tearing his mouth from hers only to bury his face in the crook of her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of muscle there—a warning, sharp and immediate. His hand shot up, abandoning her waist to encircle both of her slender wrists in one large, unforgiving grip. He wrenched her hands from his hair, stopping her tactile rebellion, and forced them up over her head, pinning them deep into the pillow with effortless strength.

He held her there, stretched out and utterly vulnerable, his forearm pressing down just enough to remind her that while she might have spirit, he had the power.

"Careful, Hattie," he warned, his voice a low, dangerous rumble against her throat, the vibration humming through her bones. "You don't give the orders here."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dilated, two dark pools of intent swallowing the moonlight. He saw the bratty challenge still lingering in her gaze, the desperate, silent plea for him to take over, and it fueled a fire in his blood that burned hotter than any blaze he’d fought that day.

"You want me to start?" he growled, the question rhetorical.

With his free hand—the one not pinning her to the mattress—he didn't gently slide her pants down. He hooked his fingers violently into the waistband of her panties and sleep pants together and yanked. He dragged the cotton and lace down her legs in one ruthless, fluid motion, the fabric hissing against her skin, not stopping until the garments were kicked free and she was completely bare to him.

He settled back between her knees, his heavy, denim-clad thighs forcing her legs wider, maximizing her exposure to the cool air and his burning gaze.

"There," he breathed, his chest heaving as his eyes raked over her naked form with starving possessiveness, lingering on the flush rising on her skin. "Now you’re ready to listen."

The sight of her, stripped bare and sprawled open beneath him, hit him with the force of a backdraft. She was a vision of pale, trembling softness against the dark, tangled sheets, a stark, blinding contrast to the grit and ash that coated his own skin. He held her wrists pinned above her head, his grip unyielding, feeling the frantic flutter of her pulse against his palm—a betrayal of the bravado she’d just thrown in his face.

"You're in a hurry to lose control, Hattie?" he murmured, the question dark and mocking. He didn't wait for an answer.

He shifted his weight, settling deeper into the cradle of her hips. The heavy, fire-resistant fabric of his station pants was abrasive against the tender, sensitive skin of her inner thighs, a rough reminder of the barrier that still existed between them. He wanted her to feel that texture—the scratch of the uniform, the heat of the man beneath it, the armor he hadn't yet shed.

Slowly, agonizingly, he trailed his free hand up the inside of her leg. His palm was rough, the skin thickened by years of hauling hose and gripping tools, and he dragged it deliberately over her softness, savouring the way her muscles jumped and quivered under his touch. He watched her face, his eyes narrowing as he traced the path of her arousal, drinking in the way her breath hitched, the way her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow staccato.

When his fingers finally reached the apex of her thighs, he didn't dive in. He cupped her heat, his large hand covering her completely, possessing her. The slickness he found there made his jaw clench, a physical ache radiating through him at the proof of how ready she was for him.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating growl that left no room for argument. He pressed the heel of his hand firmly against her sensitive nub, a heavy, static pressure meant to ground her, to hold her on the edge. "I want to see you realize that you’re not the one setting the pace tonight. You’re just here to take it."

​Hattie didn't try to pull her hands free. The sudden, swift action of him pinning her wrists—the easy, brutal strength of it—had shocked the air from her lungs, but it didn't extinguish the fire. Instead, it focused it, twisting the wild, bratty energy into something sharper, more yielding. She felt the frantic drum of her pulse trapped beneath his palm, and the sound of his low, dangerous warning, "You don't give the orders here," was a dark lullaby that settled the chaos inside her. She felt completely, thrillingly his.

​His ruthless removal of her clothes, the violent drag of cotton and silk down her legs, was exactly the kind of unapologetic dominance her demanding side craved. She felt the cool air hit her, and the shame she should have felt was obliterated by a blinding rush of powerlessness and desire. She was exposed, splayed, and waiting, a naked contradiction to the woman who organized the supply closet at the fire station.

​She fixed her gaze on him, obeying the low command in his voice, refusing to look anywhere else but into those dark, predatory eyes. When he settled his heavy body between her thighs, forcing her legs open, the rough texture of his uniform—the grit of his world—against her tender inner skin was an intensely physical reminder of their deep, shared understanding: he brought the necessary chaos and control here, and she brought the sanctuary found only in her surrender.

​The agonizingly slow trail of his rough hand up her thigh, every inch a calculated torment, made her body jump and bow beneath his weight. She gasped, a broken, involuntary sound as his palm finally cupped her heat, the heavy, possessive contact causing her core to flood with a desperate, responsive slickness. The proof of her arousal against his hand was a delicious humiliation, a complete betrayal of her recent defiance.

​When his voice dropped into that low, vibrating growl, demanding she realize that she’s not the one setting the pace, her eyes glazed over with a deep, liquid surrender. She let her head fall back against the pillow, exposing the taut line of her throat—another silent, eloquent form of submission.

​She gave a small, reverent moan, her hips involuntarily pushing up into the heavy, grounded pressure of his hand, begging for more than the static press he was allowing. She couldn't speak, but her body spoke for her, melting into the mattress, every nerve ending screaming his name.

​I know, Declan. Take it. Take all of it.

The surrender in her body—the desperate arch of her hips, the sweet, broken moan, and the baring of her throat—changed the atmosphere in the room instantly. The sharp, jagged edge of his dominance didn't disappear, but it shifted, melting into something heavier, deeper, and infinitely more focused. She wasn't fighting him; she was offering herself up as a sacrifice to his needs, and that kind of gift demanded a different kind of touch. It demanded worship.

He watched her eyes glaze over, saw the absolute trust in that liquid surrender, and a low rumble of approval vibrated in his chest.

"I know," he whispered, the sound losing its harsh grit and becoming a dark, velvet promise. "I know you want it all."

Slowly, deliberately, he loosened his grip on her wrists. He didn't pull away; instead, he slid his hands down her forearms, his thumbs tracing the delicate, frantic pulse points on the inside of her wrists, soothing the skin he had just pinned so ruthlessly. He brought her hands down, interlacing his rough, scarred fingers with her slender ones, pinning them gently against the pillow above her head—not to trap her, but to hold her while he unraveled her.

He lowered his upper body until his chest was flush against hers, the abrasive uniform still a barrier, but his movements were controlled now, careful not to crush her. He buried his face in the curve of the neck she had exposed for him, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to her pulse point, tasting her skin.

"And you’re going to get it," he murmured against her throat, his breath hot and damp. "You’re going to get everything you want, Hattie."

He lifted his head, his dark eyes locking onto hers, burning with a steady, intense flame. "But we are not rushing. Not tonight. The world outside is fast and loud and brutal, but in here..." He shook his head slowly. "In here, we take our time."

Below, his hand shifted. He stopped the static pressure and began to move. Using the slickness she had provided, he slid his thumb over her sensitive flesh in a slow, maddening circle. It wasn't the rough, punishing touch of a moment ago; it was precise, focused, and agonizingly gentle. He knew exactly where to touch her, exactly how much pressure to apply to make her breath hitch and her toes curl.

"I’m going to savor every inch of you," he vowed, his voice thick with emotion. He kept the pace agonizingly slow, denying her the frantic release she was begging for, forcing her to feel every second of the buildup. He stroked the length of her, his calloused palm contrasting beautifully with her wet heat, treating her body like a temple he was privileged to pray at. "Deep and slow. That’s how we’re doing this. Until you can’t remember anything but my hands on you."

He moved with a devastating, heavy grace, sinking into her until he was completely sheathed in her warmth. It was a tight, perfect fit that made the air hiss through his teeth, a sensation so intense it bordered on pain, but the kind that grounded him, tethering him to the earth when he felt like he’d been floating in smoke all day.

He withdrew slowly, agonizingly, letting the friction drag along every nerve ending, before pushing back in—a deep, steady glide that claimed all of her. He wasn't pounding into her; he was pouring himself into her, a slow, relentless tide that refused to be rushed.

"Stay with me," he whispered, the command soft but unyielding.

He released one of her hands to bring his palm to her face. His fingers, rough and scarred, were incredibly gentle as they traced the line of her jaw, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone to catch a stray tear of intensity. He tilted her head back slightly, forcing her to meet his gaze, needing to see the exact moment the pleasure crested in her eyes. He needed to witness her unraveling.

His other hand drifted down the column of her throat, over the frantic pulse at the base of her neck, and settled over her breast. He cupped the soft weight of it, his dark hand a stark contrast against her pale skin. He squeezed gently, molding her flesh, his thumb brushing over the hardened peak with a reverence that made his own breath hitch.

"Feel that?" he murmured, timing his words with the slow, deep thrust of his hips, grinding securely against her before pulling back again. "I’m touching you everywhere. I’m inside you, I’m holding you... there is no part of you that isn't mine right now."

He kept the rhythm hypnotic, a heavy, rolling motion that hit the deepest part of her with every stroke. When he felt her hips try to stutter into a faster rhythm, he simply pressed his weight down, stilling her, forcing her to endure the slow burn.

"No," he soothed, his hand tightening slightly on her breast to anchor her. "Don't rush to the end. We stay right here. We burn right here."

Hattie’s breath hitched, a fragile, broken sound that caught in her throat. The contrast was dizzying, yet perfectly Declan: the raw, bruising command followed instantly by a touch so reverent it felt like absolution. She was held, not trapped, her hands now gently imprisoned by his above her head, their fingers tightly laced. This was the love she knew, filtered through the dominance she needed—a profound tenderness wrapped in irresistible force.

When he buried his face in her neck, tasting her pulse point, the world narrowed down to the heat of his breath and the low, velvet promise that he would give her everything she wanted. She believed him entirely. This slower, agonizing pace was a discipline, a test of her endurance, but it also forced her to feel every fraction of his worship.

His thumb working its slow, maddening circle at her heat was exquisite torture. She arched helplessly under the contact, her mind floating on the edge of incoherence as the sensation built, pure and agonizing. She couldn't track his movements, couldn't follow the logistics of the room or the state of his uniform. All that existed was the heavy, perfect pressure of his body against hers, the scent of his skin, and the overwhelming presence of his hands.

The shock of his entrance—deep and slow, filling her completely—was so perfect it felt like a homecoming. It wasn't a sudden invasion; it was a devastating, controlled possession that stretched and encompassed her, making a tight, grateful moan escape her lips. She was completely sheathed in him, bound by his heavy, rolling rhythm that claimed all her awareness.

She focused on his face, eyes wide and glistening, obeying the soft, unwavering command to stay with him. When he released one of her hands to frame her jaw, his touch was impossibly gentle, his thumb catching the tear that betrayed the intensity of the sensation. She kissed the heel of his hand, a soft, devoted pressure against his scarred palm.

