Declan’s mouth curved the second she spoke—soft, fond, the kind of smile that lived in his chest more than his face. He stayed where he was for half a beat longer, just watching her blink herself back into the room like she was something precious he didn’t want to rush.

“Mm,” he said quietly, amused and gentle. “I can see that. Transitional consciousness in progress.”

He pushed off the counter and crossed back to her without any hurry, like there was nowhere else he was meant to be. He stopped close—close enough that she didn’t have to reach, close enough that his presence filled the space again—and rested one hand on the back of the couch near her shoulder, the other smoothing down the blanket she’d wrapped around herself like a cocoon.

“You were out just long enough,” he told her, voice low and steady. “Deep sleep. The good kind. The kind you only get when you’re comfortable.”

His thumb brushed the edge of the blanket at her collarbone, a quiet, absent-minded touch—protective, affectionate—before he leaned down a little so he was more level with her.

“And yeah,” he added, softer now, smiling when she mentioned the dream. “You smiled once. Like whatever was happening in there was… nice.”

He reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair back from her face, careful not to wake her any more than she already was, his knuckles lingering against her cheek for just a second.

“We definitely won,” he said with quiet pride. “Brownies are perfect. Crispy edges, soft middle. Smell’s doing half the work already.”

At her question about waking her gently, his expression shifted—just a touch more serious, more tender.

“Always,” he said simply. “You don’t rush someone you care about. Especially not when they’re safe enough to fall asleep on you.”

He chuckled under his breath at her last question, thumb giving a small, reassuring stroke where the blanket met her shoulder.

“And no,” he added, amused. “No sleep-quoting this time. Just a little hum. And you squeezed my hand like you were making sure I was still there.”

He leaned in then, pressing another soft kiss to her forehead—slow, unhurried—before resting his brow there for a beat.

“Take your time,” he murmured. “I’ve got the brownies. I’ve got you. Nothing else on the schedule.”

His hand stayed warm and steady where it rested near her, ready whenever she decided she was done transitioning and wanted to stand—or curl right back in.

Hattie’s chest did that small, ridiculous squeeze it always did when he said things like I’ve got you like it was the simplest fact in the world.
She blinked up at him, still wrapped in the blanket like a burrito with opinions, and tried—tried—to look unimpressed.
It didn’t land.

Not when his hand smoothed the blanket like he’d put her together on purpose. Not when his knuckles lingered on her cheek like he was afraid she might vanish if he stopped touching her.

Her mouth tipped into a sleepy, pleased smile anyway.

“Transitional consciousness,” she repeated, as if she’d just invented something scientific and important. Then she squinted at him with mild suspicion. “You’re making fun of me.”

But the accusation had no teeth. It came out soft. Fond. Like she didn’t mind being teased when it sounded like home.

His forehead kiss—slow, steady—made her eyes flutter for half a second before she caught herself. She liked that he didn’t rush her. Liked that he treated her sleep like something worth protecting. It made her want to melt back into the couch and stay there forever, brownies be damned.

Except brownies were… also not damned.

Her gaze drifted past him toward the kitchen, toward the pan sitting there like a victory trophy. The smell was real now, thick and warm in the air, wrapping around the room.

“We won,” she murmured, more to herself than him, and then her eyes lifted back to his with that soft, private spark. “I knew we would.”

She shifted under the blanket, scooting forward an inch, testing her limbs like they were rebooting. The couch creaked in a lazy protest.

“And I did not squeeze your hand because I was checking if you were still there,” she said, voice still sleepy but already gearing up into playfulness. She blinked at him once, slow and innocent. “I squeezed your hand because it was… dream etiquette.”

A beat.

“…Okay, fine.” Her smile tugged wider, giving her away. “Maybe I was checking. But you were. Obviously. You’re always… there.”

That last part came out quieter, almost shy, like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

She cleared her throat, as if she could shake the sincerity off like water.

“Alright,” she announced, rallying, even though she was still wrapped up tight. “I’m done transitioning. Mostly.”

She held her arms out slightly under the blanket like a dramatic little ghost.

“Help me up, kitchen warrior,” she requested, eyes brightening. “I need a brownie assessment. And you promised me crispy edges.”

She finally slipped one foot to the floor, then the other, standing slowly—more because she liked the way he hovered than because she needed it.

And once she was upright, she stayed right there in front of him for a second, letting her hands find his shirt like they belonged there—light, not tugging, just claiming her place.

Her eyes flicked past his shoulder toward the kitchen again, then back to his face with a sleepy little smirk.

“If these are actually perfect,” she said, voice still soft with leftover dream, “I’m gonna be so annoying about it.”

She tipped her head, lashes heavy, expression all sweetness with a quiet edge.

“I’m gonna make you stand there while I take the first bite,” she informed him, dead serious. “And I’m gonna chew slow. Like a food critic. With opinions.”

A beat—then her mouth twitched.

“And if you try to rush me,” she added, gentler now, looking up at him like she knew exactly what she was doing, “I’ll sit back down and go into transition again.”

She lifted her arms a little, blanket sliding down her elbows, and wiggled her fingers once—small, smug, affectionate.

“Now,” she said, brightening like she’d flipped a switch, “escort me to the brownie victory. I want the corner. The crispiest corner.”

Then she leaned in and brushed a quick kiss to the spot just under his jaw—warm, grateful, completely hers—before backing up half an inch with that pleased smile.

“C’mon,” she murmured, threading her fingers through his. “I’m awake enough to be trouble.”

Declan’s smile came slow—soft at first, then settling into something warmer, steadier, like it belonged there.

“Making fun of you?” he echoed quietly, brows lifting a fraction as his hands came up to her arms, thumbs brushing over her sleeves like he was checking in before he answered. “Never. Observing. Appreciating. Documenting a very important phenomenon.”

He leaned in just enough that his forehead brushed hers again, brief and easy, his voice dropping.

“Sleepy Hattie is… a gift.”

When she accused him of teasing, he gave a low huff of a laugh—fond, unmistakably pleased—and shook his head.

“And dream etiquette?” he added, amused. “Yeah. That tracks. Very on brand.”

But when she said you’re always there—quiet, unguarded—his expression shifted. Nothing dramatic. Just a softening around the eyes, a deeper calm settling into him like something clicking into place.

“I am,” he said simply. No flourish. No qualifier. Just truth. “I plan to keep that streak going.”

When she held her arms out under the blanket, he stepped in without hesitation, hands sliding to her waist, steady and warm. He helped her up like it mattered—slow, attentive, eyes on her face the whole time, making sure she was solid before he let go.

“Got you,” he murmured, like a reflex.

He didn’t move away once she was standing. Didn’t need to. Her hands found his shirt and his settled easily over her wrists, grounding her there for a second longer, like neither of them was in a rush to break the moment.

“Oh, I know,” he said at her warning, mouth tilting into a knowing grin. “If they’re perfect, I fully expect commentary. Notes. Possibly a rating system.”

He glanced toward the kitchen, then back to her, clearly entertained.

“And for the record,” he added, gently cocky now, “I’m prepared to stand there and watch you take the first bite. I earned that.”

At her threat to sit back down and re-enter transition mode, he chuckled and squeezed her hands once.

“That’s unfair leverage,” he said. “But I respect the strategy.”

When she kissed just under his jaw, his breath caught—barely—but the way his hand slid to the small of her back said everything. He dipped his head, brushing a kiss into her hair in return, slower, grounding.

“Alright,” he said, threading his fingers through hers as he turned them toward the kitchen. “Corner piece. Crispiest edge. No rushing. Full food critic experience.”

He walked her in like it was exactly where she belonged, hand warm in hers, attention entirely on her even as the smell of brownies filled the room.

“And trouble?” he added quietly, glancing down at her with that steady, affectionate look. “I’m awake enough to handle it.”

Hattie let herself be led.

She didn’t even pretend she wasn’t going to—didn’t bother with a brave little independence routine when his hand was warm around hers and his body moved with that calm, certain purpose that always made her nervous system unclench. The kitchen light felt brighter than the living room glow, but he stayed right there beside her, threaded to her like a promise that didn’t require words.

It was such a small thing. Walking with him, hand in hand, barefoot and sleepy and domestic.

And somehow it made her chest feel full.

She glanced up at him as they crossed the threshold, still wrapped in the blanket like she’d stolen it for personal use, her eyes half-lidded with that soft, waking haze.

“You can handle it,” she murmured, voice quiet and pleased, like she was humoring him. “Sure you can.”

His confident little line made her grin to herself, and she let her shoulder bump his arm—lazy, affectionate—before her gaze drifted to the pan on the stovetop like it was a holy artifact.

The brownies sat there, dark and glossy in the center with those slightly lifted edges, steam still curling faintly off the top. The whole kitchen smelled like chocolate and warmth and the kind of afternoon she wanted to live inside.

“Oh,” she whispered, and then cleared her throat like she hadn’t just reacted out loud. She blinked once, slow, like she was calibrating her personality back online.

She stayed close to him as she leaned in to inspect, head tilting.

“They look,” she began, very seriously, “like they know they’re better than everyone else.”

Then her eyes narrowed in faux scrutiny, lips pressing together like she was about to deliver a verdict on national television.

“Edges are… promising,” she decided. “Top has that little sheen. Center isn’t sinking. Which means—” she glanced up at him, bright with a sleepy kind of triumph, “—we are either geniuses or wildly favored by the baking gods.”

She didn’t drift far, but she did slip out from his side for a second—just long enough to open the drawer and grab a knife. The metal made a soft, familiar sound against the wood, and she moved with that half-awake concentration that made everything she did look a little sweeter than it had any right to.

Then she was right back at his side, shoulder almost brushing his, knife in her hand like she’d been appointed to an extremely important role.

“Okay,” she said, squinting at the pan. “Corner piece. Crispiest edge. Per your promise.”

She pressed the knife in with a careful, decisive line, slicing down the side and then across, freeing the first corner. The brownie separated with a soft, fudgy resistance—exactly what she wanted to see. She lifted it slightly, admiring the way the corner held its shape while the center looked rich.

Her mouth tipped into a pleased smile.

“Oh, yeah,” she murmured, like she’d just been vindicated.

She cut a second corner from the opposite side—mirroring the first—slow enough to make a point of it, but not so slow it turned into cruelty. Two perfect little squares, dark and warm and ridiculous.

She nudged one toward him first—because she could be bratty all she wanted, but she liked him fed.

Then she lifted her own corner piece, holding it up in front of her face like a trophy as she looked at him through her lashes.

“Alright,” she said, soft and happy, still not fully awake but absolutely herself. “We’re doing this properly.”

And then, with a tiny, satisfied breath, she brought the brownie closer—ready to take her first bite and deliver the kind of commentary she’d already promised him.

Declan stayed close without crowding her—close enough that his arm brushed hers when she leaned in, close enough that the warmth of him felt like part of the kitchen now. He watched the way she moved with that half-awake care, like the world still had soft edges, and his mouth curved into a quiet smile he didn’t bother hiding.

“Yeah,” he murmured at her verdict, eyes on the pan, then back to her face. “They’ve got confidence. I respect it.”

