Hattie stared at the trash can like her brain couldn’t quite accept what her eyes had just watched happen.

The sound of glass clinking—petals crushed—still rang in the back of her skull like a punctuation mark she hadn’t seen coming.

It wasn’t dramatic. That was the thing.

Declan hadn’t made a show of it. He hadn’t raised his voice or stormed or looked around to see who noticed. He’d just… handled it. The way he handled everything that mattered. Like it was simple. Like it was obvious.

Like Madison Hart didn’t get to leave anything behind in their space.

Hattie’s throat tightened anyway, but it wasn’t the sharp, embarrassed kind from earlier. It was different now. Softer. Hotter behind her eyes. The kind that came when you realized someone had you so completely they could read what you hadn’t said and answer it anyway.

She heard her name—gentle, low—and felt the distance close as he leaned in. Even the way he did that was careful, like he was making sure she didn’t feel cornered. Like he was offering closeness, not forcing it.

Look at me.

Hattie’s lashes fluttered once. Twice. Her gaze had been stuck on the edge of her monitor, on the neat lines of her desk, on anything that felt controllable.

But Declan was right there. Steady. Present. The only thing in the room that actually mattered.

So she looked.

And the second she met his eyes, something inside her gave way—not in a collapse, not in a spiral. Just in the quiet surrender of being seen.

He wasn’t angry.

He wasn’t jealous.

He wasn’t shaken.

He was worried.

Worried in that grounding way that always made Hattie feel both held and gently called out. Like he refused to let her disappear on him, not because he needed her to perform okayness, but because he wanted her with him.

When he said he didn’t care what Madison said or brought, Hattie believed him. Not because it sounded nice, but because he’d already proven it in the simplest, cleanest way possible.

And when he said he cared about what she just felt—

Hattie’s mouth parted like she might speak immediately.

Nothing came out.

Because it wasn’t jealousy that had swallowed her earlier. Not really. It had been that awful, disorienting snap-back into an old skin—into a version of herself she hadn’t worn in years. The one who got shoved aside by girls like Madison. The one who learned to survive by making herself smaller.

She hated that she still had that in her.

She hated that Madison could walk in and find it with one sentence.

Declan moved to the chair beside her desk, lowering himself so he wasn’t looming, so he was right there level with her. And when his hand covered hers on the desk—warm, solid—Hattie felt the last of her resistance unravel.

It was such a simple touch.

But it reminded her what was real.

I can handle them.

Her feelings.

Her mess.

Her bruises.

Hattie swallowed hard, her thumb shifting under his palm in a tiny motion that was half a flinch, half a reach.

“I know,” she managed finally, voice quiet. Not brittle. Just small from disuse. “I know you can.”

She drew a slow breath through her nose, trying to steady the ridiculous wetness building behind her eyes.

“I’m not—” Hattie started, then stopped, because she wasn’t going to lie to him. Not after what he’d just done. Not after the way he was looking at her like honesty was the only thing he wanted.

She tried again.

“I’m not competing with her,” she said, more firmly this time. The words came out as a truth she needed to hear out loud. “I know I’m not. I know you’re not… looking for something.”

Her gaze flicked, just for a second, toward the trash can.

Then back to him.

“It just…” Hattie’s throat tightened again, and she huffed a quiet breath like she was annoyed at herself. “It hit me so fast. Seeing her. Hearing her voice. That smile.”

Her fingers curled under his hand, holding on now.

“It made me feel sixteen again,” she admitted, and the confession landed heavy and honest between them. “Like I was back in school and she was…” She didn’t even have to finish it. Declan already knew. He’d known the moment her shoulders went still.

Hattie’s mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“She didn’t even have to say anything big,” she added, quieter. “It was just—one of those little comments. The kind you can’t prove. The kind that sounds normal if you repeat it later, but you know exactly what it means when it’s said to you.”

She blinked hard once, refusing to let the tears fall. Not because she was ashamed—just because she didn’t want Madison Hart to get that kind of power.

Hattie shifted in her chair, turning a little more toward Declan, letting herself face him fully instead of hiding behind her desk.

“I hate that it worked,” she whispered, jaw tight with frustration. “I hate that she can still… reach that version of me.”