His other hand drifted to her breast, cupping her weight with an attention that felt sacred, his thumb brushing over her peak in time with the hypnotic, heavy glide of his body inside hers. Each slow, deep thrust was an affirmation: I’m inside you, I’m holding you... there is no part of you that isn't mine right now.
When she tried to rush, her hips stuttering, his pressure on her breast was a firm, grounding anchor, forcing her back into the slow burn. She trusted his pace, trusted his control, and she pressed her face into his shoulder, finding the junction of his neck and collarbone, kissing the damp skin there with a desperate, hungry gratitude.

As he shifted slightly, her currently free hand—the one not being pinned and kissed—slid immediately up from the pillow. Driven by the deep, physical desire to feel more of the man who was currently possessing her so completely, her fingers slipped under the rough cotton of his shirt. Her palm flattened against the wide, muscular expanse of his back, feeling the sweat-slicked warmth and the tense, glorious flex of the muscles there, a silent, loving appreciation for the magnificent strength currently holding her down and taking her apart. Her moans turned into broken whispers of his name against his skin.

"I love you, Declan," she managed to whisper, the words a raw, choked confession ripped from her chest and pressed into his shoulder, the most honest and tender thing she could offer in the midst of his dark possession.

The words, whispered raggedly against his skin, hit him harder than the physical pleasure, harder than the adrenaline of the shift he’d just survived. They landed like a brand, searing through the haze of exhaustion and lust to strike the very center of his chest.

He stopped moving for a single, heavy heartbeat, his breath leaving him in a sharp rush. The combination of her emotional confession and the sudden, searing heat of her palm sliding under his shirt to touch his bare back was nearly his undoing. He arched into her touch instinctively, his muscles rippling under her hand as he chased the contact, needing that skin-to-skin connection as much as he needed to breathe.

"God, Hattie," he groaned, the sound vibrating deep in his chest against hers.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he let his forehead drop heavily onto her shoulder, turning his face to press a fierce, open-mouthed kiss to the curve of her neck, right over her pulse. He stayed there for a moment, just breathing her in, letting the reality of her love wash away the grit of the outside world.

But he was a man starving, and the feel of her beneath him—so wet, so tight, so perfectly molded to him—was driving him to the brink. He lifted his head slowly, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, drinking in the sight of her flushed face.

"I love you," he returned, his voice rough with an intensity that bordered on pain. "I love you so much it scares the hell out of me sometimes."

He shifted his hips, resuming that slow, devastating rhythm, but this time he let himself be selfish with it. He ground down hard, dragging himself along the sensitive interior of her, letting his eyes roll back for a fraction of a second as the pleasure spiked, sharp and blinding. He needed this friction, this heat. He bit his lip to stifle a roar of satisfaction, the cords in his neck straining.

"You feel..." He couldn't finish the sentence, the sensation stealing his vocabulary. He moved deeper, stretching her, filling her, taking a moment to just bask in the incredible feeling of being inside the woman who owned him. He reached down, his hand sliding from her breast to grip her waist, his thumb digging in possessively as he held her still for his thrust.

"Don't stop touching me," he ordered, a breathless plea wrapped in a command. He rolled his hips again, a long, languid stroke that was as much for his own pleasure as it was for hers. "Keep your hands on me. Feel what you do to me. I need you to feel how much I need this."

He moved with the slow, inevitable certainty of a tide, withdrawing almost to the point of loss before sinking back in, filling her with a heavy, deliberate thrust that claimed every inch of her depth. He kept his eyes open, refusing to close them even as the pleasure rolled through him in dizzying waves. He needed to see this. He needed to see her.

"God, look at you," he breathed, the words a rough whisper of worship.

He shifted his weight onto one forearm, bracing himself so he could look down at her chest. The moonlight washed over her pale skin, turning her into marble and shadow, but she was warm, so incredibly warm and alive beneath him. His gaze traced the slope of her breasts, rising and falling with her ragged breath, the peaks hardened and begging for attention. She was perfect. A soft, yielding contrast to the hard lines and rough edges of his own existence.

"So beautiful," he murmured, shaking his head slightly as if he couldn't quite believe she was real, couldn't quite believe she was his.

He lowered his head slowly, never breaking the hypnotic, grinding rhythm of his hips. He drifted closer, his breath ghosting over her skin, making her shiver, before he finally closed the distance. He didn't bite; he soothed. He opened his mouth and dragged his tongue over one tight, rosy nipple, a long, wet, and agonizingly slow stroke that mimicked the movement of his body inside her.

He felt her arch up into his mouth, a silent plea for more, and a low, possessive rumble vibrated in his throat against her wet skin.

While his mouth lavished attention on one peak, laving and teasing it until it was glistening and sensitive, his free hand moved to the other. His large, calloused palm cupped the soft weight of her breast, his fingers kneading the flesh with a gentle, rhythmic squeeze. His thumb brushed back and forth over the other nipple, creating a dual assault on her senses that he knew would drive her mad.

He pulled back just an inch, his lips wet and swollen, his eyes dark with a mixture of hunger and adoration.

"I could do this for hours," he promised, his voice thick. He pushed into her again, grinding deep and holding there, letting her feel the fullness of him while his thumb continued its wicked work on her breast. "Just watching you... tasting you. You’re the only thing that makes sense to me right now."

The low, guttural confession of his love was a physical force, tightening the knot of yearning in Hattie’s chest until it ached with a pure, fierce devotion. She felt the heavy pause, the sharp intake of his breath, and the sudden, overwhelming pressure of his forehead against her shoulder—a beautiful, desperate surrender to her touch. Her own hand, still flattened against the sweaty, muscular expanse of his back, instinctively dug in, holding him there, anchoring the man who felt like he was floating away.

​She followed him when he lifted his head, kissing the damp skin of his neck and jaw wherever her mouth could reach, murmuring small, incoherent sounds of worship against his stubble. When he resumed the rhythm, letting himself be selfish with it, the slow, deep grind was a language she understood completely.

Every millimeter of his withdrawal and his deep, claiming return was a sensual, loving echo of the promise they’d just made. She felt every inch of him, the glorious, deliberate friction, the warmth of his core pressed against hers, and she savored the fact that he was moving for his pleasure, too, that she was capable of eliciting this kind of raw, necessary need from him.

​Her free hand, emboldened by his plea, "Don't stop touching me," abandoned his back and began to roam. Her fingertips traveled up the taut cords of his neck, feeling the rapid, frantic pulse beneath his skin, before tangling themselves in the sweat-dampened hair at the back of his head, gently urging him closer. She massaged his scalp, letting the movement speak of her adoration and her deep, intimate knowledge of his weariness.

​When he lowered his head, his mouth claiming one of her sensitive peaks, the sensation stole her breath. The long, wet drag of his tongue, timed perfectly with the slow, deep thrust of his hips, overloaded her senses. She moaned, arching her back into the contact, blindly chasing the delicious torment of his mouth.

​Her other hand slid down, pressing flat against the hard curve of his side, then down the slope of his spine. When he drove deep, burying himself to the hilt, she seized the moment. Her hand dropped low, finding the powerful, muscled curve of his ass cheek. She gripped him fiercely, her fingers digging possessively into the firm flesh, holding him locked deep inside of her for a breathtaking moment, trying to pull him further than physics would allow, a sensual demand to remain filled by him forever.

​“Perfect,” she breathed, the word a ragged sigh pressed against his shoulder as his thumb continued its wicked, rhythmic circle on her other peak. “This is the only place I ever want to be.”

​The slow, heavy momentum of his body was building a desperate ache deep inside her. The dual, focused attention on her breasts—his warm, wet mouth pulling gently on one peak while his skilled thumb rolled and teased the other—was an electric current, drawing a tight, coiling tension into the pit of her stomach. She clung to the sheer size and solidity of him, burying her face against his neck, finding comfort and fire in the same embrace. She let her fingers dance across the tense plane of his upper back, savoring the way his muscles jumped and flexed beneath her touch with every deliberate, claiming stroke.

​Each time he sank back in, the pressure was thicker, heavier, and more complete, pushing her closer to a tipping point she hadn't known existed. She squeezed her inner muscles tight around him, a silent plea for release, for him to break his control. She twisted her head on the pillow, seeking his ear, and whispered, desperate and choked, “Please, I can’t take this slowness much longer, my love.”

The whisper against his ear was the final fracture in his restraint. Declan had been holding onto the edges of his control by a thread, trying to make the moment last, trying to savor the worship of her body, but Hattie’s plea—choked and desperate—shattered his resolve.

The vibration of her voice and the sudden, possessive clamp of her internal muscles around him flipped a switch deep in his brain. The primal beast he’d been keeping on a leash roared to life, hungry and unconcerned with patience.

He groaned, a rough, vibrating sound against her skin, and lifted his head. His eyes, dark and blown wide with adrenaline, locked onto hers.

"You want it fast?" he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, stripped of any pretense of gentleness. "You want me to ruin you, Hattie?"

He didn't wait for an answer; her body was already screaming it.
He withdrew almost completely, the friction maddening, before snapping his hips forward, burying himself inside her with a sudden, jarring force that knocked the breath from her lungs. The slow, grinding rhythm was gone, replaced by a hard, hammering tempo that sought to fuse them together.

His hands left her breasts, sliding down to grip her hips with bruising intensity. He dug his fingers into her soft flesh, anchoring her against the mattress to meet the force of his thrusts. Every drive was a collision, a claiming, pushing deeper than he had dared before.

"I can't hold back," he growled, sweat dripping from his brow onto her chest. "Not anymore. Take it. Take all of it."

He lowered his head, not to kiss her gently, but to capture her mouth in a searing, devouring kiss, his tongue mirroring the savage, relentless piston of his hips. He gave in completely to the roughness she craved, driving into her with a fierce, unchecked power, needing to feel her unravel beneath him, needing to know that this storm he was unleashing was exactly what she needed to survive him.

He broke the kiss, gasping for air, needing to see the wreck he was making of her. His hands slid from her hips to hook under her knees, shoving them upward and back toward her shoulders. The position left her completely open to him, exposed and vulnerable, and he took full advantage, snapping his hips to drive into her with a depth that made her eyes roll back.

There was no rhythm now, only a frantic, piston-like necessity. He watched her face contort, her lips parted in a silent scream of pleasure, and the sight was fuel on the fire raging in his blood. He felt the sharp sting of her nails raking down his shoulders, scoring his skin, and he welcomed the pain. It grounded him, a physical testament to how desperate they both were.

"That’s it," he gritted out, his voice a guttural growl between labored breaths. "Take every inch."

He slammed into her again and again, the sound of their bodies colliding filling the room—wet, sharp, and erotic. He was lost to the sensation of her tight, wet heat sheathing him, squeezing him with every contraction of her body. The control he prided himself on was obliterated. He was a man possessed, driving toward the precipice with blind, reckless fury.

He felt the tremors start in her legs, felt the way her inner muscles clamped down on him like a vice, signaling her release. The sensation snapped the last tether of his endurance.

"Hattie," he roared, the name torn from his throat.