When she slipped away to grab the knife, his hand lingered at her back for just a beat longer before falling away, like his body hadn’t quite gotten the memo that she was capable of walking the three steps without him. He leaned his hip against the counter, arms loose at his sides, watching her with that steady, fond attention that never made her feel examined—just chosen.

“Wildly favored,” he said when she glanced up, voice warm with certainty. “Definitely that one.”

The knife pressed in, the brownie giving just the right amount of resistance, and he felt a small, irrational surge of pride at the sound. He leaned in a little as she lifted the corner, eyes flicking between the brownie and her face, reading her reaction like it mattered more than the result.

When she nudged one piece toward him, he didn’t take it right away. He looked at her first—sleep-soft eyes, blanket slipping at her elbows, that pleased little smile she wore when something felt right.

“Of course I get fed,” he said lightly, then reached out, fingers brushing hers as he took the brownie. The contact lingered on purpose, his thumb warm against her knuckle before he let go.

He watched her lift her piece, watched the way she held it up like a trophy, and his expression softened into something openly affectionate.

“Alright,” he said quietly, a hint of a grin pulling at his mouth. “I’m ready for the notes.”

He took a bite, unhurried, letting it cool just enough, then chewed thoughtfully—not playing it up, not rushing it either. His brows lifted a fraction, impressed.

“Okay,” he said, nodding once. “Crispy edge. Fudgy center. Zero regrets.”

His gaze slid back to her, patient, expectant, like her opinion was the only one that mattered.

“And?” he prompted gently, leaning closer, shoulder brushing hers again. “Tell me what you think.”

Declan stayed right there, close enough that his shoulder was a steady point beside her, close enough that if she swayed—even a little—he’d already be there to catch it. He didn’t rush her. Didn’t fill the space while she took her bite. He knew better than that.

He watched her instead.

Watched the way her teeth sank into the brownie, the way her eyes fluttered shut for half a second like she was cataloging the experience, the way her mouth curved before she even finished chewing. His own smile crept in slow and inevitable, pride blooming quiet and warm in his chest.

“There it is,” he said softly, when he saw it land. “That face.”

He shifted just a touch closer, lowering his voice like it was just for her, like the brownies couldn’t hear him praising them too loudly.

“Take your time,” he added, fond. “I can wait.”

His free hand lifted without thinking, thumb brushing a tiny smear of chocolate from the corner of her mouth—gentle, unembarrassed, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t pull away right away either. His knuckle lingered at her cheek, warm, grounding.

“See?” he murmured. “Worth the oven alarm trauma.”

He took another bite of his own, slower this time, eyes still on her over the top of it, like he was sharing the moment rather than the food. When he swallowed, he nodded once more, satisfied.

“We absolutely won,” he said. “And I’m saying that as someone who has eaten some deeply questionable station brownies in his life.”

His gaze softened as it lingered on her—sleepy, wrapped in the blanket, glowing in that quiet way she did when she felt safe and pleased.

“You look happy,” he said simply. Not a question. An observation. One he treasured.

He leaned his forehead briefly against hers, just enough to steal the warmth of her, just enough to make the kitchen feel smaller and more theirs.

“And for the record,” he added, brushing his thumb over her knuckles again, affectionate and sure, “I’ll stand here as long as you want while you critique. I’ve got nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Then, with a small, teasing smile:

“So,” he prompted again, softer now. “Final verdict, Monroe?”

Hattie’s eyes widened a little at his zero regrets—like she’d been expecting him to be dramatic about it and he’d instead gone annoyingly sincere.

Which, honestly, was worse.

She took her bite, and the brownie did exactly what it was supposed to do: crisp edge first, then the soft give of the center, warm and rich enough to make her shoulders drop. Her lids fluttered, not for show—just that involuntary little mm her body did when something hit the comfort button directly.

When she opened her eyes again, he was watching her like it mattered.

She swallowed, then lifted her piece in front of his face like she was presenting evidence in court.

“Final verdict,” she repeated, slow and pleased, voice still a touch sleepy. “These brownies are… extremely good.”

She leaned into the word extremely like it was a threat and a compliment at the same time.

Then she angled her head, giving him a look that was all soft triumph and quiet mischief.

“And that means,” she went on, gesturing with her brownie toward the rest of the pan like she was pointing at a kingdom they’d conquered, “no more questionable station brownies. Ever again.”

A beat.

“From now on,” she added, smug, “the firehouse is getting our brownies.”

She said our like she owned the concept. Like she was about to start a bakery cartel. Like she was already imagining the guys’ faces when they bit into something that didn’t taste like it had been made with a prayer and an expired box mix.

Her gaze flicked to him—his shoulder still close, his thumb still tracing those slow circles at her knuckles like he couldn’t help it—and her smile turned into something teasing.

“Which is… generous of us,” she decided. “Public service. Community outreach.”

She took another bite, smaller this time, and spoke around it like she was too happy to wait.

“Also,” she said, and her eyes sparkled as she glanced up at him, “we don’t have to tell them you helped.”

She let that hang there for half a second, pretending she was doing him a favor.

Then she tipped her chin, sweet and sly.

“Because they already tease you relentlessly for how soft you get when it comes to me,” she continued lightly, like it was the most obvious fact in the world. “And I would hate to give them more material.”

Her smile widened—playful, affectionate, impossible—and she bumped her shoulder into his, gentle.

“Besides,” she added, lowering her voice just a touch as she looked back at the pan, “I kind of like having you all to myself as my secret ingredient.”

And then she took another bite, deliberately slow, eyes still on him like she was enjoying the brownie… and the way he looked at her… equally.

Declan let out a quiet laugh when her eyes widened—low and warm, the kind that lived in his chest more than his throat. He didn’t rush to answer her. He never did when she was in this mode—half-awake, half-victorious, glowing like she’d just discovered something good and intended to keep it.

He watched her take that bite like it was the main event.

Watched her shoulders drop. Watched her eyelids flutter. Watched the exact moment the brownie did what it was supposed to do.

And yeah—his thumb kept tracing those slow, absent circles at her knuckles, like his body already knew this was where it wanted to be while she delivered judgment.

“Extremely good,” he repeated softly, mouth tipping into a grin that was equal parts smug and proud. “I’ll take it.”

When she declared the end of questionable station brownies, his brows lifted, amused.

“Oh, they’re done for,” he agreed easily. “You just changed lives.”

He glanced at the pan like it really was a conquered territory, then back at her—sleepy, smug, brilliant.

“Our brownies,” he echoed when she said it, like the word fit his mouth just fine. Like it belonged there. “Community service. I’ll back that.”

At her suggestion that they not tell the guys he helped, he snorted quietly and shook his head, leaning a fraction closer.

“Yeah,” he said, fond. “Let’s not give them more ammunition. They already think I’ve lost my edge.”

His gaze dropped to her for a beat, softer now, unguarded in that way he only ever was with her.

“And for the record,” he added, lowering his voice just enough to match hers, “I don’t care.”

He bumped her shoulder back gently when she nudged him, his hand lifting to rest at her waist this time—steady, familiar, like it had always belonged there.

“They can tease all they want,” he continued, eyes still on her face, watching the way she took that slow bite, watching the way she held his gaze. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

At her secret ingredient line, his smile softened into something quieter—something that looked a lot like devotion if anyone had been close enough to see it.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I like being yours.”

He leaned in just enough to brush a kiss to her temple—unhurried, warm, affectionate—then stayed there for a second longer than necessary, forehead resting lightly against her hair.

“Eat,” he said gently, thumb giving her knuckles one more slow circle. “I’ll guard the rest.”

And he meant it—her, the brownies, this whole soft little kingdom they’d built in the kitchen—standing right there with her, nowhere else he’d rather be.

Hattie’s mouth tipped into that pleased, private smile that always made her feel a little like she was getting away with something.

Not because he was saying the right things—though he was, of course he was—but because he was standing there looking at her like this was the prize. Like she was.

And she was so stupidly, helplessly smitten that it made her want to do something sweet and a little extra, just because she could.

Her eyes flicked toward the couch in the open living area—TV still glowing quietly in the background, the scent of chocolate hanging between rooms—and then back up to his face with a spark that said I have an idea.

“Okay,” she said, voice light but decisive, like she’d just been promoted to CEO of Dessert. “Hold on. Don’t move.”

She slipped out from his side just long enough to grab two small bowls from the cabinet, the kind they usually used for cereal or whatever excuse she could come up with to eat something on the couch. She set them on the counter beside the pan, then scooped the remainder of her corner piece into one with deliberate care.

Then she turned and pointed at him—one finger, bossy and cute about it.

“Your corner,” she directed, tone playful but completely certain he’d obey. “In the other bowl.”

She watched him with a satisfied little smile as she gathered a bit more brownie from the pan—just a little extra, because why would they be reasonable about this—and added it to her bowl, then did the same to his, making them feel like treats instead of “samples.”

She grabbed two spoons, dropped one into each bowl with a light clink, and looked up at him again like she was building a ritual.

“Perfect,” she murmured, pleased with herself.

Then she crossed to the freezer and pulled out the vanilla ice cream, cold air rolling around her hands. She didn’t overthink it—she just scooped one clean, generous scoop into her bowl, then one into his, the ice cream sitting right on top like a soft white crown.

She slid the container back into the freezer, shut the door with her hip, and turned around with an expression that was pure mission accomplished.

“Alright,” she said, stepping back into his space.

And because she was who she was, she made the last part feel like a game.

She nudged both bowls toward him, then lifted her chin and gave him a look that was sweet, flirty, and absolutely in charge of nothing except the vibe.

“Hold these,” she instructed, like it was an honor. Like it was his job.

Once he had them, she pointed toward the couch just a few steps away, finger still out like a tiny general giving orders.

“Go,” she told him, eyes bright. “Back to the couch. We’re eating our treats and finishing the movie.”

A beat—her smile turning softer as she watched him, because she couldn’t help it.

“And you better keep your hands steady,” she added, teasing, already following him across the open space, “because I’m not scraping ice cream off the rug. That would be tragic.”

Declan didn’t move at first—because the way she said it, the way she slipped into command so naturally, had caught him mid-smile.

He watched her.

Really watched her.

The quiet competence. The tiny bossy gestures. The way she treated dessert like a ceremony instead of a snack. The way she moved around the kitchen like it was already muscle memory—like this wasn’t a special moment she was trying to get right, but a life she was already living.

His mouth curved wider the longer she went on, amusement softening into something fonder, heavier in his chest.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said easily when she pointed at him, tone playful but sincere, already stepping in to do exactly what she’d told him. He scooped his corner into the bowl just like she asked—careful, deliberate, like it mattered. Like she mattered.

When she added extra brownie to both bowls, his brows lifted.

“Oh, we’re spoiling ourselves now,” he murmured, approving.

And then the ice cream.

He watched her crown each bowl like it was a reward, not an afterthought, and something warm tugged low in his chest—the kind of feeling that came from realizing this was how she loved people. Thoughtfully. Generously. With intention.

When she nudged the bowls toward him, he stepped in close enough that their shoulders brushed as he took them from her hands, steadying them without looking down.