A beat.

Then, softer. Realer.

“And I hate that my first instinct was to shut down instead of just—” she made a small motion with her free hand, like she was gesturing at the obvious. You. “—instead of just letting you be here.”

Her eyes searched his face, as if she needed to confirm he wasn’t disappointed in her for it.

“I’m sorry,” Hattie said, immediately regretting the apology because he’d told her not to protect him from her feelings and she’d gone and tried to make herself smaller again anyway.

She tightened her fingers around his.

“I’m here,” she corrected, like a promise to herself as much as to him. “I’m talking. I’m… trying.”

Her voice dipped, barely above the hum of the station.

“It didn’t make me doubt you,” she said, holding his gaze. “It just made me feel… embarrassed. Like I was suddenly back in a place where she got to decide I was small.”

Hattie’s breath shuddered, and then she exhaled slowly.

“But she doesn’t,” she whispered, and there was something stubborn in it now. Something like Hattie coming back to herself. “She doesn’t get to decide that anymore.”

Her thumb brushed lightly under Declan’s palm.

“And she definitely doesn’t get to leave flowers on my desk.”

Declan didn’t interrupt her once.

He stayed exactly where he was—close, grounded, listening with the kind of attention that wasn’t about waiting for his turn to speak. His thumb stayed warm over her hand, steady, anchoring, like he was reminding her without words: I’m still here. You didn’t lose me.

When she said sixteen again, something in his chest tightened—not anger, not jealousy, but a deep, protective ache. Not for the past. For her, having carried that version of herself longer than she ever should’ve had to.

“Hattie,” he said softly, saying her name like it was a reassurance all by itself.

He leaned just a little closer, not crowding, not forcing—just enough that she didn’t feel alone with the memory.

“You don’t need to apologize,” he told her gently. “Not for this. Not for shutting down. Not for needing a second to find your footing.”

His eyes stayed on hers, open and honest and unshaken.

“That wasn’t weakness,” he continued. “That was your nervous system recognizing an old threat and trying to protect you the way it learned to.”

A beat.

“And it makes sense,” he added. “You didn’t imagine it. People like her… they get very good at hurting without leaving fingerprints.”

When she said she hated that it worked—that Madison could still reach that old version of her—Declan shook his head slowly, a quiet refusal of the premise.

“She didn’t reach you,” he said, firm but kind. “She brushed up against a scar that was already there.”

His thumb moved then, slow and deliberate, brushing a small circle over her knuckles—grounding, affectionate.

“And scars don’t mean you’re still wounded,” he said. “They mean you healed once. They mean you survived.”

When she said she doesn’t get to decide that anymore, something unmistakably proud flickered across his face. Not loud. Not showy. Just solid.

“No,” he agreed quietly. “She doesn’t.”

He squeezed her hand—not tight, just present.

“And she doesn’t get to rewrite who you are now,” he went on. “She doesn’t get to pretend you’re background noise in your own life.”

His gaze softened, affectionate in a way that was unmistakably personal.

“You’re not small,” Declan said. “You never were. You were just surrounded by people who needed you to be so they could feel bigger.”

He let that sit for a moment, then added, quieter—more intimate—

“And you don’t have to go back there. Not ever. Not with me.”

When she corrected herself—I’m here. I’m talking. I’m trying.—his mouth curved into the faintest smile. Not amused. Relieved.

“I know,” he said. “And you’re doing great.”

Then, gently teasing, because she needed it too—

“You don’t have to be perfect at it,” he added. “You just have to let me sit with you while you sort it out.”

When she said it didn’t make her doubt him—just made her feel embarrassed—his expression turned even softer, like he wished he could take that feeling off her entirely.

“There’s nothing embarrassing about being human,” he said. “Or about old wounds flaring up when someone pokes them on purpose.”

A pause.

“And for the record,” he added, voice low and warm, “anybody who thinks they can walk into a room you’re in and make you feel small again is deeply mistaken.”

His eyes flicked—just briefly—to the trash can. Then back to her.

“And no,” he said, a hint of quiet humor threading through the affection now, “she definitely doesn’t get to leave flowers on your desk.”