He didn't slow down. He drove harder, faster, chasing her over the edge. When her cry shattered the air and her body bowed off the mattress in the throes of her climax, he followed her instantly. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his body seizing in a violent, powerful shudder as he poured himself into her, spending every ounce of his energy, his love, and his soul into the woman beneath him.

The scream that ripped from her lips was barely her own, a raw, elemental sound swallowed by the sheets and the force of his body. Hattie felt the world dissolve into a kaleidoscope of heat, light, and blinding sensation as the powerful convulsions seized her, squeezing him tight in a series of deep, shuddering internal spasms. It was a complete, agonizing obliteration of self, and she clung to his shoulders, feeling the rough trails of her own fingernails on his skin, a physical mark of her complete unraveling.

The moment of his own completion hit her like a secondary wave. She felt the massive, violent shudder that tore through his frame, the guttural roar of her name against her throat, and then the heavy, beautiful warmth that flooded her depths. His body seized and pulsed, a deep, rhythmic throbbing that pushed his seed fully into her, filling the space he had just conquered. The feeling was profound—not just of release, but of belonging, of being truly filled and possessed by the man she loved.

Then came the collapse. His weight, previously held aloft by sheer adrenaline, dropped like a stone. He came down on top of her, crushing her into the mattress, his breath sawing raggedly into the curve of her neck. He was heavy, sweat-drenched, and utterly spent, his heart hammering against her chest like a trapped, frantic drum. The roughness was gone, replaced by the complete, vulnerable weight of the man who relied on her to bring him back to earth.

For a long, silent minute, they were simply two exhausted bodies fused together, barely breathing. The silence in the room was immense, shattered only by their mutual, gasping attempts to regain air. The scent of sweat, sex, and lingering smoke from his uniform was thick, a visceral reminder of the storm they had just weathered.

As the frantic shaking subsided and the sharp edges of pleasure softened into a warm, heavy contentment, Hattie slowly became aware of her limbs. She was completely trapped beneath him, yet she felt perfectly safe. She lifted the hand that had raked his back and let her fingers tangle tenderly in the damp hair at the back of his neck. Her other hand, which had been beneath his side, crept up his spine, tracing the powerful, exhausted line of his muscles.

She lowered her head slightly and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his temple, then another to the crown of his head, treating him like a fragile, precious thing. She dragged her palm gently down his back, a smoothing motion meant to soothe the raw space her nails had created.

She let out a slow, satisfied breath, the sound muffled against his damp shoulder.

“My beautiful, reckless darling,” she murmured, her voice thick with adoration. “You always come home to me.”

The house felt different in that satisfying, slightly unfamiliar way it always did after you’d moved things around—like the walls had exhaled.

Hattie stood in the middle of their living room with her hands on her hips, taking it in. The rug had been rotated. The armchair that used to live by the window was now angled toward the couch like it actually wanted to participate. Declan had shifted the bookshelf an inch to the left—an inch that somehow made the whole room look cleaner, more intentional, like a page finally lined up with the margin.

There was a faint lemony bite in the air from whatever cleaner she’d insisted on using, layered over the warmer, familiar scent of him: soap, cedar, and that quiet steadiness he carried around like it was part of his skin. The afternoon light slanted through the blinds, catching dust motes they hadn’t gotten to yet, turning them into slow glitter.

They’d been off today. Both of them. No station calls, no paperwork, no being pulled in opposite directions by schedules and responsibility. Just… them, in sweatpants, with a playlist running too loud and the kind of easy teamwork that made her chest feel full.

Hattie bent to straighten the corner of a throw pillow purely because she could. She didn’t have to. The room already looked good. But her hands still wanted to fuss—wanted to make the home they’d built together look like something that was loved.

She glanced toward the kitchen.

The counters were clear for once. No stacks of mail. No half-finished to-do lists. The dish rack was empty. The sink shined. It looked like a kitchen out of a magazine, which was ridiculous, because five minutes ago Declan had been walking through here with a trash bag slung over his shoulder like he was clearing out a crime scene, and she’d been following behind him with a basket of random things that belonged nowhere and everywhere.

Now it was quiet.

Quiet enough that she could hear the soft click of the ceiling fan, the distant hum of the refrigerator, and—closer—Declan moving around in the bedroom, finishing whatever last detail he’d decided needed doing. He wasn’t loud. He never was. But he had a way of taking up space without effort—like the house knew he lived in it.

Hattie smoothed her palms down the front of her blush lounge romper and adjusted the sleeves of her oversized lavender cardigan, the knit brushing her knuckles.

It was just baking.

That was all.

It was a normal, domestic thing. A New Year’s goal that sounded very reasonable when she’d written it down—Bake more. Try new recipes. Stop being afraid of messing up.

Except the truth was she cared. She cared in a way that made it feel bigger than it should’ve. Because baking wasn’t just flour and sugar. Baking was warmth. It was home. It was being the kind of person who could fill a house with something sweet and steady.

And Declan deserved that.

Not that he’d ever asked. He never asked for much. He was the kind of man who would eat toast over the sink and call it dinner if he was tired enough. The kind of man who would tell her—without words half the time—that he didn’t need anything else as long as she was near.

Which only made her want to do it more.

Hattie walked into the kitchen and opened the cabinet where she’d stacked the baking stuff this morning after reorganizing. She’d made a whole little section for it. Measuring cups nested neatly, vanilla extract up front, a fresh bag of flour like it was a promise. She pulled out a recipe card she’d printed—some new thing she’d seen online that looked both attainable and dangerously easy to ruin.

She set it on the counter and stared at it like it might judge her.

“Okay,” she told it under her breath, as if it could hear. “We’re going to be friends today.”

She reached for a mixing bowl and then paused, listening.

Declan’s footsteps shifted, closer now. A floorboard creaked in that familiar spot by the hallway. The sound tugged something soft inside her, the way it always did—the steady reassurance of him simply existing nearby. She didn’t turn yet. Not right away. She wanted this moment first: the quiet, the clean kitchen, the faint thrill of starting something new.

She pulled out the butter and set it on the counter to soften, then lined up the rest of the ingredients like she was staging a tiny, edible battlefield.

Sugar.

Eggs.

Cocoa powder.

A little container of flaky salt because she’d read somewhere that it made everything better, and she’d decided to believe that without needing proof.

When she finally heard him step into the doorway, she lifted her head.

He leaned there for a second—broad shoulders in a heather gray ribbed henley, sleeves pushed to his forearms, the fabric hugging his frame in a way that made her pulse flicker. His dark drawstring sweatpants sat low on his hips, casual and soft-looking, the kind of thing she’d tug on just to see if he’d chase her down the hall.

His hair was a little messy from the day, like he’d run his hands through it while he worked. He didn’t say anything, but his gaze moved over the kitchen in one slow sweep, taking in the cleared counters, the lineup of ingredients, the recipe card, and then her.

His eyes settled on her with that quiet attention that always made her feel seen in the gentlest way.

Hattie’s mouth tugged into a small smile before she could stop it.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, soft and playful, even though her cheeks warmed. “Like I’m about to do something heroic.”

She picked up the cocoa powder and gave it a tiny shake, as if proving a point.

“I’m just… baking,” she added, a little more quietly, as if saying it out loud might make it true. “It’s my New Year’s thing. I’m trying to be… better at normal, home things.”

She hesitated, then corrected herself, because it mattered.

“Not because you need it,” she said quickly, turning back to the counter so she wouldn’t have to watch his face too closely. “You don’t need anything. You’re… you’re fine with whatever.”

Her fingers smoothed the edge of the recipe card.

“I just want to,” she admitted, voice smaller now, honest in that way she didn’t always let herself be. “I want to make this place feel… sweet. And ours.”

She reached for the mixing bowl again, anchoring herself in movement.

“And if this turns into a disaster,” she added, the playful edge returning like a shield, “we’re not telling anyone. Not even—” she paused, then smirked to herself, “—not even the guys at the station.”

She cracked her first egg against the rim of the bowl and glanced up at him again, eyes bright.

“So,” she said, as if this wasn’t a bigger deal than it should’ve been, “are you going to be helpful, or are you going to stand there and silently judge my measuring techniques?”

Declan still didn’t speak.

But he didn’t have to.

The way he watched her—steady, patient, present—made her feel like maybe she could do this.

Like maybe she could do anything, as long as he was there.

Declan didn’t answer right away.

He never rushed moments like this—especially not ones that felt delicate in that quiet, important way. He stayed in the doorway for another second, just watching her: the way she lined things up with care, the tiny crease between her brows when she read the recipe, the softness in her shoulders now that the house had finally gone still.

Home looked good on her.

He crossed the kitchen slowly, footsteps unhurried, until he was close enough to feel her warmth without touching her yet. He leaned his hip lightly against the counter beside her, close but not crowding, and reached out to nudge the cocoa powder back into line where it had drifted a little sideways.

“Helpful,” he said finally, voice low and easy. “Always helpful.”

His eyes flicked to the bowl, the cracked egg, the careful way she held herself like she was bracing for judgment that was never coming. Then he looked back at her face—and something in him softened even further.

He lifted one hand and brushed a loose strand of hair back behind her ear, slow and familiar, knuckles grazing her cheek like it was second nature. His thumb lingered there, warm and steady, before he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“You’re not doing something heroic,” he murmured, lips still close to her skin. “You’re doing something you want to do. That’s enough.”

He straightened just enough to meet her eyes, a small smile tugging at his mouth—fond, a little proud, completely unguarded.

“And for the record,” he added quietly, “I don’t think there’s anything ‘normal’ about the way you take care of things. You don’t just fill space, Hattie. You make it feel lived in.”

His gaze dropped to the counter again, then back to her.

“This already feels like ours,” he said simply.

He reached past her for the butter, sliding it a little closer to the edge so it would soften faster, then grabbed a clean spoon and held it up like he was reporting for duty.

“So,” he went on, tone lighter now, teasing warmth threading through it, “you tell me what to do and I’ll do it. Measuring. Stirring. Moral support. Taste-testing if required.”

A beat.

“Especially taste-testing.”

He leaned closer again, just enough that his shoulder brushed hers, grounding and affectionate all at once.

“And if it’s a disaster?” he added, eyes flicking back to hers with quiet certainty. “Then we’ll eat it anyway. Or order pizza. Or both.”

His thumb brushed once more along her jaw, gentle and sure.

“But I like this,” he said, softer now. “I like you like this. I like building things with you—even the small stuff.”

Then he glanced at the egg in the bowl, raised a brow with a hint of a grin.

“So, boss,” he said. “What’s my first assignment?”

Hattie’s fingers fidgeted with the edge of the recipe card even though she didn’t need to read it again. She could feel the warmth of him beside her, the way he leaned in just enough to touch but not overwhelm—like he always knew the exact distance to stand when her thoughts started crowding in.

Her chest gave that familiar flutter. The one she tried to pretend didn’t still sneak up on her when he said things like ours with no hesitation. When he looked at her like there was no need to explain the way she overthought or hesitated or sometimes tiptoed through spaces that were already hers.

He always made room for her without asking why she needed it.