“I’ve got it,” he said, calm and certain. “No casualties.”

He followed her finger toward the couch, walking slow on purpose, like he didn’t want to rush whatever this was. He kept the bowls balanced, careful, but his head turned just enough to glance at her beside him—eyes warm, mouth tipped with a quiet smile.

“For the record,” he added lightly, “this is a very good idea.”

When they reached the couch, he lowered himself first, setting the bowls down on the coffee table with practiced care, then reached for her without thinking—one hand settling at her waist, guiding her in like it was instinct.

“Come here,” he said softly, not an order—an invitation.

Once she was tucked in beside him again, he pulled the blanket back over her legs, reclaiming the spot like nothing had changed except the addition of dessert. His arm settled around her shoulders, thumb brushing a slow, familiar line along her arm.

He picked up his spoon, then paused, glancing at her with that look—the one that said you’re my favorite part.

“You do realize,” he murmured, gentle and amused, “this is exactly how you get me to do whatever you want.”

And then, finally, he took a bite—eyes closing briefly in appreciation before opening again to look at her.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, satisfied. “Worth every rule you made.”

And he leaned back into the couch with her tucked against him, movie playing, brownies cooling in the background no longer needed—perfectly content to stay right there, holding her, letting her lead them through another soft, ordinary, extraordinary moment.

Hattie followed him like it was the most natural thing in the world—like she wasn’t trailing behind a six-foot-something man carrying dessert like it was precious cargo, like her heart wasn’t doing that warm, stupid little flip every time he did exactly what she’d told him to do.

Yes, ma’am.

It echoed in her head in the best way.

Not because she needed to be in charge—she didn’t. It was the opposite. It was the way he could be steady and obedient to her little requests without losing any of what made him Declan. The way he could indulge her and still feel like the safest thing in the room. The way he didn’t make her feel silly for liking the small rituals. He just… followed. Like it pleased him to.

She stayed close as they crossed the open space to the living area, shoulder nearly brushing his back, eyes catching on the careful set of his hands around the bowls. His focus was calm, precise—like he was on a quiet mission and she was the only person who mattered enough to do it right for.

She smiled to herself, soft and smug.

Because she did realize it was a very good idea.

Sweet treats. Warm couch. Blanket. Her tucked into his side where he liked her.

It wasn’t manipulation. It was… strategy. The kind that felt like love.

He got them set up with that same steady competence—bowls placed down safely, spoons ready—like he was making sure nothing could ruin the little moment she’d built. And when Hattie climbed in beside him, the blanket that had been wrapped around her all earlier finally turned into what it was always meant to be: theirs.

She pulled it over both of their laps, scooting closer until she was snug against him, her shoulder tucked under his arm like it had a claim there. His warmth seeped into her immediately. Her favorite kind of comfort—earned, chosen, constant.

Hattie tilted her head up at him with that bright, satisfied look she couldn’t quite hide.

“You’re really good at following directions,” she said, voice light and affectionate, like a compliment and a tease tangled together. “I think I’m gonna make a habit out of giving them more often.”

She nudged his side with her elbow just enough to make him look down at her, pretending to study his expression with exaggerated focus.

“Yeah,” she mused playfully, drawing out the word. “You listen well, you’re calm under pressure, you carry desserts like a professional… I could get used to this.”

She reached for her bowl, then paused just long enough to lean in and press a quick, sweet kiss to his jaw—one that said thank you and I love you and I know exactly what I’m doing all at once.

When she spoke again, her tone softened—not teasing now, just honest in that quiet way that always found him.

“You know you’re the best part of all this, right?” she murmured, fingers brushing his wrist before wrapping around her spoon. “Not the brownies. Not the movie. Just… you. Right here.”

Then, because sincerity always made her heart beat too fast, she hid it the only way she knew how—by grinning up at him again, full of warmth and mischief.

“But also,” she added, “I’m not above bribing you with dessert to keep you that way.”

She settled back in, spoon in hand, perfectly pleased with her own planning—already cozy, already fed, already wrapped up in the man who made “yes, ma’am” sound like the easiest promise in the world.

Declan felt it—the way she followed him, the way her presence stayed right at his back like gravity—before he even turned around. He always did. It was a quiet awareness, the kind that didn’t spike or demand attention, just settled in his chest like certainty.

When she nudged him and said it—really good at following directions—his mouth tipped into that slow, crooked smile that only showed up when it was just her.

“Careful,” he murmured, low and amused, glancing down at her from the couch once she’d tucked herself in. “You keep saying things like that and I’m gonna start thinking you enjoy bossing me around.”

He adjusted the blanket without thinking, tugging it higher over both of them, making sure it covered her legs completely before settling his arm back around her shoulders. His hand rested easy there—heavy enough to be grounding, light enough to never cage.

Her elbow nudge worked. He looked down at her fully now, eyes warm, attentive, unhurried.

“I listen,” he said simply, like it wasn’t a brag. Like it was just a fact. “Especially when it’s you.”

The kiss to his jaw landed soft and sweet, and he let his eyes close for half a second at the feel of it—just long enough to savor it—before opening them again and brushing his thumb along her arm in response.

When she said he was the best part of all this, something in his chest shifted—subtle, but deep. The kind of feeling he didn’t rush to deflect or joke away. He held it. Let it sit.

His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter.

“I know,” he said gently. Not cocky. Not assumed. Just steady. “And you’re mine.”

He leaned his forehead briefly against hers, just enough to share the space, then pressed a soft kiss there—unshowy, familiar, full of intention.

“And for the record,” he added, pulling back just enough to look at her with that fond, almost-smiling seriousness, “I’d carry dessert for you even if there wasn’t a bribe.”

He reached for his bowl, scooping up a bite, but didn’t eat it right away. Instead, he held the spoon out toward her, brows lifting slightly in a silent offer.

“Though,” he conceded, amusement threading back in, “I’m not above accepting one.”

He settled back into the couch with her tucked against him, movie murmuring in the background, brownies and ice cream cooling into something perfect between bites. His thumb resumed its slow, absent circles at her shoulder, his attention split exactly where he wanted it—half on the screen, half on her, fully content.

“Stay right there,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I’ve got you.”

Hattie’s whole chest went soft at the way he said it—and you’re mine—like it wasn’t a line, like it was a fact he’d been living by the whole time.

She didn’t even try to pretend she wasn’t affected. What was the point, with him this close? With his arm around her like a steady bracket, with the blanket pulled up over both of them like he’d decided this was the perimeter and nothing got past it.

She let her eyes linger on him for a beat too long, taking in the quiet seriousness in his face, the warmth threaded through it, the way he looked at her like he’d already chosen her a thousand times today.

Then he offered her the spoon.

Brows up. Silent. Patient.

Hattie’s mouth tipped into a pleased, wicked little smile that didn’t have claws, just confidence.

“You do enjoy being useful,” she murmured, voice low and fond, and then she leaned in and took the bite from the spoon—slow on purpose, eyes never leaving his.

Chocolate. Ice cream. Warm brownie underneath.

Her lashes fluttered once, unavoidable, and she made a small, satisfied sound before she could stop it.

When she swallowed, she didn’t say thank you like a polite person. She said it like Hattie.

She lifted her chin an inch, smug and sweet at the same time. “Okay. That’s… obscene.”

Her gaze flicked to him again, bright with amusement. “You can’t be saying stay right there, I’ve got you and also feeding me dessert like this. Pick a struggle.”

She shifted closer—not because she needed to, because she wanted to—and tucked her shoulder more firmly under his arm, letting his weight settle where it clearly liked to live.

“And for the record,” she added, softer now, the teasing easing into something warm, “I do enjoy bossing you around.”

A beat.

“But only because you make it so easy,” she finished, and her smile went gentler, sweeter, like she couldn’t help showing him exactly how loved he was.

She reached for her own bowl, scooped up a bite, and this time she held the spoon toward him—an echo of his offer, a quiet little back at you.

“Your turn,” she said, eyes shining. “Since you’re apparently running a very organized operation tonight.”

The movie murmured on—voices, music, that cozy hum she’d wanted—and she stayed exactly where he’d told her to, like she was proving a point.

Not because he asked.

Because she liked being kept.

Declan didn’t rush the moment.

He watched her take the bite—watched the way she did it on purpose, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on his like she knew exactly what she was doing to him. The little sound she made afterward hit him low and warm, the kind of reaction that stayed with you longer than the taste of chocolate ever could.

His mouth curved, not smug—never smug—but deeply, undeniably pleased.

“Obscene,” he repeated quietly, like he was filing it away as a personal victory. His thumb brushed once at her shoulder, slow and grounding, as if to say yeah, I know. Worth it.

When she teased him—pick a struggle—he let out a soft huff of a laugh, forehead tipping forward until it hovered just close enough to hers to share air.

“I’m very capable of multitasking,” he murmured. “Keeping you right here and feeding you dessert feels… manageable.”

She tucked closer, and he adjusted without thinking—arm tightening just a fraction, blanket shifted so it stayed snug around her back. He liked the way she fit there. Liked that she chose it. Liked that she said she enjoyed bossing him around and followed it immediately with softness.

“Easy,” he echoed gently. “That’s not an accident.”

Then she held the spoon out to him.

Declan’s gaze flicked from her eyes to the spoon and back again, something warm and fond settling behind his ribs. He leaned in and took the bite, careful not to scrape the spoon, eyes still on her like this was part of the ritual too.

He chewed, slow, thoughtful—more for show than necessity—and nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s a win.”

He reached out, catching her wrist lightly before she could pull the spoon away, thumb resting there in that familiar, anchoring way.

“And since we’re apparently taking turns,” he added, voice low and affectionate, “you should know… I don’t keep you because you listen.”

His thumb traced a small circle, matching the ones he’d been drawing all night.

“I keep you because you want to be here.”

He leaned back into the couch with her still tucked into his side, movie playing on, dessert balanced between them, the world narrowed down to this small, perfect pocket. His chin dipped, brushing the top of her head, and he pressed another quiet kiss into her hair—unhurried, certain.

“So,” he murmured, settling them both, “stay right there.”

Not a command.

A promise.

Declan didn’t move her.

That was the first thing he was careful about—about everything, really. He stayed exactly where he was, arm firm around her, shoulder relaxed, letting the weight of the moment settle instead of shifting it. The movie murmured on, forgotten but comforting, and the only thing that really registered was her breathing evening out against his side.

He glanced down at her, the way her lashes rested against her cheeks, the faint curve of her mouth like she was still half-smiling even when she wasn’t trying to. He loved that about her—how joy clung to her, even in the quiet.

His hand resumed its slow path at her waist, not restless, not searching—just there. Thumb circling, fingers warm through the fabric, a steady reassurance that didn’t need words. He liked knowing she could feel him. Liked knowing she let herself.

He shifted just enough to grab his spoon again, scooped up another bite, but didn’t offer it right away this time. He watched her for a second instead, head tipped slightly, expression open and fond.

“You look comfortable,” he murmured. “That’s my favorite version of you.”