He shifted closer in the chair, shoulder brushing hers now—intentional, grounding.

“You’re allowed to take up space,” Declan said. “You’re allowed to feel things. And you’re allowed to lean on me when the past gets loud.”

His voice softened even more.

“That’s not a burden,” he told her. “That’s part of being with you.”

He gave her hand one more gentle squeeze.

“I’ve got you,” Declan said simply. “Today. Then. Now. All of it.”

And he meant it—not as reassurance spoken in the moment, but as a fact he lived by.

Hattie felt her body react before her brain did—the tiniest, involuntary loosening, like her shoulders had been braced for impact and only now realized the hit wasn’t coming.

Because Declan wasn’t coming at her with impatience or problem-solving or that stiff kind of reassurance people offered when they wanted you to hurry up and be okay again.

He was just… with her.

Close. Steady. Listening like it mattered because it was her.

When he said her name—soft, careful—something in her chest pinched. Not painful, exactly. Just full. Like she didn’t have enough room inside herself for how much she loved him in that moment.

You don’t need to apologize.

Hattie swallowed, and for the first time since Madison walked in, she felt her eyes burn for a reason that wasn’t shame.

He was right. Every word of it.

The nervous system part. The scars. The fingerprints. The stupid, lingering survival instincts that were still trying to protect the version of her that didn’t have anyone protecting her back then.

She hated that she needed it said out loud to believe it.

But she did.

And he was saying it anyway.

When he told her she was never small—just surrounded by people who needed her to be—Hattie’s breath caught in her throat. Her free hand lifted before she thought about it, fingers pressing lightly against her own sternum like she was trying to keep that sentence from sliding right through her.

Because it hit somewhere old.

A place she didn’t talk about much. A place she’d convinced herself didn’t matter anymore because she’d grown up and gotten out and built a life.

But Declan looked at her like all of it mattered. Like he saw the full timeline of her and didn’t flinch at any part of it.

She blinked hard once, then let out a small, shaky breath that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t so close to tears.

“God,” Hattie murmured, voice quiet. “You’re… really good at this.”

It was half accusation, half awe.

Her thumb shifted beneath his, tracing the edge of his hand like she needed to keep contact with something real.

When he said she didn’t have to go back there—not ever, not with him—Hattie felt something settle. Something that had been vibrating under her skin since Madison walked out.

A kind of certainty.

Not the dramatic kind. The lived-in kind. The kind that came from a man who didn’t just say things—he did them. Like dropping the flowers in the trash had been as natural as breathing.

Hattie looked at him for a long second.

Then she nodded—slow this time. Deliberate.

“I know,” she whispered, repeating it back like she was teaching it to herself. “I know I don’t.”

Her mouth pulled into the faintest smile, soft at the corners.

“It just…” she exhaled, and her shoulders rose and fell like she was shaking off something she didn’t want clinging to her. “It made me feel stupid. For a second. Like my brain forgot where I am now.”

She glanced toward the trash can again, then back to Declan. The sight of it—gone, handled, done—made warmth rush through her in a way that almost embarrassed her, because it shouldn’t have meant so much.

But it did.

Because nobody had ever done that for sixteen-year-old Hattie.

Nobody had ever taken the thing that made her feel small and thrown it away like it was nothing.

Hattie’s voice softened.

“Thank you,” she said simply.

Not for the flowers. Not for the line he held. Not even for the words.

For the fact he’d chosen her so quickly it hadn’t even been a choice.

She swallowed again, then—because she couldn’t help it—she lifted their joined hands slightly and pressed a quick kiss to his knuckles. A small, instinctive act of affection that felt like reclaiming her own steadiness.

Then she let her forehead tip toward his shoulder for a brief second—just a brush, just a moment.

“I don’t want to be quiet with you,” she admitted, voice low. “I just… sometimes my body does it before I can stop it.”

She drew back enough to look at him again. Her eyes were clear now—still tender, but not lost.

“And I’m not going to let her make me feel like I have to—” Hattie gestured vaguely, like she was erasing something in the air. “—shrink. Not here. Not in your station. Not in my life.”

A beat.