Even now—after all this time, after all the mornings in this house and the nights tangled up in him—he still made her feel like she could take her time becoming something steady. Something rooted. Something brave.

And she loved him for it.

God, she loved him for it.

Still, her instinct flared—an old habit she hadn’t broken yet. What if she ruined this too? What if she messed up something as simple as brownies? What if she—

No.

She shook it off and turned to him fully, her smile blooming warm and a little mischievous.

“Well,” she said, tapping the recipe card against the counter like she was giving a speech, “if you’re going to be in my kitchen, I’m going to need you to take this very seriously.”

Her eyes sparkled when she looked at him—when she really looked at him.

The gray henley stretched just a little too well across his shoulders. His sweatpants hung loose on his hips. His hair was a little mussed, his stubble was a little sharp, and he was looking at her like she held the moon between her hands.

She cleared her throat before her voice could go all gooey.

“First task,” she said, and reached for a measuring cup, placing it in his palm with exaggerated ceremony. “You are now the Official Flour Scooper. I’ll need one cup—level, not packed, no heroic flour explosions.”

She raised her eyebrows, mock-serious.

“And I do mean level, firefighter.”

She gave him a gentle nudge with her elbow, letting herself lean into him for a second longer than necessary—just to feel the warmth of him, to press her body to his side and soak in how easily he caught her without needing to shift at all.

It felt good. It felt easy. Like this house didn’t belong to him and she was just borrowing space. Like it really was theirs now.

Her hand slipped down to the butter stick and gave it an absent poke.

“And once that’s done,” she continued, eyes flicking up to meet his again, “you’ll graduate to Egg Whisker. Which I’ve been told is a title of great prestige.”

She grinned, a little crooked, a little breathless—because she could feel how he was watching her. Not just hearing her words, but seeing her.

All of her.

And maybe that was what made her lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek. Not flirty. Not teasing. Just hers—a thank you without saying the words.

When she pulled back, her fingers trailed across his forearm.

“I like building things with you too,” she said, her voice quieter now, more honest than playful. “Even the messy, chocolate-covered kind.”

Then she smacked her palms together like a coach and nodded toward the mixing bowl.

“Alright, flour guy. Impress me.”

And God help her—she was already falling for him again.

Declan didn’t rush her.

He never did.

He took the measuring cup from her hand like it was a baton being passed in a relay he intended to win slowly and correctly, his fingers brushing hers just enough to make the contact linger. He turned the cup once in his palm, inspecting it with mock gravity, then glanced at her over the rim with a look that was pure, quiet amusement.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said solemnly. “Level. Not packed. No acts of heroism.”

He stepped closer to the counter, shoulder brushing hers, close enough that she could feel the heat of him without being crowded. He opened the flour container carefully—carefully, because she’d asked—and scooped with deliberate restraint, tapping the cup against the side once, then leveling it with the flat of a butter knife like he’d been training for this moment his whole life.

When he tipped the flour into the bowl, not a single puff escaped.

He looked back at her, brows lifting just slightly.

“Still employed?” he asked, dry and gentle.

Then, because he was Declan and couldn’t help himself, he nudged the empty cup toward her chest lightly, like a playful medal ceremony. “I live to serve.”

As she leaned into him, elbow tucked against his ribs, he shifted without thinking—one arm coming around her waist, steady and warm, anchoring her there like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushed a slow, absent arc against her side, grounding her as much as himself.

He noticed everything. The way she poked the butter like it might offend her. The way her smile softened when she wasn’t performing it. The way she kissed his cheek like she was thanking him for something she hadn’t put into words yet.

That one got him.

His hand tightened just a fraction at her waist before he let it go, stepping back only enough to reach for the whisk when she handed it to him.

“Egg Whisker,” he repeated thoughtfully, testing the title. “Sounds like a job with benefits.”

He cracked the first egg cleanly against the counter—no shell, no mess—then the second, glancing at her between motions like he was checking in, not for approval, but connection.

“You know,” he said quietly, voice low and even, “I like this too. Not just the baking.” He gestured vaguely at the bowl, then around the kitchen, the house. “The doing things together part. The normal stuff.”

He started whisking, slow and steady, muscles in his forearm shifting under her fingers if she was still touching him.

“And for the record,” he added, eyes lifting to meet hers, open and sure, “you don’t have to get it right for it to be ours. Mess counts. Trying counts.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth—soft, real.

“Besides,” he said, giving the bowl a final confident turn, “I already moved in with you. Chocolate chaos isn’t exactly a dealbreaker.”

He set the whisk down, leaned in just enough to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear with his knuckle, reverent like he always was when he touched her face. Then he pressed a kiss to her forehead—warm, lingering, full of quiet devotion.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Coach. What’s next?”

And the way he looked at her said it plainly, without ever needing to say it out loud:

Wherever you’re going, I’m already here.

She didn’t mean to melt.

But damn if he didn’t make it hard not to.

It wasn’t just the way he followed instructions. Or the solemn yes, ma’am that made her chest tighten and her stomach flip, as if he didn’t know he could ruin her with those two syllables alone. Or the I live to serve with that little tap of the measuring cup that should’ve been ridiculous but somehow wasn’t — not when it came from him.

It was all of it.

The way he stood beside her like they’d been doing this for years. The way his thumb skimmed her side in those quiet, anchoring circles that always brought her breath a little deeper. The way he cracked eggs like it was nothing, checked in with her like it was everything, and said mess counts like he meant it — like she counted, even when she didn’t get it perfect.

Her heart swelled and ached and did somersaults all at once.

It still caught her off guard, sometimes. That she got to have this. That he was hers. That he could watch her poke butter and kiss her forehead like it was the best part of his day. That she could build something real with him — one egg, one room rearranged, one small decision at a time.

“Dealbreaker, huh?” she said softly, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Good to know.”

She reached for the sugar, measuring with a little more confidence now, then paused to nudge his shoulder lightly with hers.

“You are dangerously competent at this,” she teased, voice light, but full of that warm, quiet awe she still didn’t always know how to put into words. “Like… suspiciously good. Have you been baking behind my back with someone else?”

She arched a brow dramatically, but it was all in fun. The kind of fun she didn’t have to fake. The kind that bubbled up easily around him.

As he set the whisk down and reached to tuck her hair back, her breath caught for real this time. The touch was so gentle. So him. And when his lips pressed to her forehead, something in her stilled entirely — like the whole house leaned in and exhaled.

She let herself rest there for a moment, eyes closed, skin tingling where he’d kissed her.

When she opened them again, he was still looking at her. Still waiting. Still there.

God.

She didn’t stand a chance.

“Next,” she murmured, stepping closer and brushing a little flour off the front of his shirt — totally unnecessary, entirely an excuse to touch him, “is the butter and sugar. We cream it together.”

She turned toward the bowl, trying to act unaffected, even though her heart was thudding so hard she was pretty sure it could be heard over the ceiling fan.

She handed him the spatula, then hesitated.

“Unless you wanna trade roles,” she added, giving him a sideways glance. “I can whisk, and you can cream.”

Her lips curved slow, playful, affectionate.

“Or you can keep looking at me like that, and I’ll forget what we’re doing entirely.”

She didn’t say I love you right then.

She didn’t have to.

It was in the flour on her hands. The rearranged furniture. The smell of lemon cleaner in the air. The bowl between them and the heat of him at her side.

It was in the way she kept choosing him — one spoon, one kiss, one ordinary, extraordinary afternoon at a time.

Declan let out a quiet laugh at her suspicion, the kind that lived low in his chest, warm and unbothered. He shook his head once, slow and amused, eyes never leaving her face.

“No secret baking partners,” he promised. “You’re the first one who’s ever made me take this seriously.”

He watched her measure the sugar, noticed how her confidence had grown just in the span of a few minutes—shoulders less tight, movements more sure. It did something to him, seeing her relax into it. Like he was watching her step into a space she’d already earned but was only just letting herself occupy.

When she nudged his shoulder, he leaned into it on purpose, playful, like he wanted the contact as much as she did.

“Dangerously competent?” he echoed, smirking. “Careful. You keep talkin’ like that and I’ll start requestin’ an apron.”

Her breath caught when he touched her hair, and he noticed. Of course he noticed. He always noticed the little things—her pause, the way her lashes dipped, the way she softened when he touched her gently instead of playfully.

He didn’t rush the kiss to her forehead. Let it linger, just long enough to say something he didn’t put into words.

I see you.
I’m here.
This matters.

When she brushed flour off his shirt, he glanced down at the spot like it was a badge of honor.

“Guess I’m officially in it now,” he said. “Kitchen warrior.”

He took the spatula from her, but didn’t start right away. Just looked at her, really looked. The cardigan sleeves slipping down her wrists. The faint dusting of flour on her fingers. The way she kept pretending she wasn’t affected by him when she very clearly was.

“You wanna trade?” he asked, eyes soft. “I’ll cream, you whisk?”

Then his mouth curved, gentle and teasing.

“Or,” he added, stepping just a little closer, “I can keep lookin’ at you like this and we’ll forget the recipe entirely.”

He finally turned back to the bowl, sliding the butter in with deliberate care, sugar following. He worked slow, steady, giving her space to step in beside him, his shoulder a constant presence at her side.

“You’re doin’ good,” he said quietly, not about the baking. About her. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, you know. But I like that you want to build stuff together.”

He stirred, then paused, handing her the whisk with a small smile.

“Team effort,” he said. “Always.”

And the way he looked at her—soft, certain, full of that quiet devotion—made it clear he wasn’t just talking about brownies.

Declan took the whisk from her for just a second—only long enough to set it aside so it wouldn’t clatter—then turned back to her with that soft, inevitable smile she always pulled out of him.

Before she could overthink it, before she could deflect with a joke or busy her hands again, he leaned in.

It wasn’t dramatic.
Didn’t stop the day.
Didn’t demand attention.

Just a quick kiss—warm and sure—right to her lips.

The kind that said I’m right here more than look at me.

He pulled back just as easily, forehead brushing hers, his thumb catching lightly at her wrist like he wasn’t quite done touching her yet.

“Couldn’t help it,” he murmured, low and fond. “You were standin’ too close.”

His eyes flicked to the counter, then back to her, amused and tender all at once.

“Alright,” he added, nudging the bowl back between them, voice soft with a smile. “Back to business before we forget the sugar exists.”

But his hand stayed warm at her side as he stepped back into place—present, steady, and completely content to be exactly where he was.

“Kitchen warrior,” she repeated under her breath, grinning like he’d just awarded himself the highest possible title in their domestic kingdom. “I’ll have to embroider that on your apron. Maybe with a little sword through a spatula.”

She was still laughing as she took the whisk from his hand, the handle warm from his grip. Her fingers brushed his knuckles on the exchange, and even that tiny touch made her stomach flutter like it hadn’t been doing that for months now.

Except it still did. Always with him.