He nudged the bowl a little closer to her so she wouldn’t have to reach, the motion automatic, practiced in the quiet ways that mattered. When he finally lifted the spoon again, it wasn’t teasing—it was gentle, patient.

His chin rested lightly against the top of her head, a subtle claim, a familiar shelter. Outside the couch, the house stayed calm—oven ticking as it cooled, evening light settling deeper into the rooms—but right there, everything felt held.

And Declan stayed exactly like that—present, attentive, quietly content—perfectly willing to let the rest of the night unfold at her pace, as long as she stayed tucked into him where she belonged.

Hattie didn’t move.

She just let him keep her there—tucked into his side like she belonged, like the world could do whatever it wanted outside the radius of his arm and it still wouldn’t reach her.

He nudged the bowl closer, considerate without making a show of it, and it made something warm bloom in her chest all over again. The quiet care. The constant check-ins that weren’t questions so much as instincts.

She angled her face up just enough to look at him when he murmured about her being comfortable, and she gave him a look that was equal parts pleased and obviously, like she could not believe he was still acting surprised by the fact that she loved being loved by him.

“That’s because you’re… aggressively good at this,” she told him, soft and smug, and then she leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to the underside of his jaw—just because she could. Just because he was there.

His spoon lifted again, patient, and she took another bite from it like she was making a point out of how willing she was to let him take care of her in small ways. She didn’t rush. Didn’t fidget. She let the dessert be sweet and warm and messy in that perfect way brownies were supposed to be when they met ice cream.

Then she scooped a bite for him—brownie and vanilla together—and held it out with a tiny lift of her brows.

“Open,” she said, not loud, not bossy like a drill sergeant—more like she was teasing him with a rule she knew he liked following.

When he leaned in and took it, careful, eyes still on her, Hattie’s grin turned helpless for a second. She swallowed her own bite and let her fingers slide over his wrist as if she needed to touch him just to confirm he was real.

“Mm,” she hummed, pleased. “Good boy.”

It slipped out before she could think too hard about it—soft, playful, not meant for anyone else in the world.

His thumb made one of those slow circles at her waist again, and Hattie melted closer with a quiet, satisfied sigh, like her body understood the assignment: stay here, enjoy this, let him keep you.

They ate like that—passing spoons back and forth, occasionally stealing bites from each other’s bowls, trading little looks that said I can’t believe this is my life and don’t you dare get up and you’re my favorite thing without either of them needing to say it out loud.

The movie kept going, dialogue washing over them like background music, and Hattie caught herself smiling at nothing more than the weight of his arm and the warmth of his chest and the fact that he kept kissing the top of her head like it was a habit he’d never want to break.

By the time the credits rolled, the bowls on the coffee table were scraped clean—two spoons abandoned inside them like evidence of a crime they’d gladly commit again.

Neither of them moved.

Declan stayed exactly where he was, his arm still around her, hand resting at her side like it had found its home and refused to leave. Hattie stayed tucked in, cheek near his chest, one hand spread lightly over his shirt, fingers curled there with quiet ownership.

The credits music filled the room.

Hattie tipped her head back just enough to look up at him, her eyes bright, her mouth still curved like she’d won something.

“Okay,” she said softly, a little sing-song. “Important meeting.”

She let the beat hang, just because she liked watching him focus on her.

“How do we spend the rest of our day off?” she asked, voice warm with the options like they were gifts. “We can keep cuddling right here and watch another movie…”

Her fingers traced a lazy line along his side, testing how much she could get away with without him calling her on it.

“Or,” she continued, playful, “you can pick something else for us to do.”

A pause—her eyes flicked to his mouth, then back to his eyes, like she couldn’t help it.

“Or,” she finished, sweetness laced with trouble, “do you want me to go back into bossy mode and tell you what to do?”

She held his gaze, all soft confidence and love, like whatever he chose was going to be perfect as long as it was with him—and she didn’t move an inch, making it very clear that option one already had her vote.

Declan didn’t rush his answer.

He never did with her—especially not now, not when she was tucked into his side like that, warm and trusting and exactly where she belonged. Instead, he leaned into her first, slow and deliberate, chin dipping so his cheek brushed the crown of her head. The contact was barely there, but it was intentional—the kind that said I’m here without needing the words.

His arm stayed firm around her, a steady bracket at her back, hand warm and settled at her side like it had found its natural resting place and had no intention of leaving. His thumb kept tracing those slow, familiar circles at her waist—unconscious, grounding, a rhythm he’d learned by heart. A reminder, for both of them.

Right here.
Together.
Safe.

He smiled when she called him aggressively good at this, the corner of his mouth tipping up in that quiet, pleased way he got when she noticed things he never thought to name. His eyes softened, gaze dropping to her face, taking in the way she looked curled into him—relaxed, content, glowing with that post-nap warmth that always made something in his chest go tender and protective all at once.

“Yeah?” he murmured back, voice low and fond, almost a hum against her hair. “Funny. I was thinkin’ you make it real easy.”

Her kiss under his jaw pulled a soft exhale out of him before he could stop it. He tilted his head just enough to return it, lips pressing into her hair—slow, unhurried, lingering a beat longer than necessary. The kind of kiss he didn’t think about because it felt like instinct now. Like breathing.

When she held the spoon up and said “Open,” he didn’t hesitate. No teasing. No pretending to resist. He leaned in and took the bite like it was exactly where he wanted to be, eyes still on her, attention never wavering. Chocolate and vanilla melted together on his tongue, but it was the look on her face that made it better—the way she watched him like this small act mattered.

And when she murmured “Good boy,”—

He stilled for half a beat.

Just enough for the words to land.

Then his thumb pressed a little more deliberately at her waist, the circles slowing, deepening, grounding. His head dipped until his lips hovered near her temple, breath warm against her skin.

“You say that like you know what you’re doin’,” he said quietly, amusement threaded through warmth, through something unmistakably affectionate. “Dangerous information to give me.”

He didn’t pull away. Didn’t change his posture or loosen his hold. If anything, he leaned into her more, letting her feel exactly how steady he was—how content.

They ate like that, unhurried and close, trading bites, sharing spoons, stealing tastes from each other’s bowls without apology. Every so often, he pressed another kiss into her hair, or the top of her head, or her temple—small, habitual gestures that spoke louder than anything he could’ve said.

When the bowls were empty and the credits rolled, neither of them moved.

Declan stayed exactly where he was, arm still around her, hand resting at her side like it had found home and refused to budge. The room was quiet now except for the soft swell of the credits music and the faint hum of the house settling around them.

He felt her hand spread lightly over his shirt, fingers curled there with quiet ownership, and it made his chest ache in the best way.

When she tipped her head back and said, “Okay. Important meeting,” his attention snapped fully to her. His brows lifted slightly, expression shifting into mock-serious focus like he was clocking in for duty.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said lightly. “I’m present.”

At “How do we spend the rest of our day off?” his gaze flicked down to her fingers tracing his side, then back to her eyes. His expression softened even more, something warm and certain settling in his chest.

“Well,” he said, thoughtful but clearly not conflicted, “option one’s got a lot goin’ for it. You’re already settled. I’m already comfortable. And I like you right here.”

When she added “Or you can pick something else for us to do,” his mouth curved again, slow and fond.

“Could,” he agreed easily. “But I don’t feel much urgency to improve on this.”

And then she said it—“Or do you want me to go back into bossy mode and tell you what to do?”

His gaze dropped to her mouth for a split second before returning to her eyes, something warm and unmistakably devoted there. He leaned his forehead gently against hers, noses almost brushing, voice dropping just a notch—softer, more intimate.

“I like all your modes,” he said honestly. “But I gotta say… bossy Hattie who doesn’t move and keeps me right here?”

His arm tightened just slightly around her, affectionate, certain, like the choice had already been made.

“That one’s real hard to argue with.”

He brushed his thumb along her side again, slow and grounding, the way he always did when he wanted her to feel held without being crowded.

“So my vote’s we stay put,” he continued quietly. “Another movie. Maybe a nap. Maybe you tell me what to do later.”

A beat.

Then a small, unmistakably pleased smile.

“And whatever we pick,” he finished, leaning into her fully now, voice steady and sure, “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

He stayed right there with her—warm, attentive, completely content—like the rest of the day could take its time, because he already had everything he needed.

Hattie let his last line settle like a warm weight on her ribs.

I’m not goin’ anywhere.

He didn’t say it like a dare or a promise he might have to wrestle himself into later. He said it like gravity. Like truth. Like the simplest thing in the world.

And the thing was—Hattie believed him.

Which was exactly why her brain did what it always did when she felt too safe: it got mischievous.

She studied him for a beat, eyes flicking over the details that always told her more than words ever could. The way his arm stayed firm at her back. The way his hand remained planted at her side like it had staked a claim. The slow, steady circles of his thumb at her waist—unconscious, consistent, grounding.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

So she didn’t have to brace.

She could just… be.

And if she could be, then she could also be a menace.

Hattie’s mouth tipped into a small, satisfied smile. She shifted just enough to look up at him, the movement minimal—because she wasn’t actually leaving his hold, and neither of them pretended she was.

“Okay,” she murmured, businesslike. “Decision has been made.”

Then she added, with the calm authority of someone who had been appointed to an imaginary position five seconds ago, “As Chairwoman of This Couch, I’m invoking my executive powers.”

She reached for the remote without asking, because asking would imply there was any other outcome. Her fingers closed around it, and she felt his arm subtly tighten as she leaned forward—like his body had a reflex for keeping her tethered even when she stretched.

Good.

That was exactly the kind of cooperation she liked.

She clicked out of the credits. The screen shifted, menu glow washing the room in soft blue. Hattie scrolled like she was selecting something important—like she wasn’t, in reality, choosing a prop.

Because she had no intention of watching. Not really.

Not when Declan was right there. Not when his hand was warm at her side and her own pulse had been doing obnoxious things ever since he said vote and stay put and not goin’ anywhere like he meant it down to the bone.

Hattie paused on a title and let her eyes widen just a fraction, as if she’d stumbled across cinematic gold.

“Oh,” she said, pleased with herself. “Perfect.”

She angled the screen just enough that he could see it too, because she wanted him to know she’d chosen something ridiculous on purpose.

Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.

Hattie’s smile turned downright angelic.

“There,” she declared. “That’s our next movie.”

And then, before the world could argue, she hit play.

The opening music started—overly dramatic, absurd in the best way—and Hattie didn’t even pretend this was about the film. She immediately turned her full attention back to the real priority: placement.

“Alright,” she said, brisk. “Adjust.”

She didn’t shove him. She didn’t have to. She just put her palm on his chest and guided, patient but decisive, until he sank lower into the cushions. Until his shoulders found a more reclined angle. Until his arm could do what she wanted it to do—wrap around her properly.

Then she wedged herself in the way she liked best: tucked between him and the back cushions, snug and sheltered, like the couch had been built to hold exactly this shape. She nudged her hip closer, eliminating any remaining space. She hooked her fingers lightly into his shirt at his ribs like a tether.

His arm stayed around her without question. His hand slid, adjusted, settled—warm and heavy at her side. His thumb resumed its slow circles like nothing had changed, like everything was exactly as it should be.