Her expression sharpened, not cruel—just sure. Hattie coming back online.

“But I will say,” she added, voice dry, “the audacity of dropping a vase on my desk like I’m her personal assistant? That part? I might actually commit a misdemeanor over.”

The humor wasn’t a deflection so much as a pressure release. A way to prove she could breathe again.

She squeezed his hand, firm and present.

“And if she comes back,” Hattie continued, tone calmer but edged with resolve, “I’m not doing the polite frozen thing. I’m not giving her that.”

Her brows lifted slightly.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to manage it, either,” she said, honest. “I’m not asking you to fix it. I just… I want to be on the same page.”

She paused, then let the real truth surface—quiet and unpretty.

“It scared me how fast it took me back,” she confessed. “Not because of her—because of what it reminded me I used to believe about myself.”

Her fingers tightened around his.

“But you’re right,” she said softly. “That’s not who I am anymore.”

Another beat, and then her mouth curved—small, genuine.

“And… I like you seeing me,” Hattie admitted, quieter. “Even when it’s messy. Especially then.”

Her thumb brushed once more over his knuckles—grounding herself the way he’d grounded her.

“I’m okay,” she said again, but this time it wasn’t a lie. “Now I am.”

And she held his gaze like a choice. Like she wasn’t letting the past yank her away from the present ever again.

Declan listened all the way through.

He didn’t cut in when her voice wavered, didn’t rush to reassure when her eyes burned, didn’t steal the moment by trying to fix it faster than it needed to be fixed. He stayed exactly where he was—hand warm over hers, shoulder close enough to lean into—letting her say it in her own order.

When she kissed his knuckles, something quiet shifted in his expression. Not surprise. Recognition. Like that small, instinctive tenderness landed right where it was meant to.

“Hey,” he said softly when she finished, voice low and steady, the way it always was when he meant it. “Thank you for telling me.”

Not it’s okay.
Not don’t worry about it.

Thank you.

He turned his hand slightly so their fingers threaded more securely, grounding them together instead of just touching.

“You’re not stupid,” Declan said gently. “And you didn’t forget who you are.”

He leaned in a fraction, forehead nearly touching hers now, close enough that the rest of the station faded out.

“You recognized an old pattern,” he continued. “And your body reacted before your brain caught up. That’s not weakness—that’s history.”

A beat.

“And the fact that you noticed it?” His thumb brushed once, slow and reassuring, over her hand. “That’s growth.”

When she thanked him—really thanked him—his jaw tightened just a little, not with discomfort, but with something like resolve.

“You don’t owe me thanks for choosing you,” he said quietly. “That part’s not effort. That’s just… how I am with you.”

He let that sit, then added, warmer now:

“And for the record? Sixteen-year-old you deserved someone to throw the damn vase away too.”

The humor crept in gently when she joked about committing a misdemeanor, a corner of his mouth lifting.

“I would’ve backed you up,” he said dryly. “As a witness. Possibly as an accessory.”

But when she talked about not shrinking—about not freezing again—his attention sharpened, receptive and serious.

“I’m glad you said that,” he told her. “Because I don’t want to manage you. I want to stand next to you.”

He nodded once, deliberate.

“We’re on the same page,” Declan said. “If she comes back, you don’t owe her politeness. And you don’t owe me silence.”

When she admitted what scared her—the speed of the pull back into old beliefs—his gaze softened even more.

“That makes sense,” he said. “Those beliefs didn’t disappear overnight. They just stopped being true.”

He leaned in then, resting his forehead lightly against hers for a second—no rush, no pressure—just contact.

“And you’re right,” he murmured. “That’s not who you are anymore.”

When she said she liked him seeing her—even messy—he didn’t hesitate.

“I like being trusted with that,” Declan said. “I like knowing all of you. Not just the parts that feel put together.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her properly, eyes steady, affectionate, unshaken.

“You don’t have to be okay fast with me,” he added. “You don’t have to be strong first. You can just be honest.”

His thumb brushed her knuckles one last time, grounding.

“And I believe you,” he said quietly. “You are okay. And if it flares up again someday? I’ll be here for that too.”

No drama.
No big promise.

Just truth.