He gave her a soft compliment — about her, not the recipe — and her heart skipped like it always did when he said something so casually sincere that it didn’t even occur to him how much it would stick. She didn’t answer right away. Just smiled at the batter like it had suddenly become very interesting.

You don’t have to prove anything to me.

God, she knew that. And still, the words landed soft and sure in her chest like they were stitching something together she didn’t realize had come undone.

She glanced over at him, already prepared to make a joke about teamwork and brownies and how she might start assigning him cleaning shifts if he got too good at this—

But then he kissed her.

Quick. Warm. Certain.

And everything in her went quiet for half a second, like a held breath.

Her lips curved against his the moment they met. Not because she’d expected it, but because she didn’t need to. She always felt it coming—the gravity of him. The way he pulled her in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

When he pulled back, his forehead grazed hers, and her lashes fluttered once, then lifted to meet his gaze.

“You’re lucky I like being interrupted,” she murmured, voice light, cheeky, even though her pulse was still fluttering behind her ribs. “Otherwise, I’d be pressing charges for emotional sabotage mid-whisk.”

His hand stayed warm on her side, grounding and familiar, and she leaned into it without thinking—just a subtle press of her hip against his. Easy. Close. The kind of affection you didn’t have to plan for.

Her fingers toyed with the whisk again, idly, then lifted it like it was an offering.

“Alright, Mr. Kitchen Warrior,” she said, lifting one brow with mock seriousness. “You’re on creaming duty, I’m on whisk patrol, and if we both survive this without setting off the smoke alarm, I’ll let you pick the movie tonight.”

She handed the whisk off with a little flourish, then bumped her shoulder into his as she turned toward the oven.

“But for the record,” she added with a glance over her shoulder, “you look real good in this domestic lighting. Might have to keep you in the kitchen more often.”

And even as she teased, even as her hands moved to preheat the oven and double-check the recipe she’d already read three times, her heart beat easy in her chest.

Like it belonged here.

Like he did, too.

Declan laughed low when she said kitchen warrior, the sound warm and easy, like it came from somewhere settled.

“A sword through a spatula?” he said, shaking his head as he accepted the whisk from her with mock gravity. “That’s aggressive branding, Monroe. I respect it.”

Their fingers brushed again, just a soft graze, but he still felt it all the way up his arm. He always did. It didn’t matter how many times it happened—his body still reacted like it was new.

He caught her watching the batter like it had suddenly offended her and smiled to himself. He knew that look. The one where she was pretending she didn’t care even though she cared deeply.

When she joked about pressing charges, he leaned in just enough to murmur, “Worth it,” before straightening again, his hand still resting at her waist like it belonged there—because it did.

He took the whisk from her with a dramatic little bow.

“Creaming duty accepted,” he said. “I will serve with honor.”

Then she said it—about him looking good in domestic lighting—and his mouth tipped into that crooked grin she loved.

“Careful,” he said, eyes soft as he started working the butter and sugar together. “You keep talkin’ like that, and I’m gonna start thinking this is my natural habitat.”

He glanced up at her, really looked at her—barefoot, cardigan sleeves pushed up, flour smudged on her hands like proof of a life being built.

“Truth is,” he said quietly, not joking now, “you’re the only one I ever wanted to be domesticated by.”

The words came easy. Honest. Like they’d been waiting their turn.

He flicked a tiny bit of sugar at her without warning, grinning when it dusted her cardigan.

“That’s my flirting,” he added. “In case you were wondering.”

Then he leaned in again, just brushing his nose to her temple.

“And yeah,” he murmured, softer, “you’re home. So I’ll happily stay in the kitchen as long as you’re in it.”

He went back to the bowl, steady and focused, but his eyes kept lifting to her like he couldn’t help it.

“Movie night stakes are high, though,” he added. “So don’t sabotage me with those looks. I need full concentration if I’m gonna earn control of the remote.”

And God—he was smiling the whole time.

Hattie bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too wide.

It didn’t work.

Her heart felt stupidly full—like it was expanding in her chest with every soft flick of his eyes in her direction, every offhand comment that felt a little too sincere, every teasing touch that said you’re mine without needing the words. He didn’t throw things like that around lightly—you’re the only one I ever wanted to be domesticated by—and he probably didn’t even realize how much it was going to live rent-free in her brain for the rest of the week. Maybe longer.

Possibly forever.

She stared at the sugar now clinging to her sleeve and shook her head like she was deeply put-upon. “You know flirting usually involves flowers or compliments, right?” she said dryly, brushing it off with a slow swipe of her hand. “Not sugar assault.”

But her voice was all warmth. Her grin was all trouble.

She stepped closer, leaning into the heat of him just slightly as she looked over the bowl and nodded approvingly. “Butter’s creamed. Sugar’s sweet. Your arms look really good while you stir. I think we’re ready for the next step.”

She handed him the next card from the recipe stack with the self-importance of someone directing a film shoot. “Cocoa powder in next. Level scoop. No clumps. No chaos. You’re adding joy, not making a mudslide.”

She arched a brow at him, lips twitching. “And once that’s in, it’s time to mix the dry and wet like they’ve always belonged together. Gently. Lovingly. Like you’re officiating a very emotional baking wedding.”

Then she stepped back—not far, just enough to hop up onto the edge of the counter and swing one leg over the other, watching him with open amusement.

“This is your moment,” she said, chin resting in her hand. “Show me what you’ve got, Captain Whisk.”

She could feel it radiating off her—love, comfort, mischief. The kind of warmth that came from being exactly where she wanted to be. She didn’t need a remote or a movie or even the brownies anymore.

Just him.

Still, her smile turned sweetly competitive as she added, “Remote rights are on the line, though, so don’t blow it.”

Declan watched her for a second longer than necessary.

Not because he’d forgotten the recipe. Not because he was distracted by the cocoa tin in his hand. But because she was perched there on the counter like she belonged in his kitchen the same way light belonged in a window—easy, natural, already woven into the place.

That look on her face did something to him. The fondness. The challenge. The way she looked at him like this—like he was safe to be ridiculous with. Like he was already winning just by being here.

He snorted softly at sugar assault.

“Hey,” he said, mild but amused, “you didn’t specify a flirting protocol. I’m improv-trained.”

He reached for the cocoa powder, scooping carefully, leveling it with the edge of the measuring cup the way she’d instructed. Deliberate. Focused. Like this mattered—because to him, it did. Not the brownies so much as the way she was watching him. The way her approval came in quiet nods and soft smiles instead of applause.

He tipped the cocoa into the bowl slowly, tapping the cup once, then twice, to make sure it fell clean.

“No clumps,” he reported. “Minimal chaos. Joy levels… moderate but rising.”

He glanced up at her, eyes warm, mouth curved in that familiar, crooked way.

“And I object to the phrase baking wedding,” he added, beginning to stir gently. “This is more of a long-term partnership. Mutual respect. Shared assets. Occasional messes we clean up together.”

He mixed the dry and wet with careful strokes, patient and unhurried, his forearms flexing slightly as he worked. Every now and then his gaze flicked back to her—checking in, reading her face like it was part of the instructions.

“You know,” he said after a beat, quieter now, “this part right here?” He nodded toward the bowl, then subtly toward her. “This is my favorite kind of afternoon.”

He smiled at her again—no teasing this time, just honest.

“No rush. No fixing anything. Just us, making something that didn’t exist before.”

He set the spatula down and stepped closer, placing one hand on the counter beside her knee, the other still faintly dusted with cocoa. Not crowding. Just present.

“And for the record,” he added, voice low and steady, “remote rights aren’t even the prize.”

His thumb brushed lightly against her shin—barely there, grounding.

“I already got what I wanted.”

Then, softer, with that look that said he meant every word:

“You. Here. Happy.”

He leaned back just enough to give her space again, picking up the bowl with a nod toward the oven.

“Alright, Monroe,” he said, mock-serious now. “Next step?”

But the way he was looking at her said he wasn’t going anywhere.

Hattie slid down from the counter like she was stepping into something sacred.

Not the moment itself—there was nothing fragile here. Just warmth. Just him. Just this quiet, steady afternoon that felt a little like a beginning and a little like a memory all at once. Her bare feet touched the floor with a soft thud, and her fingers brushed his cocoa-dusted hand as she reached for the mixing bowl.

“I’ve got it from here,” she said, not bossy, not shy—just hers. A little breathless from how he’d looked at her, how he always looked at her when she wasn’t performing anything at all.

She took the bowl and turned toward the pan they’d set out earlier—greased and waiting, like it had known she’d need something easy and small to feel accomplished by.

The batter was thick and glossy as she poured, slow and careful, the spatula catching the edges while her other hand held the bowl steady. She didn’t rush. Didn’t worry about mess. He’d already told her trying counted.

“I think the joy levels just spiked,” she murmured, half to herself, half to the brownie batter, smirking as she coaxed it into the corners.

Declan hadn’t moved far. She could feel the heat of him just behind her—close enough to sense, not close enough to distract her from her task. Yet.

She set the bowl down once it was empty, then scraped the spatula clean with a few final, satisfying passes. Her lips curved as she licked the edge in the most nonchalant, smug way possible before glancing over her shoulder at him.

“Well?” she asked, eyes bright. “You ready to see if your mutual-respect-long-term-partnership brownies actually live up to the hype?”

She stepped aside to let him admire the handiwork, but didn’t go far. Her hip brushed his, lingering there for just a second longer than necessary before she nudged him gently with her elbow.

“Timer’s yours,” she added, playful but soft now. “You’re on watch duty, Mr. Domestic.”

And God, she liked saying that. Liked him here, in this kitchen, with her elbow in his side and cocoa on both of their hands. It felt easy. Right.

The kind of afternoon she wanted more of.

She crossed to the sink to rinse off the spatula, already humming under her breath, already imagining how good the house was going to smell in a few minutes.

Already planning on using the brownie bowl as an excuse to kiss him senseless.

Declan let out a soft laugh when she slid past him, the sound warm and a little helpless, like he was already done for and didn’t mind one bit. The afternoon light caught in her hair as she moved, turning the loose strands gold, and for a second he just watched her like this was his favorite kind of quiet—ordinary, domestic, full.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, stepping closer as she poured, eyes tracking the glossy batter like it was a miracle in motion. It ribboned thick and dark into the pan, the smell of cocoa already blooming in the warm kitchen air. “I’m emotionally invested now. There’s no backing out.”

He hovered just behind her shoulder, not crowding, just… present. Close enough to feel her warmth, to catch the faint scent of her lotion mixed with sugar and lemon cleaner. His hands rested on the counter, knuckles brushing the edge as he watched the way she coaxed the batter into the corners, careful even when she pretended she wasn’t. It made his chest ache in the best way.

“Look at that,” he murmured, genuinely impressed. “That’s a professional pour if I’ve ever seen one. Real Food Network energy.”

When she licked the spatula and glanced over her shoulder, his eyebrows lifted slowly, a grin spreading across his face like he’d just been handed a gift. His gaze dropped to her mouth for half a second before he caught himself.