Hattie exhaled, satisfied.

“Better,” she murmured to herself, and then—because she couldn’t help it—she rearranged him one more time. She guided his forearm higher across her middle, tucked it in so it was secure, then laced her fingers through his hand and pinned it there like a seal.

“Hold,” she instructed softly.

Declan didn’t say anything.

He just did it—fingers curling around hers, grip firming in that quiet, steady way that made her chest ache and her smile go smug at the same time.

Hattie settled her cheek to his chest and listened to his breathing. Felt the steady rise and fall beneath her ear. Felt the warmth of him at her back, at her side, around her like a boundary line the world wasn’t allowed to cross.

On the TV, a tomato rolled ominously across the screen like it was about to commit a crime.

Hattie’s lips twitched.

“This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever chosen,” she whispered, not bothered in the slightest.

She waited a few seconds—long enough for the movie to make an earnest attempt at being serious—then shifted, just barely, the kind of movement that wasn’t about comfort.

It was about testing.

She let her shoulder press a little more into him. Let her thigh slide a fraction. Let her fingers give his hand the tiniest tug, as if she might steal him closer than close.

His thumb slowed—just for a beat—then deepened its pressure at her waist like a silent answer.

Hattie smiled into his shirt.

There it was.

So she pushed her luck, because she was Hattie and because he’d just told her he wasn’t going anywhere.

A minute later, she felt his body make the smallest adjustment—barely there, like he might shift his leg or resettle his shoulder.

Hattie’s hand immediately slid to his side, palm firm in a quiet correction.

“Uh-uh,” she murmured, sweet as sugar. “Don’t move. You’re perfect.”

Declan went still again.

No words. Just compliance. Just that steady, contained patience he had for her nonsense.

Hattie’s grin widened, pleased with herself in a way that was almost embarrassing.

She tipped her head back just enough to look up at him. His gaze was already on her—warm, amused, attentive. The kind of look that made her feel both seen and spoiled.

So she rewarded him.

Not with words. Not with anything that would break the rule she’d just set.

Just a slow kiss to the underside of his jaw—deliberate, unhurried—then another softer one near his throat, like punctuation.

Then she settled back into place as if nothing had happened, cheek to his chest, fingers still threaded with his, his arm still locked around her like it belonged there.

On-screen, the tomatoes continued their ridiculous reign of terror.

Hattie watched for approximately ten seconds before her eyes drifted shut again, not because she was tired—

because she liked how it felt to be held while she misbehaved.

Her mouth curved, satisfied.

“Good,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “We’re staying right here.”

And she did what she’d decided from the start: she didn’t watch the movie at all.

She just stayed wedged in, snug and sheltered, being a brat on purpose—measuring the day in tiny, stolen moments and the silent, steady way Declan kept choosing her without saying a single new word.

Declan felt it the second she shifted.

Not just the movement—though he noticed that too, every small adjustment, every deliberate nudge—but the intent behind it. The way she tested the edges because she knew there weren’t any sharp ones left. The way she settled deeper because she trusted the ground wouldn’t give out beneath her.

He didn’t tense when she took the remote. Didn’t flinch when she guided him back, palm to his chest like a quiet directive. He went easily, willingly, letting himself sink lower into the couch because it put her exactly where she wanted to be—tucked in, sheltered, claimed.

When she said “Adjust,” his mouth curved before he could stop it.

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured, voice low and amused, already shifting to give her what she wanted before she had to say it twice.

Her body fit against him like it had been doing this forever. Like his arm had learned the exact shape of her without him ever needing to think about it. He wrapped it around her properly this time—firm, secure, no daylight—hand settling at her side with that familiar weight that said you’re not goin’ anywhere either.

When she guided his forearm higher and laced their fingers together, pinning his hand in place, he didn’t resist. His fingers curled around hers immediately, grip steady and warm.

“Got it,” he said quietly at her “Hold,” thumb brushing once over her knuckles in confirmation.

The movie started—ridiculous, dramatic, objectively terrible—and he barely spared it a glance. His attention stayed on her: the way she exhaled when she was satisfied, the way her cheek settled against his chest, the way her body softened once she’d rearranged the world exactly to her liking.

At her whispered “This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever chosen,” he let out a quiet huff of a laugh, chest vibrating under her cheek.

“Strongly agree,” he replied softly. “But I’m not complainin’.”

When she pressed closer—testing—he felt it immediately. Her shoulder. Her thigh. The subtle tug of her fingers. His thumb slowed, then pressed more firmly at her waist, circles deepening like an answer she hadn’t even asked out loud.

I’m here. I’ve got you.

So when she corrected him—“Uh-uh. Don’t move. You’re perfect.”—he went still without hesitation. No sigh. No teasing protest. Just settled deeper into the role she’d assigned him, arm firm, presence steady.

“Alright,” he murmured, voice warm with amusement. “Not movin’.”

Her kiss under his jaw drew a slow breath out of him. The second one—near his throat—made his hand tighten just a fraction at her side, protective and fond all at once. He tipped his head slightly, letting her do it, letting her take the moment she clearly wanted.

When she settled back in like nothing had happened, he smiled down at her, gaze lingering on the curve of her mouth, the way her lashes rested against her cheeks when her eyes drifted closed again.

At her soft “Good. We’re staying right here,” he leaned his cheek against the top of her head, lips brushing her hair.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, thumb resuming its slow, grounding circles. “We are.”

He didn’t try to move. Didn’t reach for the remote. Didn’t comment on the tomatoes wreaking havoc on-screen.

He just stayed exactly where she put him—arm around her, hand locked with hers, body a steady line she could lean into as much as she wanted.

Letting her be a menace.
Letting her be comfortable.
Letting her misbehave in peace.

And choosing her, again and again, in every small, silent way that mattered.

Hattie felt the danger of it immediately—the way her body started to soften the second she settled into him properly.

The couch was warm. His chest was warmer. His thumb kept that slow, steady circle at her waist like a lullaby written in muscle memory. And if she let herself do the normal thing—curl up, get comfortable, let the movie play—she was going to be out cold again in ten minutes.

Absolutely not.

She didn’t do naps twice in one afternoon.

(Except… she did. Sometimes. But she wasn’t going to admit that.)

So instead of melting, Hattie lifted her head just slightly and shifted with purpose—small, deliberate movements that had nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with mischief. She reached for his hand where it was laced with hers and, without asking, peeled their fingers apart.

Not in a rejection. In a reassignment.

“Mm,” she murmured, voice sweet, bossy in that way that meant she was about to cause a problem on purpose.

She guided his hand lower—not indecent, not rushed—just down from her ribs to the curve of her hip, settling his palm there with calm precision like she was placing it where it belonged.

“Stay,” she instructed softly.

Then she let go.

Declan didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

His hand stayed exactly where she put it—heavy, warm, anchored—fingers flexing once like his body had registered the new instruction and agreed.

Hattie’s mouth tipped in a satisfied little smile. Good.

Now she could keep herself awake.

She slid her own hand under the hem of his shirt with slow intention, fingertips meeting warm skin. Not grabbing. Not rushing. Just tracing—testing the lines she already knew were there, like she was mapping him for fun. Her nails skimmed lightly over the definition of his stomach, following the ridges and dips with quiet, bratty curiosity.

Her touch wasn’t needy.

It was incendiary.

Occasionally, she drifted lower on purpose—not crossing any line, just hovering close enough to be a threat. Her fingers played near the edge of his sweats, brushing the fabric, lingering there like she was considering her options and enjoying the fact that he had no idea which one she’d pick.

Then she’d drift back up again, slow, innocent—like she hadn’t meant anything by it at all.

Like she wasn’t absolutely doing it to get a reaction.

Declan remained still, just like she’d ordered earlier. But Hattie felt the proof anyway—in the way his hand at her hip firmed, pressure deepening without moving. In the way his thumb paused for half a beat and then resumed, slower now, more deliberate. In the way his breathing shifted against her hair, controlled and quiet like he was refusing to give her the satisfaction of any sound.

Hattie’s eyes flicked to the TV.

A tomato rolled dramatically across the screen, ominous and stupid.

She made a face, unimpressed.

Then she turned her attention right back to the real entertainment.

She slid her hand higher, fingertips tracing the hard plane of his chest beneath the shirt, then back down again—unhurried, methodical. Like she was testing what kind of trouble she could start without ever technically starting it.

Her shoulder pressed into him just a little more. Her knee shifted. A tiny adjustment that put her closer, tighter in the wedge between him and the back cushions—snug enough that the warmth of him was unavoidable.

She tilted her head back just enough to glance up at him.

His gaze was already on her—steady, warmed through with that quiet, indulgent patience he had for her nonsense. The kind that made her feel powerful and spoiled at the same time.

Hattie smiled sweetly, like she’d done nothing wrong in her entire life.

Then she slid her fingers down his stomach again and let them hover at the edge of his waistband—just for a second. Just long enough to make it mean something.

She didn’t push further.

She didn’t need to.

Instead, she drew a lazy line back upward, fingertips skimming his skin like a promise she wasn’t cashing yet.

His hand on her hip tightened again—subtle, unmistakable—holding her in place like he was reminding her she was still exactly where she belonged, even while she acted like a menace.

Hattie let out a quiet little hum, pleased with herself.

“See?” she whispered, almost to the room, almost to him. “If I cuddle normally, I’ll fall asleep.”

She shifted her hips under his palm—just a fraction, just enough to make his hand notice—and then she stilled again, letting the tension sit there between them like a live wire.

Her fingers traced one more slow pattern under his shirt, gentle and taunting, and then she settled her cheek back to his chest like she was the picture of innocence.

The movie continued being ridiculous in the background.

Hattie didn’t watch a second of it.

She stayed right where she wanted—tucked in, held, awake on pure stubbornness and mischief—making sure the day stayed exactly the way she liked it: warm, safe, and just bratty enough to keep her heart racing.

Declan felt it—the shift from comfort into intention—the second she moved his hand and gave that quiet little “stay.”

He didn’t fight it. Didn’t question it. He never did with her.

His palm stayed warm and solid at her hip, fingers resting there like they’d been put somewhere important on purpose. When she let go, he didn’t chase her hand back or tighten his grip—just held steady, exactly as instructed, because that was the thing she trusted most about him: he listened.

And when her fingers slipped under his shirt, exploratory and light, his breath changed before his body did.

Not a sound. Just a deeper inhale. A slower exhale.

He let her trace him. Let her test him. Let her be exactly as mischievous as she wanted to be without meeting her with anything sharp or overwhelming. His thumb paused at her hip for half a second—long enough for her to notice—then resumed its steady path, grounding instead of escalating.

He tipped his head slightly so his cheek rested against the top of her hair, voice low when he finally spoke, warm with that familiar patience.

“You’re playin’ a dangerous game for someone who says she’s just tryin’ to stay awake,” he murmured—not a warning, not a threat. An observation. Amused. Fond.

When she shifted under his hand, just enough to be noticed, his fingers tightened in response—not possessive, not demanding. Just enough pressure to remind her that she was held. Chosen. Exactly where she wanted to be.