He stayed close, holding her gaze like a choice too—one he wasn’t letting go of.

Hattie felt the last of the tightness in her chest loosen—slowly, like a knot she’d been picking at finally giving up.

Declan didn’t make her sprint back to normal. He didn’t try to fix her feelings like they were a problem to solve. He just… held her there. With his hand over hers, with his forehead to hers, with his voice steady enough to lean on.

And God, she loved him for it.

Loved him in that bone-deep way that wasn’t soft or fragile—it was certain. Like a truth she didn’t have to argue herself into.

The old shame was still there in the background, but it wasn’t running the show anymore. Not with him looking at her like that. Not with him reminding her, without even trying, that she didn’t have to disappear to be safe.

Hattie blinked once, then let out a small breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh—quiet, a little disbelieving, a little warmed through.

“Okay,” she said, like she was testing the word. Like she was trying it on again to see if it fit.

It did.

She tipped her head slightly, eyes flicking down to their hands and then back up to his face. The station noise had returned—distant, normal, background—but she stayed right here with him, still caught in that pocket of closeness he’d made for her.

“You know,” she murmured, and there it was—the faint edge of her again. Not sharp. Not defensive. Just… Hattie. “Throwing an entire vase away was… aggressively boyfriend of you.”

Her mouth curved. A real smile this time, small but unmistakably backlit with mischief.

Like the part of her that liked to poke at him had finally found oxygen.

She squeezed his hand under his palm, a little squeeze that said I’m okay enough to be annoying again.

“And I’m not saying I’m keeping score,” she continued, tone light, but her eyes gave her away—adoring, amused, safe. “But if we’re being honest, that was kind of hot.”

The words landed with just enough bratty confidence to feel like a reclaiming.

Like she was choosing her footing on purpose.

Hattie leaned in a fraction, still close, not kissing him—just letting him feel her presence in that deliberate way she had when she was trying to remind both of them who she was.

“Also,” she added, brows lifting slightly, “thank you for the note about sixteen-year-old me.”

Her expression softened for half a beat—something tender flickering through the humor.

Then the warmth came back, brighter.

“Because I’m pretty sure sixteen-year-old me is currently standing behind my shoulder like…,” she made a tiny gesture with her free hand, as if miming a teen girl clutching a binder, “did that man just commit emotional arson on my behalf?”

Hattie’s smile widened, the bratty charm sliding back into place like a familiar jacket.

She tilted her head and glanced, pointedly, toward the trash can. The wreckage was still there, out of sight but not out of mind.

“So,” she said, voice sweet in a way that was absolutely not innocent, “if Madison Hart comes back, what’s the station policy? Do we have a special bin for delusions or…?”

Her eyes returned to Declan’s, shining now—confidence rebuilding itself in real time, because she could feel him next to her, not ahead of her. Not managing. Just with.

She drew in a breath, then let it out through her nose, steadying.

“But seriously,” she said, quieter, still playful but more grounded, “thank you for not letting me go quiet in there.”

She squeezed his hand again, then gently pulled her other hand free—finally trusting that she wasn’t going to fall apart the second she wasn’t holding onto him.

Her shoulders rolled back a fraction. Not stiff. Not forced. Just… returning.

“I’m good,” she said, and this time it sounded true. “Not ‘fine.’ Good.”

Her eyes flicked briefly down the hallway, like she was recalibrating back into the station, back into the day.

Then she looked back at him, that familiar, slightly bossy sparkle starting to surface.

“Now,” she added, a touch of command sliding into her tone—playful, affectionate, all Hattie, “since you just threw away a perfectly good vase like some kind of morally upright Viking—”

She leaned in closer again, like she was about to share classified information.

“—you’re going to walk with me to the supply closet. Because I need a new pen box, and I would like your large, intimidating presence beside me while I reassert my dominance over the lobby.”

Her mouth curved into a grin.

“And if anyone asks,” she said, eyes flicking to his, daring, warm, “you’re my accessory.”

Declan’s mouth curved before he even answered—slow, fond, unmistakably relieved.

He watched her come back to herself in real time: the shoulders settling, the spark returning, the way her humor slid back into place like it had never really left—just been waiting for permission to breathe again.