“Oh, so that’s how it is?” he teased. “Chef gets first taste privileges?”

He leaned in just a fraction, voice dropping. “Bold move, Monroe.”

Her hip brushed his and he didn’t even pretend not to enjoy it—shifted just enough to keep the contact, elbowing her back gently in response. It was that quiet, unspoken language they’d built—touches that said I’m here without interrupting anything.

“Timer duty,” he repeated, mock-serious. “Copy that.”

He grabbed his phone off the counter, tapping in the time with exaggerated focus like it was a mission-critical operation. The soft click of the screen felt weirdly ceremonial.

“Alright,” he announced, tapping the screen. “Twenty-five minutes. I will guard these brownies with my life.”

He looked at her then—really looked—hands damp from cocoa, sleeves pushed up, hair a little wild, humming like the kitchen was her stage. The sunlight framed her like she belonged right here, like this was exactly where she was meant to be.

And he smiled like he already knew this was going to be good.

“Honestly?” he said, softer now. “I’m stupid excited to see how these turn out.”

Not just the brownies.

Everything.

He leaned over and bumped her shoulder with his, affectionate and easy, letting the contact linger for half a second longer than necessary.

“And if they’re terrible,” he added, smirking, “we’ll eat them anyway and call it character-building.”

He watched her rinse the spatula, the sound of water filling the quiet space, his gaze fond and unguarded. The house felt settled around them—clean counters, warm light, the low hum of the fridge like background music to their afternoon.

“But if they’re amazing,” he continued, “I’m tellin’ everybody I trained you.”

A beat.

“I didn’t,” he admitted quickly, grin crooked. “But I will absolutely take credit.”

He pushed a strand of hair gently behind her ear as she turned back toward him, thumb brushing her cheek in that absent, affectionate way that said more than words ever could.

“Either way,” he added quietly, “I’m proud of you. For trying. For building stuff with me. For… all of this.”

His smile softened, steady and sure.

“Now c’mon,” he said lightly. “We wait. And then we celebrate like champions.”

Hattie laughed under her breath and tipped her head toward him, eyes bright and mischievous.

“Well,” she said, dragging the word just enough to make it a challenge, “if we’re gonna celebrate like champions, we should probably get these brownies in the oven before we get distracted.”

She leaned in and kissed him—quick, soft, just the kind that landed and stayed with you longer than it lasted. A thank-you kiss. A you’re very hard to ignore kiss.

Then she turned back toward the pan.

Declan was already moving. No words. Just muscle memory and quiet attentiveness as he crossed to the oven and pulled the door open for her, one hand steadying it while he stepped back to give her space.

Hattie slid the pan inside carefully, lining it up just right, the heat brushing her face. She could feel him there behind her—solid, warm, utterly dependable. When she straightened, he closed the oven door without a sound, sealing the moment in like a promise.

She turned, lifting one finger to point at him like she was laying down terms.

“Just so we’re clear,” she said lightly, “if these brownies are incredible, you get full credit. I made you do most of the work.”

She tilted her head, smile turning a little smug, a little fond.

“I was busy,” she added, “admiring how unfairly attractive you are while being all focused and domestic. Those arms were doing things for me.”

She dropped her hand and leaned back against the counter, folding her arms loosely, still watching him.

“And if they’re terrible,” she went on, just as cheerfully, “that’s also on you. Because I trusted you.”

A beat. Then softer, teasing warmth layered underneath—

“But I have a good feeling.”

The oven hummed quietly, already at work. The kitchen felt full in that anticipatory way—clean counters, faint cocoa in the air, twenty-five minutes stretching out in front of them with nothing demanding their attention.

Hattie glanced around, then back at him.

“So,” she said, rocking back on her heels. “How do we kill time while we wait?”

Her eyes flicked briefly toward the living room. The couch. The playlist still running low in the background.

She smiled again—easy, settled, deeply in love.

“Because I vote something that involves sitting very close to you and absolutely not being productive.”

Declan watched her like he always did in moments like this—like she was doing something quietly extraordinary instead of something as simple as sliding a pan into the oven. The kiss she gave him lingered on his mouth long after she’d pulled away, soft and grounding, the kind that sank in slow and stayed.

“Yeah,” he murmured, smiling to himself as he shut the oven door. “Distracted’s already a problem.”

When she pointed at him, laying down her very official brownie terms, he lifted both hands in mock surrender, a low laugh rumbling out of his chest. The sound was warm, unguarded—home.

“Alright, alright,” he said. “I accept full responsibility. Glory or blame. I’m a brave man.”

He stepped closer as she leaned back against the counter, closing the space like it was instinct. His hands settled easily at her waist, thumbs brushing along the soft knit of her cardigan, absent-minded but deliberate. Like he needed to touch her just to stay oriented.

“Also,” he added, head tilting slightly, eyes openly appreciative as they moved over her face, “you don’t get to accuse me of being unfairly attractive while domestic and then act surprised when I can’t focus on anything else.”

His smile softened into something slower, more tender.

“And for the record,” he went on quietly, “I did not do most of the work. You built the whole thing. I just… showed up where you told me to stand.”

Which was exactly how he liked it.

When she asked how to kill time, his gaze followed hers toward the living room—the couch still rumpled from earlier, sunlight pooling over the cushions, the low hum of the playlist drifting through the house. He smiled like the answer had never been in question.

“Oh, I’ve got a plan,” he said, voice easy, fond. “Very specific. Very unproductive.”

He nudged her gently away from the counter, arm slipping around her shoulders as he guided her toward the living room. Not rushing. Just steady. Like he wanted to stretch this part out as long as possible.

They reached the couch and he sat first, tugging her down with him so she landed half in his lap, half against his side—exactly where she fit. His arm wrapped around her without thought, hand settling at her hip, fingers warm and sure.

“This,” he said, glancing down at her with that soft, stupidly affectionate look he never tried to hide, “is how we wait.”

He brushed his knuckles along her cheek, pushing a loose strand of hair back behind her ear, thumb lingering there like he forgot what came next.

“We sit too close,” he continued, voice low and content. “We don’t talk about anything important. We maybe argue about what movie we’re not actually gonna watch. And every five minutes, I remind you that I’m extremely excited about brownies you made.”

His forehead tipped gently against hers.

“And also,” he added, quieter now, honest in the way that mattered, “I really like doing nothing with you. Feels like… winning.”

He smiled again, slow and affectionate, holding her like he had nowhere else to be.

“Timer’ll go off when it goes off,” he said. “Until then? You’re mine. Couch rules.”

Hattie let his words settle into her the way warmth did when you stopped bracing against it.

Until then? You’re mine. Couch rules.

It should’ve made her roll her eyes. It did—barely, just enough to count—but the truth was her whole chest softened at the claim anyway. At the way he said it like it was obvious. Like the world could be loud and messy and complicated, and he still wanted the simple part: her tucked into his side, the timer running, nothing urgent between them.

She shifted in his lap until she was settled the way she liked—close enough to feel his breathing, angled so she could look up at him without craning her neck. Her fingers traced the edge of his shirt absent-mindedly, not fidgeting so much as… grounding herself in him.

Then she lifted her chin, eyes bright with that playful certainty she only ever wore with him.

“Okay,” she said, like she was making an official announcement. “First of all—we made brownies. As a team.”

She pointed a finger at his chest, gentle but accusatory, like she was catching him in a lie.

“You don’t get to act like you were just… a helpful kitchen bystander. You measured flour like you were defusing a bomb and whisked like your reputation depended on it.” Her mouth tugged into a grin. “That counts.”

Her gaze flicked—briefly, shamelessly—to his forearms where his sleeves were pushed up earlier, then back to his face. She tried to keep her expression innocent. She failed.

“And second,” she added, voice sugar-sweet, “now that I know you’re good at this? The easy, beginner-friendly era is over.”

A beat.

Not threatening—exactly. Just… promising. Her eyes glittered like she had plans and a printer full of recipe cards.

She softened again, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth—quick, affectionate, like punctuation—before settling her cheek near his shoulder without fully disappearing into him.

“Also,” she said, lighter now, “you said we’re not talking about anything important, so we’re picking a movie. Immediately.”

She shifted just enough to reach for the remote, then paused and looked up at him like she was offering him a very fair selection process.

“I vote You’ve Got Mail,” she said. “Because it’s cozy and you secretly like when I quote it at you.”

Her brows lifted, teasing.

“Or,” she continued, tapping the remote against his chest once, “Knives Out if you want something fun and ridiculous and we can pretend we’re solving the mystery even though we absolutely won’t.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly, like she was considering him as a suspect.

“And if you try to claim you don’t have an opinion,” she warned, softly smug, “I’ll put on When Harry Met Sally and spend the entire movie staring at you like you’re Meg Ryan.”

She let that hang there—sweet and scandalous in the most harmless way—then smiled like she couldn’t help herself.

“Pick,” she said, and her finger drew a lazy little circle on his shirt. “Because I’m comfortable, I’m not moving, and I plan on using you as a blanket until those brownies are done.”

Declan let out a low, warm chuckle when she pointed at his chest, his hand automatically sliding to her waist like it belonged there—because it did. Because she did.

“Hey,” he said softly, mock-offended but smiling, “I was not defusing a bomb. I was respecting the flour. Big difference.”

His thumb traced slow circles against her side, grounding her the same way she grounded him, and he leaned his forehead to hers for a second, breathing her in. Lemon cleaner. Cocoa. Her. Home.

“And yeah,” he admitted quietly, eyes softening, “it counts. It counts because it was with you.”

Her glance at his forearms didn’t go unnoticed. His mouth curved when he caught it, just barely smug.

“You’re not subtle,” he murmured, amused. “But I like that about you.”

When she kissed the corner of his mouth, he turned his head just enough to catch it properly this time—still quick, but warmer. Like he didn’t want to let the moment slip past without honoring it.

“You threaten me with advanced baking levels and recipe cards,” he said, brushing his nose against her hair, “but I know that’s code for we get to keep building stuff together. I’m not scared of it.”

He watched her reach for the remote like it was a sacred object, his eyes following every tiny movement because he always paid attention to her like that. Like she mattered in all the small ways.

“You’ve Got Mail,” he repeated thoughtfully, a fond smile tugging at his lips. “You do quote it at me. And yeah… I secretly love it. Don’t get cocky.”

He pretended to weigh his options like this was a life-altering choice.

“Knives Out is tempting,” he said. “Mostly because you always pick a suspect based on vibes alone.”

Then she dropped the Meg Ryan threat and he laughed outright, head tipping back.

“That’s cruel,” he said, grinning down at her. “Also? I’d survive it. Barely.”

He took the remote from her gently, brushing his thumb across her knuckles as he did.

“You’ve Got Mail,” he decided. “Cozy. Low stakes. Perfect couch energy.”

He shifted them just a little so she was even more settled against him, one arm wrapped fully around her, the other pulling a blanket over her legs like he’d been waiting for permission.