“Mm,” he added quietly when she whispered her reasoning, a hint of a smile in his voice. “Yeah. I see your logic.”

He didn’t move her hand away. Didn’t trap it. Just let it rest where it landed, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath her cheek like he wasn’t about to let the moment tip into anything she hadn’t decided on yet.

His other arm adjusted slightly around her back—not pulling her closer, just securing the space she’d already claimed—keeping her tucked in, sheltered, exactly as she liked.

“You stay right there,” he said softly, echoing her earlier instruction back to her now, thumb pressing a little more firmly at her hip like punctuation. “I’ve got you.”

On the screen, the movie kept being absurd.

Declan didn’t look at it once.

His attention stayed on the way she fit against him, the quiet hum she made when she was pleased with herself, the way she tested and teased because she felt safe enough to do it.

He let her keep him right where she wanted him—steady, indulgent, unflinching—content to hold the line while she misbehaved.

And if she stayed awake?

Good.

If she didn’t?

He’d still be right here when she drifted.

Either way, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Hattie didn’t even pretend to look at the screen. The killer tomatoes could have started singing an aria for all she cared; the only entertainment she needed was the frantic, thumping rhythm of Declan’s heart against her palm.

Dangerous game.

She liked the sound of that. She liked even more that he knew exactly what she was doing and was letting her get away with it.

Her fingers, already warm from the heat of his skin, grew bolder. She stopped tracing the definition of his abs—fun as that was—and let her hand drift south, following the line of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his grey sweatpants. She felt his stomach muscles contract sharply under her touch, a reflex he couldn’t quite smother, but to his credit, he didn’t pull away. He didn’t grab her wrist. He just breathed, that heavy, deliberate intake of air that told her he was counting backward from ten.

She loved it when he had to count.

"Don't look at the TV, Declan," she whispered, the words barely more than a breath against his neck. She tilted her head back, catching his gaze. His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, and fixed entirely on her face. "Look at me."

He obeyed instantly. Of course he did.

She held his gaze, her expression innocent, while her hand under his shirt slipped past the elastic of his waistband. She wasn't subtle about it. She flattened her palm, sliding it down just far enough to graze the sensitive skin of his hip bone, then inward, teasing the very top edge of his boxers.

His entire body went rigid. The arm wrapped around her tightened like a steel band, trapping her against him, but he didn’t make a sound. He just watched her, his jaw set hard, waiting to see how much trouble she was planning to cause.

A lot, she decided.

She pressed her knee between his legs, shifting her weight so she was straddling his thigh beneath the blanket. The friction was immediate, but she ignored the delicious spark of it for herself to focus on him. She wanted to see the cracks in that famous Caldwell composure.

"You're so warm," she murmured, turning her face into his shoulder to hide her smirk.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she dipped her fingers deeper inside the waistband. She wasn’t touching him—not fully, not yet—but she was hovering in the danger zone, her knuckles brushing against the cotton of his boxers, teasing the heat radiating off him. She felt his hips buck, a microscopic, involuntary jerk upward into her hand, before he forced himself back down into the cushions.

He was trembling. Just a little. A fine, high-tension vibration that ran through his chest and into her own.

It was intoxicating. The big, capable firefighter who could carry her out of a burning building without breaking a sweat was currently being undone by three fingers and a little bit of bratty audacity.

She dragged her nails lightly, barely a scratch, across his lower stomach, right where the tension was highest. His head fell back against the cushion, his throat working as he swallowed down a groan, his eyes squeezing shut for a split second before snapping back open to pin her.

He looked wrecked. He looked desperate. And he was still perfectly, beautifully silent.
"You're doing so good," she praised, her voice dropping to a husky purr as she finally, mercilessly, cupped him through the fabric of his underwear. He was hard, heavy, and twitching against her palm. "Keeping perfectly still for me. Just like I asked."

She gave him a slow, firm squeeze, relishing the way his breath hitched and caught in his chest, abandoning the movie entirely to focus on the masterpiece of restraint she was unraveling in her arms.

The command to look at her was barely necessary. Look at me. As if he could look anywhere else. The movie had devolved into white noise minutes ago, the dialogue of the killer tomatoes drowned out by the roaring of blood in his own ears. When she whispered against his neck, the vibration traveled straight down his spine, settling heavily in his gut. He locked eyes with her, not just because he was told to, but because looking anywhere else felt impossible. He needed to see her face—that deceptive innocence masking a wicked intent—while she systematically unraveled him.

When she murmured that he was warm, hiding her smirk against his shoulder, Declan nearly choked on a harsh, jagged laugh. Warm? He felt like he was standing in the center of a flashover without his turnout gear. He was burning up from the inside out, a fever heat that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room and everything to do with the woman currently straddling his thigh. Every inch of skin she grazed felt electrified, and her coolness against his heat was a torture he hadn't prepared for. He tightened his hold on her, his arm bracing against the back of the sofa, his fingers digging into the soft curve of her waist just to keep his hips pinned to the cushions.
But it was the praise that nearly shattered him. You're doing so good.

The words hit him like a physical blow, bypassing his logic and striking straight at the primal part of his brain that craved her approval. He didn’t want to be good; he wanted to be selfish. He wanted to flip her over and take control. But hearing that husky purr, rewarding his stillness while her hand mercilessly claimed him, made his resolve fracture. The discipline he prided himself on—the ability to stay calm in a crisis—was dissolving under the pad of her thumb.

The squeeze stole the air from his lungs in a sharp, ragged hiss. His vision blurred at the edges, and the mental countdown he’d been reciting—seven, six, five—disintegrated into dust.

He didn't pull her hand away. Instead, his own hand moved, sliding from her waist to grip her jaw, his thumb pressing firmly against her cheekbone to tilt her face up. He needed her to see exactly what she had done. His eyes were blown wide, the iris swallowed by black, burning with a raw, desperate intensity.

"I’m done counting, Hattie," he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel grinding together—wrecked, low, and stripped of all that famous patience. He bucked his hips up, just once, hard enough to knock the breath out of her, before growling, "If you don't take your hand out of my pants right now, I'm not going to be responsible for what happens when I hit zero."

The rough grip on her jaw was electric. It was the crack in the dam she had been chipping away at for the last twenty minutes, and seeing the water finally burst through was more satisfying than any movie could ever be.

His eyes were wild—darkened pools of intent that swallowed the soft, domestic lighting of the living room. The sheer force of his hips bucking up against her hand wasn’t just a reaction anymore; it was a warning shot.

I’m done counting.

A shiver raced down her spine, not of fear, but of pure, adrenaline-soaked delight. This was the precipice. This was the exact moment the balance tipped. She adored the gentle, steady Declan who let her paint his nails or choose the snacks, but this Declan? The one whose voice sounded like it had been dragged over asphalt? The one vibrating with a restraint that was seconds away from snapping?

He was her favorite creation.

She didn't pull back. She didn't even flinch.

Instead, she leaned into the hand holding her face, her eyes locking with his, challenging the darkness there with a slow, deliberate smile. She saw the muscle in his jaw jump under her thumb. He gave her an out—a clear instruction to stop—and they both knew, with absolute certainty, that she wasn’t going to take it.

"Zero sounds fun," she whispered.

She didn’t just keep her hand there. She escalated.

With a brazen smoothness, she pushed past the elastic of his boxers completely, sliding her hand fully inside to wrap her fingers around the scorching, velvet-steel heat of him. The contact was startlingly intimate, skin-on-skin finally, removing the last barrier between his control and her chaos.

She felt the air leave him in a sharp, broken noise that was half-groan, half-curse. His whole body seized, the muscles of his abdomen rigid against her forearm. She stroked him once—slow, firm, and possessive—just to prove she could. Just to prove that the threat hadn’t scared her off; it had only made her hungrier.

She tilted her head, her lips brushing against the corner of his mouth, breathing in the scent of his unraveling patience.

"So," she murmured against his lips, her hand tightening around him, leaving him absolutely no room to misunderstand her intentions. "What happens now?"

The moment her skin touched his, the last thread of Declan’s control didn’t just snap—it incinerated.

Her whisper that zero sounds fun was the final nail in the coffin of his restraint, but it was the brazen, confident way she wrapped her hand around him that short-circuited his brain. The air left his lungs in a guttural, vibration-heavy growl that rumbled directly against her chest. She wasn’t asking for mercy; she was demanding he lose his mind.

And when she asked what happens now, with that smug, beautiful arrogance, he decided answering with words was a waste of time.

"You want zero?" he gritted out, his voice a low, dangerous rumble near her ear. "You got it."
He didn’t give her a second to retract the offer.

Declan surged to his feet, the movement sudden and explosive. In one fluid, practiced motion—born of years of hauling heavy gear, though usually not like this—he bent and scooped her up. He didn't cradle her; he threw her unceremoniously over his shoulder, his arm clamping across the back of her thighs like an iron bar to keep her in place.

He ignored the shift of the world or any protest she might have made. His vision tunnelled to a single destination. He marched down the hallway, his strides long and heavy, eating up the distance to the bedroom in seconds. He didn't bother with the lights. The moonlight filtering through the blinds was enough.

He reached the bed and swung her down, handling her firmly but carefully, planting her on the edge of the mattress so her legs dangled off the side. Before she could even catch her breath or make a quip, he was moving.

He dropped to his knees between her legs, his hands instantly going to the waistband of her pants. There was no teasing this time, no slow seduction. He peeled the fabric down her legs with efficient, desperate haste, tossing them aside without a backward glance.

"This," he muttered, his hands gripping her hips to drag her to the very edge of the bed, spreading her thighs wide. "This is what happens."

Without waiting for permission he knew he already had, he buried his face between her legs, inhaling sharply before pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss against her, intent on drowning out every thought in her head just like she had done to him.

The world had spun upside down in the span of three seconds, and Hattie was still trying to catch up to the fact that she was horizontal before the first wave of sensation crashed over her.

She gasped—a sharp, ragged sound that was torn from her throat the second his mouth connected with her skin. It wasn't just the heat; it was the absolute, crushing weight of his intent.

There was no warm-up. No gentle coaxing. The patient, steady man who had let her trace his abs on the couch was gone, replaced by this starving, single-minded force of nature. His hands were clamped onto her hips like vices, anchoring her to the mattress so she couldn’t escape the onslaught even if she wanted to.

And she definitely didn’t want to.

She had wanted a reaction? God, she had gotten one.

She threw her head back into the duvet, her eyes rolling back as his tongue swept against her, broad and heavy and shockingly skilled. He wasn’t asking for permission anymore; he was taking what she had so arrogantly offered.

"Declan," she choked out, but the name disintegrated into a broken whimper as he sucked hard against her most sensitive spot.

Her hands, flailing for purchase, found the thick hair at the back of his head. She meant to push him away or pull him closer—she honestly didn't know which—but her fingers just tangled in the short strands, gripping tight as her hips bucked involuntarily off the mattress.

He didn’t let her move. He growled against her skin, a vibration that went straight to her core, and tightened his grip on her thighs, widening her stance even further. He was drinking her in like he was dying of thirst, his rhythm punishingly consistent, driving her straight toward the edge with a terrifying efficiency.