“Okay,” he echoed softly, like he was agreeing to something sacred. “Yeah. That fits.”

When she called the vase thing aggressively boyfriend, he huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head once.

“I panicked,” he admitted easily. “Saw a problem. Removed the problem. Very advanced emotional skillset.”

Her squeeze landed exactly where she meant it to, and when she called it hot, his brows lifted just a fraction—amused, pleased, absolutely not pretending it didn’t land.

“Good,” he said, tone warm. “Because I’d hate to waste perfectly executed emotional arson.”

At the mention of sixteen-year-old her—standing behind her shoulder—his expression softened again, eyes gentling in a way that said he was picturing it too.

“She’s welcome here,” he said quietly. “But she doesn’t have to do the talking anymore.”

Then she glanced at the trash can, asked about station policy, and Declan’s smile turned downright wicked.

“Oh, there’s a protocol,” he said calmly. “Unverified delusions get disposed of immediately. Preferably without witnesses.”

A beat.

“And repeat offenders,” he added, dry as hell, “get escorted out by someone very large and deeply unimpressed.”

When she thanked him again—really thanked him—for not letting her go quiet, he sobered just enough to meet it honestly.

“I won’t let you disappear on me,” Declan said. “Not when you’re hurting. Not when you’re healing. Not ever.”

He noticed the moment she let go—not because he was watching for it, but because he trusted it meant she was steady again. That she wasn’t leaving the moment—just standing on her own feet now.

When she said she was good, not fine, he nodded once, satisfied.

“Yeah,” he said. “I can see that.”

Then she gave him the assignment.

The supply closet.
The intimidation.
The accessory comment.

Declan snorted, already rising to his feet, towering easily beside her without trying.

“Your accessory?” he repeated, mock-offended. “I prefer ‘visual deterrent.’”

He stepped in close—not crowding, just present—and gestured toward the hallway with a small tilt of his head.

“Lead the way,” he said. “I’ll loom respectfully.”

As they started walking, he leaned down just enough to murmur near her ear, voice low and amused:

“And for the record? I look great reasserting lobby dominance.”

Then, louder—purely for effect—he added,

“Anybody gives you trouble,” he said mildly, “I’m available to stand there silently until they rethink their life choices.”

He glanced down at her, eyes warm, playful, completely hers.

“Accessory reporting for duty.”

Declan matched her pace easily as they walked, long stride naturally slowing to stay right beside her. He didn’t rush ahead, didn’t hang back—just there, shoulder close enough to brush hers when the hallway narrowed.

He glanced down at her, the corner of his mouth tipped with quiet amusement.

“You know,” he said softly, affectionate in a way that didn’t need volume, “I’m very proud of how you handled that.”

Not dramatic. Not a speech. Just a fact, offered like a warm hand at her back.

He reached out and rested his palm lightly between her shoulder blades as they walked—guiding, grounding, not steering her anywhere she wasn’t already going.

“You didn’t shrink,” he continued. “You paused. Then you chose yourself. That’s different.”

When they reached the supply closet, he held the door for her without comment, stepping aside so she could go first. His hand lingered at her lower back for a beat longer than necessary, thumb brushing once—an anchor more than a touch.

Inside, the fluorescent light hummed. Shelves of labeled bins. Normal. Mundane. Safe.

He leaned against the doorframe while she scanned for the pen box, arms folding loosely, posture relaxed but present.

“I’ve got you,” he said quietly, like a reminder she could pocket for later. “Even on boring errands. Especially on boring errands.”

She found what she needed, and when she turned back toward him, he smiled—soft, unmistakably fond.

“There it is,” he murmured. “That look. You’re back.”

He stepped in just enough to close the distance, brushing his knuckles against her wrist—gentle, affectionate.

“And just so we’re clear,” he added, voice warm with a hint of teasing, “I’ll happily be your accessory anytime. Lobby dominance, supply runs, emotional arson cleanups—whatever’s on the schedule.”

His gaze held hers, steady and sure.

“Come on,” Declan said, thumb giving one last reassuring sweep. “Let’s get you set up. I’ll walk you back.”