“And blanket duty?” he added quietly. “My favorite job.”

His voice dropped, softer now, meant only for her.

“You being comfortable right here? That’s my whole plan for the night.”

He pressed a kiss into her hair, slow and unhurried.

“Timer can scream all it wants,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Hattie’s smile stayed put—small and pleased and a little smug in the safest way—because of course he picked it. Of course he did.

She didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Not when his thumb was drawing those slow circles at her waist like he was anchoring her on purpose, not when he’d chosen You’ve Got Mail like she hadn’t just successfully curated the exact kind of night her nervous system craved.

So she let herself sink.

She shifted closer until her shoulder tucked more fully into the space beneath his arm, her body finding that familiar pocket against his side where everything in her finally unclenched. His warmth was immediate—solid, steady—and the blanket he’d pulled over her legs made the whole couch feel like it had turned into something private and soft.

The opening credits rolled, and she exhaled like the first few notes alone were a promise.

Declan pressed that kiss into her hair, slow, and she tilted her face just enough that her lips brushed his shirt in an absent little return—barely there, but affectionate.

Then she got comfortable in earnest.

She drew her knees up slightly, tucking herself in tighter, and slid one hand across his stomach like she was claiming her spot the way he claimed her waist. She could feel the quiet rhythm of his breathing under her palm, the steady glide of his thumb at her side, the way his arm held her with that effortless, protective weight that made her feel like she could fall asleep mid-sentence and still be exactly where she belonged when she woke up.

On-screen, Meg Ryan’s voice floated through the living room—warm, familiar.

Hattie’s mouth curved.

She watched for a few seconds like she was savoring the beginning, then her eyes flicked up toward him with that pleased little look she got when she was about to be insufferable in the most loving way.

Right on cue, she murmured along with the movie under her breath, soft and delighted—

“Don’t you love New York in the fall?”

The quote landed with a private kind of satisfaction, like she’d been waiting all day to say it out loud.

She didn’t stop there.

A beat later, she added—quietly, like a secret she was only telling him—

“It makes me want to buy school supplies.”

Her grin widened as if she couldn’t help it, and she tucked her face back toward his chest without fully hiding, letting him see the expression she was wearing—content, teasing, completely in love.

Her fingers traced a slow line across his stomach, then went still, just resting.

She watched the screen again, shoulders soft, breathing even, letting the movie do what it always did—fill the room with something gentle and uncomplicated while his hand kept drawing those circles at her waist like he was making sure she stayed right here.

And she did.

She stayed curled into him, warm under the blanket, eyes half-lidded with comfort, smiling every time she recognized a line before it happened—like she’d found the exact kind of quiet she’d been craving and wasn’t letting go of it for anything.

Declan’s chest lifted with a quiet laugh when she beat Meg Ryan to the line, his gaze dropping to her like he’d just watched something perfectly predictable and somehow still brand new.

“Of course you knew it,” he murmured, voice warm with that soft kind of fondness he only ever used with her. “You’ve got this movie memorized down to the breathing patterns.”

His thumb kept its slow path at her waist, absent-minded but intentional, like he was tracing her there just to reassure himself she was real and right here. The weight of her tucked into his side felt like a promise he didn’t have to say out loud. Like this was the reward at the end of every long day.

When she added the school supplies line, he let out a low chuckle, chin dipping closer to the crown of her head.

“See, this is why I picked it,” he said quietly. “You quoting romantic comedies like it’s your personal brand.”

He shifted just slightly, pulling the blanket higher over her knees when he felt the smallest draft creep in, the motion so automatic it barely registered as a choice. His arm tightened a fraction around her shoulders, not trapping—just anchoring.

“You comfortable?” he asked softly, even though the answer was obvious from the way she’d melted into him like she’d been designed for that exact space.

His eyes flicked to the screen, then back to her again because somehow she was always more interesting than whatever was playing. The faint glow from the TV caught her face just right—soft shadows, familiar lines, the kind of beauty that came from knowing someone inside and out.

“You know,” he added quietly, brushing his lips into her hair again, “this might be my favorite part of the day.”

Not the movie.
Not the couch.
Her.

“Just you, right here,” he continued, voice low and steady. “No alarms, no plans, no anything. Just… us.”

His hand stilled for a second at her waist, then resumed its slow rhythm.

“And if you fall asleep before the third act,” he teased gently, “I’m still gonna sit here and watch it. For research.”

He smiled into her hair, already knowing he’d be watching her more than the screen.

“Go ahead,” he murmured. “Quote the whole thing. I’m not stopping you.”

Because this—
Her warmth.
Her voice.
Her being right here—

This was exactly where he wanted to be.

Hattie’s smile pressed deeper into place at the sound of his laugh—warm and quiet and so him—and she tipped her head just enough to look up at him from where she was tucked into his side.

It wasn’t a dramatic move. She didn’t want to break the comfort spell he’d built around her with that blanket and that arm and those slow circles at her waist.

But she had to see his face when he said it.

Her eyes narrowed playfully, like she was weighing whether to be offended on principle.

“Excuse you,” she said, soft and amused, voice deliberately airy. “It’s not memorized.”

A beat.

“It’s… deeply familiar.” She let the tiniest hint of a smirk pull at her mouth. “There’s a difference.”

She settled back into him again, cheek hovering near his chest but not pressed—just close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough to hear the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Her hand stayed splayed over his stomach like a bookmark, fingers relaxed.

When he tugged the blanket higher over her knees, something in her softened in that quiet, helpless way it always did with him. He did it like second nature. Like taking care of her wasn’t effort, it was instinct.

Her gaze flicked up again.

“You comfortable?” she asked, gentle—because she was, but she wanted him to be too. Wanted his shoulders to unclench, wanted his whole body to remember it was allowed to rest.

Her thumb traced a slow little line where her hand was resting, not fidgety—just affectionate.

Then he said it—my favorite part of the day—and she felt that familiar swell in her chest. Not the loud kind. The steady kind. The kind that made her want to curl into him and never be anywhere else.

She didn’t rush to answer. She just let a pleased little breath out through her nose, like she was collecting the moment.

“It’s my favorite part too,” she admitted finally, voice soft and warm.

She tilted her chin up again, eyes finding his—sweet, attentive, a little mischievous in the way she couldn’t quite turn off even when she was comfortable.

“And I’m not falling asleep,” she added, like she was clarifying something important to the court. “I have… plans.”

She let that hang there for just long enough to land—nothing overt, nothing too obvious. Just the promise in her eyes and the way her voice dipped a fraction on the word.

“Plans that include eating those brownies,” she continued, the smile back, bright and pleased, “in… what, twenty minutes? Once they’re done and cooled. And cuddling with you. And watching one of my favorite movies.”

Her fingers flexed once on his stomach, a tiny squeeze—content, claiming.

Then she tipped her head, serious for half a second.

“But,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him like she was about to set a rule, “if I do fall asleep? You have to promise you’ll wake me up after half an hour.”

Her mouth softened into a small, earnest grin.

“Only a nap,” she insisted, like she knew herself too well. “If I actually fall asleep-fall asleep, I’ll be up all night, and then tomorrow I’ll be insufferable, and you’ll deserve financial compensation.”

She shifted again—just a little—tucking herself more securely into his side as if she could get even more comfortable without losing the thread of her determination.

Her hand stayed right where it was, warm on him. Her voice stayed soft.

“Promise?”

Declan’s eyes softened the second she asked if he was comfortable.

It always got him—how she checked in on him even when she was the one curled up, the one being tucked in and cared for. He shifted just slightly, settling deeper into the couch so she could feel it.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m good. Real good.”

His hand slowed at her waist, thumb pressing just a little more deliberately, like he wanted her to feel the answer instead of just hear it. He leaned down and brushed a kiss into her hair again, the kind that lingered a second too long to be accidental.

“You fit here,” he murmured. “Like you were built for this spot.”

When she said it was her favorite part too, his chest swelled in that quiet, grounding way—no show, just truth. He rested his cheek lightly against her head, eyes flicking to the screen and then right back to her.

“Yeah?” he teased softly. “Good. Means I picked the right couch rules.”

Her “plans” made him grin. Not cocky—just pleased. Like he already knew exactly what she meant and loved her for it anyway.

“Brownies, cuddling, and Meg Ryan?” he said. “That’s a dangerous combination, Monroe.”

When she squeezed his stomach, he laughed under his breath and gently trapped her hand there, lacing his fingers through hers.

“Don’t move,” he added. “You’re legally stuck.”

Then she got serious about the nap rule, and he listened—really listened—eyes steady on her face, thumb brushing slow circles over her knuckles.

“I promise,” he said easily. “Thirty minutes. I’ll wake you up gentle. No drama.”

A beat, then softer—

“Probably with a brownie bribe.”

He shifted just enough to pull the blanket a little higher around her shoulders, protective and tender in that way he never made a big deal about.

“And for the record,” he added quietly, looking down at her like she was the only thing in the room that mattered, “you being insufferable tomorrow sounds… kind of perfect.”

His smile turned warm and stupid and very much in love.

“Deal?”

Hattie felt his “yeah” more than she heard it.

It settled into her the same way his hand did—slow, steady, certain—like the answer wasn’t just words, it was a whole-body exhale. She let herself relax another notch into him, melting closer until her ribs fit the line of his side like they’d been doing it forever.

His kiss landed in her hair and stayed a beat too long, and her mouth curved even before he finished the thought. You fit here.

Of course she did. He’d made sure of it. With the blanket. With the arm around her. With the way his thumb kept drawing those unhurried circles at her waist like he was anchoring her on purpose.

She didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Not when he was holding her like this and looking at her like this and making it feel so easy to exist.

When he teased her about couch rules, she made a soft, pleased little sound—half laugh, half hum—and tipped her chin up just enough to glance at him.

“You did,” she said quietly, smug in the sweetest way. “You picked the right rules.”

His grin at her “plans” made her want to kiss it off his face, but she didn’t—she just let the warmth of it wash over her, let herself enjoy how much he liked her liking him.

Then he trapped her hand there and laced their fingers together.

Hattie’s eyes flicked down to their hands like it was a magic trick. Like it would never stop making her chest feel full.

“Legally stuck,” she repeated, amused, and she squeezed his fingers back. “Finally. I’ve been trying to pass that law for months.”

His promise—thirty minutes, gentle, no drama—made her soften. Not because she doubted him. She never did. But because he listened like her weird little brain habits mattered. Like her sleepiness rules were serious business.

When he mentioned a brownie bribe, her smile went lazy and pleased.

“Mm,” she murmured, letting her head fall back into the crook of his shoulder again. “That’s unethical.”

Then he said she sounded perfect even if she was insufferable, and she let out a quiet laugh that warmed the space between them.

“Deal,” she whispered, and she tipped her face up just enough to press a quick kiss to the underside of his jaw—soft, familiar, like punctuation.

After that, she settled back down, letting herself be held. The movie played on, the glow from the TV washing over the living room in gentle pulses. Hattie watched with the kind of content focus she only ever managed when she was wrapped up in him—safe spot, favorite spot, nervous system finally quiet.