The bratty, teasing comments she’d had holstered in the living room evaporated. She couldn’t think of a single clever thing to say. Her entire universe had narrowed down to the friction of his unshaven jaw against her inner thighs and the relentless, devouring pressure of his mouth.

He was proving a point. He was showing her exactly who was in charge when the patience ran out. And as the pleasure began to coil tight and hot in her belly, suffocating and brilliant, Hattie realized with a jolt of delirium that losing this particular power struggle was the best victory she could have ever imagined.

The shift in the air was palpable—a snap of tension breaking that I felt in my own chest as much as I saw it in her eyes. Hattie had spent the last hour pushing, prodding, and seeing exactly how close to the flame she could get before she got burned. She had wanted to know where the line was? Fine. I’d show her.

I didn’t just want to touch her; I wanted to consume her.
When her back hit the mattress, the sound of her breath hitching was the only invitation I needed. I didn't give her a moment to acclimate. I wanted the shock. I wanted to strip away that clever, guarded wit of hers until there was nothing left but raw sensation.

Embedding myself between her legs, I inhaled the scent of her—sweet, aroused, and distinctly Hattie—before claiming her. The taste of her was intoxicating, a sharp contrast to the frustration she’d stoked in me all evening. I settled in, my hands locking on her hips to keep her exactly where I needed her. She wasn't going anywhere.

I felt the tremor run through her thighs as I worked, the way her body tried to arch away from the intensity only to be anchored by my grip. Good. I wanted her overwhelmed. I wanted her to feel the weight of my desire, heavy and undeniable.

Then I felt her fingers.

She tangled them into the hair at the nape of my neck, gripping tight. It was a reflex, a desperate attempt to ground herself, but it was a distraction I wasn't going to allow. I didn't want her guiding me, and I certainly didn't want her hiding behind the contact.

I pulled back just an inch—enough to make her whine in protest—and reached up. My hand clamped around both of her wrists, disentangling her fingers from my hair with a firm, decisive motion.

"No," I murmured against her skin, the word vibrating against her heated flesh.
I pushed her arms up, dragging them over her head until her knuckles hit the headboard. I pinned both her wrists there with one large hand, leaving her completely open, her chest heaving, her body displayed for me in a way that was entirely defenseless.

"You don't get to hold on," I growled, looking up just long enough to see her eyes blown wide and unfocused. "You just take it."

I went back to work, increasing the pressure, satisfied only when I felt her hips buck helplessly against the mattress, her surrender absolute.

She had been drowning in the sensation, grasping at him like a lifeline, her fingers twisted deep into the short hair at the nape of his neck. It was the only thing anchoring her to the bed, to the room, to reality.

Then, abruptly, the heat vanished.

A broken, needy sound tore from her throat as he pulled back, the sudden absence of his mouth leaving her cold and bereft. She cracked her eyelids open, hazy and unfocused, ready to beg him to come back, but the words died on her lips.

He wasn’t stopping. He was escalating.

His hand wrapped around her wrists, warm and callous-rough, and with a firm, inexorable strength, he disentangled her fingers from his hair. She tried to hold on, a reflex of desperation, but he was stronger, and he wasn't asking.

"No," he murmured against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, the vibration sending a fresh shockwave through her.

He swept her arms upward, dragging them over her head until her knuckles bumped against the wooden headboard. He pinned both of her wrists there with one large hand, effortless and absolute. The position stretched her out completely, lifting her ribcage, exposing every inch of her shivering body to his gaze.

She felt utterly, deliciously trapped. The "bossy" Hattie who had orchestrated this entire evening, who had teased and commanded and poked at the bear, was gone. In her place was this—pinned, breathless, and wide open.

He looked up then, his eyes dark and heavy with a dominance that made her toes curl.

"You don't get to hold on," he growled, his voice a rough scrape against her frayed nerves. "You just take it."

The command hit her harder than the physical touch. It was a stripping away of her last defense, her last bit of control. A shiver raked through her, hot and electric. She didn’t fight him. She didn’t even try. Instead, her head fell back against the pillow, her lips parting in a silent, stunned surrender. She loved this. God, she loved when he stopped being the steady rock and became the landslide.

When he lowered his head again, the sensation was a thousand times more intense.

Without her hands to brace herself, without anywhere to channel the energy, she was forced to endure it. She couldn't pull him closer; she couldn't push him away. She could only lie there, pinned and exposed, as he wrecked her with methodical, devastating precision.

She twisted her hips, a futile attempt to escape the relentless pressure of his tongue, but his other hand was there, heavy on her thigh, keeping her wide for him. A whimper built in her chest, high and thin, as the tension began to coil tighter, sharper, winding her up toward a peak she had no way of controlling. He was steering the ship now, and all she could do was ride the wave.

The sight of her completely unraveled, stripped of all her bratty defenses, fed something dark and starving inside of him. Declan didn’t just want her submission; he wanted to own her pleasure entirely, to be the architect of every single sensation flooding her system.

He tightened his grip on her thigh, his fingers digging into the soft flesh with possessive force, pinning her leg open to ensure she couldn’t shy away from what he was about to do. He could feel the tremors vibrating through her muscle, the way she was strung so tight she was ready to snap, but he wasn't done winding her up.

Without breaking the rhythm of his tongue, he slid his hand upward from her thigh, seeking the slick heat at her center. He didn’t ease his way in. He didn't ask. With a rough, decisive shove, he buried two fingers deep inside her, filling her completely.

She gasped, her body bowing off the mattress in a desperate arc, but he held her fast—wrists pinned to the headboard, thigh anchored by his arm.
"Take it," he growled against her skin, the vibration running straight through her.

He began to move his hand, not in a gentle caress, but with a deliberate, arrogant skill. Deep inside her, he curled his fingers upward, flexing them in a hard, "come here" motion that targeted her most sensitive spot with punishing accuracy. He felt her internal walls clamp down instantly around his knuckles, fluttering and pulsing in a frantic attempt to hold him, and the sensation nearly undid him.

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to hold back, to keep the pace torturously steady. He flexed his fingers again, harder this time, grinding against that ridge of nerves while his mouth continued its relentless, suctioning assault on her clit. He was attacking her from every angle, stretching her, claiming her, driving her into a sensory overload so intense he knew she wouldn’t be able to think, speak, or breathe anything but his name.

The reaction was instantaneous. Her cry was sharp, bordering on a scream, and her inner walls spasmed violently around my hand. I groaned at the sensation, the sheer pleasure of feeling her unravel around me. I didn’t stop. I kept flexing, curling my fingers in a "come here" motion that I knew drove her insane, while my mouth continued its relentless assault. I was attacking her from both sides, surrounding her, filling her, ensuring that for this moment in time, I was the only thing that existed in her world.

Her body was a tight, vibrating bowstring, and he was the one pulling it back to the breaking point. He could feel the spasms starting deep inside, those fierce, fluttery contractions against his knuckles that told him she was hovering right on the edge of oblivion.

He didn’t let up. If anything, he became more ravenous.

He tightened his lips around her, creating a seal of vacuum-tight pressure that had her hips jerking violently against his face. He lashed his tongue against her in a relentless, maddening rhythm, swirling over the swollen pearl while his fingers continued that deep, curling flex inside her. He was milking the pleasure out of her, demanding it with every stroke.

He wanted her to break. He needed to be the reason she shattered.
"Come on," he groaned against her wet skin, the words rough and guttural, vibrating through her clit. "Come for me, Hattie."

He sucked harder, drawing her fully into his mouth, drinking down her taste as she began to sob his name. He kept his fingers buried to the hilt, grinding upward, refusing to let her retreat from the sensation.

"Do it," he begged, his voice dropping to a raw, desperate growl. "Give it to me. I want to feel you fall apart. Come on, baby, come for me."

He felt her inner muscles clamp down on his hand like a vice, the tension in her thighs turning to stone. He drove his tongue flat and hard against her one last time, pushing her over the precipice, waiting to catch her as she fell.

The shock of his fingers sliding inside her drew a sharp, strangled cry from her throat, her head falling back against the mattress. It was a sensation of total fullness, a claiming so absolute that it erased the boundaries of her own body. She could feel exactly where he was, filling the empty ache she hadn’t realized was so deep until he touched it.

But it was the movement—that deliberate, arrogant curling of his fingers against the most sensitive interior part of her—that shattered her.

It wasn't a build-up; it was a forest fire. Every time he flexed his hand, a bolt of electricity shot straight from her core to the base of her spine, making her toes curl and her hips jerk in a futile attempt to get away from the intensity. But he had her anchored. He had her pinned, trapped, and wide open, forcing her to endure the exquisite torture of being completely overwhelmed.

"Declan, please," she begged, though she didn’t know if she was pleading for him to stop or to never, ever stop. The words fractured into a sob as he increased the pressure, his mouth working in perfect, devastating rhythm with his hand.

She felt frantic, her mind spinning out into white noise. The control she prized, the "bossy" persona she wore like armor—it was all gone. There was only this: the heat of his breath, the iron grip on her wrists, and the relentless, punishing pleasure driving her toward a ledge she was terrified to fall off of.

"Come for me, Hattie."

His voice, raw and vibrating against her wet skin, was the push she needed. It bypassed her brain and slammed into her chest. He sounded desperate for her, starving for her surrender, and the need to give it to him—to give him everything—eclipsed the fear of the fall.

"Yes," she choked out, her body winding tighter, the tension coiling in her belly like a pulled spring. "Yes, Declan, yes."

He didn't let up. He drove her harder, faster, sucking the air from her lungs until the world narrowed down to a single point of blinding white light.

And then she broke.

The climax hit her like a physical blow, a crashing wave of release that started deep in her womb and radiated outward, seizing her entire body. She screamed his name, a high, broken sound that echoed in the quiet room as her inner walls clamped violently around his fingers, pulsing in long, rhythmic spasms. She bucked against his face, thrashing in his hold, completely undone, her body shaking with the force of the aftershocks that just kept coming, wave after wave, drowning her in him.

Declan didn’t pull away until the very last tremor had faded from her muscles, milking the final, weak flutter of her internal walls against his fingers. He had wanted to feel everything—the build, the break, and the ruin that followed—and the absolute totality of her surrender left a roar of satisfaction thrumming in his blood.

Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew his hand, the wet sound of the separation loud in the sudden quiet of the room. He released her wrists, watching her arms drop heavily to the mattress like dead weights. She was utterly spent, her chest heaving in jagged, broken rhythms, her eyes glazed and staring at the ceiling.

He sat back on his heels for a beat, his own breathing rough, his pulse hammering a heavy cadence against his ribs. He brought his hand up, dragging the back of his knuckles across his mouth to wipe away the slick evidence of her pleasure, his eyes never leaving her face. The taste of her—salt and sweet and heavy musk—lingered on his lips, a prize he intended to savor.

He didn't stay away for long.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he crawled up the length of her body, moving with the predatory grace of a large cat that had just finished a meal. He settled between her spread legs again, but this time he moved higher, bracing his forearms on either side of her head, caging her in.