A line came on-screen and she couldn’t help it.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, already smiling. Then, with a pleased little shake of her head, she quoted along under her breath, timing it perfectly like she always did.

She felt him move above her—barely anything, just the tiniest shift that told her he heard and didn’t mind one bit.

Hattie smiled into the blanket.

Another minute passed. Then another.

She kept watching. Kept quoting the ones she loved, soft and low, like she was telling him a secret even though she’d told him all of them before. Her fingers stayed threaded with his, her thumb making lazy little strokes over his knuckle without thinking.

And then, despite herself—despite the brownies still baking in the oven and her grand plans and the fact that she’d just sworn she wasn’t falling asleep—her eyelids got heavy.

It always happened like this.

Not because she was bored.

Because she was comfortable. Because she was warm. Because being tucked into Declan’s chest flipped some switch in her that said you can rest now, I’ve got you.

Her blinks slowed.

She fought it for a moment, stubborn on principle, eyes trying to stay open through sheer willpower.

But his thumb kept tracing those circles at her waist, and his arm stayed sure around her, and the movie’s familiar cadence turned into something soothing and far away.

Hattie’s last coherent thought was a tiny, pleased one—he better wake me up in thirty minutes—and then she drifted, the corners of her mouth still lifted, still safe, still held.

Declan noticed the moment it happened.

Not when her eyes finally closed—but before that. The slowed blinks. The way her breathing shifted, deeper and heavier against his chest. The way her thumb stuttered once on his knuckle and then went still, like her body had quietly decided it trusted him to take over from here.

He didn’t move right away.

Just leaned his head gently against hers, cheek resting in her hair, breathing her in like it was the most natural thing in the world. Lemon cleaner. Cocoa. Her shampoo. Home. All of it settling together until his chest felt full in that steady, grounded way that never asked for more than what he already had.

He adjusted the blanket first—slow, careful, not wanting to jostle her—tucking it a little higher around her shoulders. His arm tightened just enough to keep her close, protective without being restrictive, like he was drawing a quiet boundary around the space she occupied.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, so softly it was more breath than sound.

He stayed still after that. Let the movie play. Let her sleep.

When she quoted lines half-asleep earlier, he’d smiled to himself—hadn’t said a word, just let her have it, let her be exactly who she was. Now, watching her like this, mouth curved faintly, body relaxed in a way it never was anywhere else, something in him eased even further.

He traced those familiar circles at her waist again, slower now, more deliberate. A grounding rhythm. Not to wake her—never that—but to stay connected. To listen to the rise and fall of her breath and match it without thinking.

The timer on the oven ticked quietly in the background.

He checked it without moving his arm, just shifting his eyes. Still time.

Good.

He pressed a kiss into her hair again, lingering this time, and whispered against her crown, “Just a nap. I’ll wake you.”

Not because she could hear him.

Because he meant it.

Declan stayed exactly where he was, couch creaking softly beneath them, the TV glow flickering across the room. He watched the movie with half an eye, but most of his attention stayed right here—on the woman asleep against his chest, on the weight of her trust, on the quiet privilege of being the place she rested.

Every so often, he adjusted his thumb. Shifted his grip. Made sure she was warm.

Listening.

Waiting.

Holding her like it was the easiest promise he’d ever kept.

Hattie’s world softened in layers.

The movie’s voices blurred into something distant and familiar, like sound traveling through warm water. The steady thump of Declan’s heart beneath her cheek—closer, louder than anything on the screen—became the soundtrack her body trusted most. Even the tiny flicker of light from the TV turned gentle on the backs of her eyelids, a slow, pulsing glow that felt more like a nightlight than a distraction.

She drifted deeper.

And in that deep, sweet pocket of sleep where the mind gets brave, Hattie dreamed.

Not a big, cinematic dream—no sharp edges, no panic. Just… impressions. Warmth. The scent of cocoa. Declan’s hand at her waist, thumb drawing those endless circles like a lullaby. In her dream, she was smaller still, curled up against something solid and safe while snow pressed softly against the windows, the house wrapped in quiet. There were brownies somewhere in the dream too—always almost done, always promising—like the idea of them mattered more than the taste.

She dreamed of his arms.

Of the way he always made room for her without making her ask.

A little smile tugged at her mouth, even asleep, like she’d heard something sweet in the distance and didn’t want to wake enough to explain it.

The timer went off.

A sharp, insistent beep—too loud for the soft world she’d been floating in.

In the dream, it turned into something else: a bell in a shop door, a distant alarm clock in a house that wasn’t theirs, the kind of sound you hear and immediately decide not yet. Her brows pinched faintly in protest, and she burrowed closer by instinct—closer to warmth, closer to steady.

Declan moved carefully beneath her.

Hattie didn’t wake all at once. She surfaced in slow increments, the way she always did when he was holding her—reluctant, heavy-limbed, convinced she had a few more minutes because she was safe enough to take them.

She felt him shift his arm, felt the couch give a quiet creak, felt the blanket slide and then settle again. Her body responded automatically, like it recognized the change and decided to cooperate before her brain had fully joined the conversation.

A sleepy sound left her—barely more than a hum—and her fingers tightened once around his hand before loosening again.

The room came back piece by piece.

The warm dimness. The TV glow. The faint smell of chocolate now that it had been baking a while.

And Declan—still right there, moving her like she was precious cargo.

He didn’t jostle her. Didn’t do the clumsy, obvious shift that would fully wake her. He just adjusted her with quiet precision, easing her off his chest and deeper into the couch so she was supported by cushions instead of him. He tucked her closer to the backrest, guiding her shoulder into place, pulling the blanket up again so it stayed around her without slipping.

Hattie blinked once.

Then again.

Her lashes felt heavy, her eyes only half opening, the couch suddenly very comfortable in a new way—like she’d been transferred from one safe spot to another.

She heard the timer still beeping, muffled now, like it was happening in another room. She also registered the absence of his chest under her cheek and didn’t like it, even in her sleep-fog.

Her hand drifted out, searching.

Not dramatic. Just instinct.

A small, sleepy frown formed as her fingers met air.

Then she felt him—his hand catching hers, steadying it, giving her something to hold even as he shifted his weight to stand.

Her eyes opened a little more at that, hazy and slow.

“Mm…” she breathed, voice thick with sleep, more sound than language—an unconscious don’t go far.

She didn’t sit up. Didn’t fight him.

She just watched, blinking, as he carefully eased free, still keeping her hand in his until the last possible second. The couch dipped and then lifted as his weight left it, and her body sank into the cushions with the blanket tucked around her like he’d wrapped the whole room tight.

Hattie’s gaze tracked him, unfocused but devoted.

The timer kept insisting.

She let her eyes drift shut again for a heartbeat—only a heartbeat—then opened them just enough to watch him head toward the kitchen, her fingers curling lightly into the blanket where his hand had been.

Still half asleep.

Still dreaming around the edges.

But waking, slowly, because he’d moved—and because some part of her always wanted to be awake when he was doing something for them.

The beep snapped him out of the softness like a switch flipping.

Declan’s whole posture changed in an instant.

Not rushed. Not panicked. Just… focused.

Firehouse brain kicked in the same way it always did—clean, efficient, already mapping the steps before his feet even moved. He gently slipped his hand from hers, making sure the blanket stayed tucked around her, and leaned down to brush a quick, reassuring kiss into her hair.

“Got it,” he murmured, soft enough that it felt like a promise more than an announcement.

Then he was up.

Long strides across the living room, bare feet quiet against the floor, body moving with that familiar purposeful grace. He reached the kitchen in seconds, silenced the timer with one firm press, and immediately bent to peer through the oven window like he was assessing a scene.

Brownies. Rising. Edges pulling just right.

“Look at you,” he muttered under his breath, impressed like they were tiny overachievers.

He grabbed an oven mitt, tested the pan with a careful touch, then slid it out just far enough to check the center with a toothpick. Clean. Just a hint of crumb.

Perfect.

He straightened, a grin tugging at his mouth, and glanced back toward the couch automatically.

She was watching him.

Half-lidded. Sleep-soft. Still wrapped up in the blanket he’d tucked around her.

That look alone made his chest tighten.

“Hey,” he called gently, not wanting to startle her but needing her to hear. “Rescue mission successful.”

He set the pan on the stovetop, resting it on a trivet like he’d been trained for brownie emergencies specifically. Steam curled up into the air, rich and chocolatey, and he inhaled like it was victory.

Then he leaned against the counter for a second, eyes still on her.

“You awake, Monroe?” he asked quietly, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear her voice. “Or am I interruptin’ a very important dream?”

His hands stayed braced on the counter, but his body angled toward her, ready to go back the second she made a sound. Like no matter what mode he snapped into, she was still the priority.

Firefighter instincts.

Boyfriend heart.

Both locked in at the same time.

Hattie blinked slowly, the room coming back into focus in soft pieces—warm light, the hum of the oven fan winding down, Declan leaning against the counter like he belonged there as much as he did everywhere else.

She was still half in the dream.

Still wrapped in that heavy, syrupy comfort that only happened when she fell asleep on him.

Her fingers flexed against the blanket he’d tucked around her, the echo of his warmth lingering like her body hadn’t quite forgiven him for moving. She watched him for a second without speaking, eyes sleepy and fond, taking in the way he stood there: focused but relaxed now, shoulders easy, mouth curved with quiet pride.

Brownie hero.

Her lips curved into a small, pleased smile.

“M’awake,” she said finally, voice low and soft with sleep, vowels blurred together in that way that always gave her away. “Just… transitioning.”

She shifted on the couch, not sitting up yet—just rolling enough to prop her cheek against the back cushion, blanket still snug around her shoulders. Her gaze never left him.

“What was I dreaming about?” she murmured, squinting thoughtfully like she might catch it if she tried hard enough. “You. Obviously. And brownies. Possibly snow? It was very… cozy-coded.”

Her eyes drifted shut for a second, then opened again when the smell hit her properly—warm chocolate, rich and sweet, threading through the room like a promise.

That did it.

She pushed herself up just a little, enough to be more awake than asleep, still wrapped in the blanket like she had no intention of giving it back.

“Did we win?” she asked, already knowing the answer by the way he was standing. By the way he’d said successful like it meant something. “Because I feel like we won.”

Her gaze dropped briefly—to the pan on the stovetop, steam still curling—then lifted back to him, softer now.

“You woke me up real gentle,” she added, quieter. Not a complaint. A thank-you. The kind she didn’t always say outright.

She stretched her feet toward the floor but didn’t stand yet, blinking the last of the sleep from her eyes.

“How long was I out?” she asked, a hint of a smile tugging at her mouth. “And be honest… did I quote the movie in my sleep?”

Her eyes crinkled with sleepy amusement as she held his gaze, warmth spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with brownies.

Still safe.
Still comfortable.
Still exactly where she wanted to be.