He looked down at her, taking in the flushed cheeks, the swollen, parted lips, and the disheveled halo of hair against the pillow. The sharp, commanding woman who had been pushing his buttons all evening had been completely dismantled, replaced by this boneless, trembling creature.

A dark, arrogant smirk curled the corner of his mouth. He felt incredibly, terrifyingly pleased with himself.

"Better," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that she would feel in her chest. He brushed a damp strand of hair off her forehead, his touch possessive. "Now I have your attention."

The room was slowly, lazily spinning back into focus, but Hattie felt no rush to help it along. She felt liquified—poured onto the sheets like warm wax, her limbs heavy and humming with the residual static of what he’d just done to her.

When the mattress dipped and he loomed over her, blocking out the moonlight and the ceiling fan, she didn't flinch. She welcomed the shadow. It felt safe. It felt right.

She blinked up at him, her lashes heavy, trying to process the man hovering above her. This wasn’t the quiet, steady Declan who calmly ate his ice cream while she poked and prodded. This was the man who ran into burning buildings, the man who exerted control over chaos for a living—and looking at the dark, arrogant smirk curling his mouth, she realized with a delicious, sleepy jolt that she was the chaos he had just effectively managed.

"Better," he had said.

She tried to scoff, to summon some shred of her earlier bratty defiance, but all that came out was a breathy, broken laugh.

"You look..." She had to pause, her voice barely a whisper, rasping against her dry throat. She licked her lips, tasting the salt of her own sweat. "You look entirely too pleased with yourself, Caldwell."

It was a weak jab, and they both knew it. He had every right to be pleased. He had dismantled her completely, taken her apart piece by piece until she was nothing but a trembling mess calling his name. And the worst part? She had loved every devastating second of it.

She lifted her hands, her arms feeling impossibly heavy, like moving through water. She managed to reach his face, her palms cupping the rough stubble of his jaw, her thumbs brushing against the smirk that was still playing on his lips.

"You have it," she admitted softly, her eyes tracing the familiar, beloved lines of his face, now stark with satisfaction. "You have all of it. Happy now?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She didn't need one. She tugged on his face, her fingers threading into the short hair at his ears, exerting the only pressure she was currently capable of.

"Come down here," she murmured, the command lacking any real authority but dripping with need. "You’re too far away. I need... I need the weight."

Declan’s smirk softened the second she touched him.

Not vanished—never that—but it eased, reshaped itself into something warmer, heavier with care than triumph. He leaned into her palms like it was instinct, like her hands were an anchor he trusted without question. When she called him pleased with himself, a quiet breath of a laugh left him, low in his chest, more fond than cocky.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice calm, grounded, steady in a way that was unmistakably him. “Maybe I am.”

He didn’t pull away from her grip. Didn’t make her reach any farther than she already had. Instead, he followed her tug, lowering himself carefully, deliberately, until the space between them disappeared the way she’d asked.

He came down slow—not collapsing, not overwhelming—just enough that his weight was a presence, solid and sure, braced on his forearms so she was cocooned without being trapped. His forehead brushed her temple. His nose traced the line of her cheek in a gentle nuzzle, affectionate and reverent, like he was memorizing her again at this distance.

His cheek rested against hers, warm skin to warm skin, his breath slow and even now, matching hers on purpose. One hand slid to cradle the side of her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone in a soothing, unhurried stroke. The other settled at her side, firm and grounding, the way he always held her when he wanted her to feel safe more than anything else.

When she said you have all of it, his eyes closed for half a second.

“Only because you gave it to me,” he replied softly, honest and unguarded. “And I don’t take that lightly. Ever.”

He pressed a kiss into her hair, lingering there, then another at her temple—nothing rushed, nothing demanding. Just affection layered thick and steady, like a promise made without ceremony.

“You good?” he asked quietly, the question not about anything physical—about her. About the way she’d gone soft beneath him. About whether she felt held the way she wanted to be.

He shifted just enough to settle more comfortably against her, careful with his weight, careful with her, his presence wrapping around her like a shield instead of a claim.

Declan let out a slow breath and shifted just enough to get comfortable, careful not to break the cocoon they’d settled into. He eased his weight so it was shared with the mattress, then let his head fall back against the pillows, eyes lifting to the ceiling as if he were grounding himself there for a second.

Not pulling away.

Just settling.

His arm stayed around her, secure and unhurried, and his fingers resumed those familiar circles at her side—slow, absentminded, deeply practiced. The kind of touch that wasn’t about anything other than reassurance. About presence. About staying.

For a moment, he just breathed. Let the room quiet again. Let the fan hum. Let the world shrink down to the steady rise and fall of her beneath his arm.

“Every time,” he murmured softly, more to the ceiling than anyone else, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You act surprised like I’m not gonna end up right here.”

His fingers traced another gentle loop, thumb brushing the same path over and over, like he was marking time.

“I don’t need to go anywhere,” he added, voice low and calm, still looking up. “This is… good. You’re good.”

He turned his head slightly, cheek brushing her hair as he glanced down at her again, expression warm and unguarded.

“You can just stay,” he said quietly. “I’ll keep watch.”

And he did—head resting back, body relaxed, hand moving in those slow, steady circles—holding her there like it was the easiest, most natural thing he’d do all day.

The heavy, steady pressure of him was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth. Without it—without that solid wall of muscle and heat pressing her into the mattress—she felt like she might have just floated away, dissolved into the ether by the sheer force of the release he’d wrung out of her.

She let out a long, shaky exhale, her ribs settling as his weight became her blanket.

His words—Only because you gave it to me—settled deep in her chest, right alongside the lingering tremors of pleasure. That was the secret, the thing that made the "dangerous game" safe to play. He could wreck her, he could overwhelm her, he could take absolute control, but only because she had handed him the keys and dared him to drive. He knew the difference between taking and accepting, and God, she loved him for it.

She closed her eyes, nuzzling her face into the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him—soap, skin, and the faint, underlying musk of sex.

Then came the circles. That rhythmic, hypnotic motion of his thumb at her waist. It was muscle memory for him, she knew—a soothing mechanism he probably didn’t even realize he was doing—but it worked like a sedative on her frayed nerves.

And then, the quiet murmur to the ceiling. I’ll keep watch.

A soft, tired smile bloomed against his skin. It was the most Declan thing he could possibly say. They were in their locked apartment, on a safe street, with nothing more threatening than a discarded pair of sweatpants on the floor, but he was treating her rest like a shift. Like she was a precious cargo that needed active guarding while she powered down.

"You're ridiculous," she mumbled into his shoulder, though the words lacked any bite. They were muffled, heavy with sleep, and dripping with affection. "Guarding me from the ceiling fan. Very heroic."

She adjusted her leg, tangling it with his, needing that extra point of contact. She felt the rumble of his chest as he breathed, a slow, deep metronome that her own heart was already syncing up to.

This was why she poked the bear. This was why she teased him until his eyes went dark. Yes, the fireworks were spectacular, and the adrenaline was addictive, but this? This aftermath? This absolute, bone-deep certainty that she could close her eyes and the world would stop spinning because he was holding it steady for her?
That was the real high.

"Okay," she whispered, her voice fading as the exhaustion finally pulled her under. She pressed a clumsy, open-mouthed kiss to the pulse point on his neck, her hand going slack where it rested on his chest. "You keep watch, Caldwell. I'm going off duty."

She didn't need to check if he was still there. She knew he wouldn't move an inch. And knowing that, she let go completely.

Declan let out a low, quiet breath when she said it—ridiculous—more air than laughter, the sound vibrating gently against her where she was tucked into him.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice soft and unbothered, eyes still angled toward the ceiling fan like it genuinely deserved his attention. “Occupational hazard. Once you clock in, it’s hard to clock out.”

His thumb never stopped its slow path at her waist. If anything, it eased—smaller circles now, unhurried, intentional. The kind of touch that said rest without needing to say anything at all.

When she shifted her leg and tangled it with his, his body responded automatically. He adjusted just enough to make room, to anchor her there, his breathing deep and steady beneath her cheek.

At her whisper—off duty—his jaw softened, the tension draining out of him in real time.

“Copy that,” he replied quietly. “I’ll stay right here.”

He dipped his head just enough to press his mouth to her hair, not a kiss meant to wake her, just a warm, lingering contact. His arm stayed firm around her, protective without being tight, like he’d settled into a long watch he didn’t mind one bit.

Declan didn’t move after that.

Didn’t speak again.

He just stayed—breathing slow, fingers tracing those familiar circles, letting her weight sink fully into him while sleep claimed her—holding the world steady by doing absolutely nothing at all.

Morning didn’t arrive with a burst of sunlight; it crept in slowly, manifesting as a heavy, gray softness that filtered through the blinds and a warmth that was entirely too comfortable to leave.

Hattie surfaced from sleep in stages. First came the awareness of weight—the heavy duvet pulled up to her chin, and the even heavier arm draped across her waist. Then came the smell: the familiar, comforting blend of laundry detergent and Declan’s skin. She was cocooned, plastered against his side, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder where she had apparently been drooling for hours.

She shifted slightly, stretching her legs beneath the covers, expecting the slide of bare skin against the sheets.

Instead, she felt the soft, worn friction of cotton.

She paused, blinking her eyes open to stare at the fuzzy outline of his chest. She wiggled her hips. Definitely cotton.

She frowned, confusion fighting through the morning fog. The last thing she remembered was being utterly boneless, her body humming with aftershocks, mumbling something about him taking the night watch before she passed out cold. She certainly hadn’t had the coordination to find her pajama bottoms, let alone put them on.

A small, sleepy smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as the realization landed.

Declan.

Sometime in the night, while she was dead to the world, he must have gotten up. He’d found her shorts—probably kicked into a corner somewhere—and had gently, painstakingly maneuvered her into them. He would have had to lift her hips, guide her legs, and pull them up, all without waking her.

It was such a ridiculously Declan thing to do. The man who had wrecked her with such devastating precision only hours ago was the same man who couldn't stand the thought of her getting cold in the middle of the night. It was the "keep watch" promise translated into flannel and cotton.

She tilted her head back to look at him.

He was fast asleep, his breathing a deep, rhythmic rumble in his chest. The stark, predatory intensity from the night before had vanished, replaced by a slack, boyish softness. His dark lashes rested against his cheeks, and the stubble on his jaw was darker than it had been yesterday. He looked heavy, solid, and immovable.

Even in his sleep, his hold on her hadn't loosened. His arm was a dead weight across her stomach, anchoring her to him, keeping her exactly where he wanted her.

She didn't try to move him. She didn't want to.

Instead, she shifted just enough to bury her face against his neck again, breathing him in. She pressed a soft kiss to the warm skin just below his ear, her hand coming up to rest flat over his slow-beating heart.

"Good boy," she whispered, the words silent, mouthing them against his skin as she let her eyes drift shut again. The day could wait. She was exactly where she was supposed to be.

Declan stirred at the brush of her lips against his neck—not fully awake, not startled—just a slow, instinctive shift like his body recognized her before his mind did.

A quiet breath left him, warm against her hair. His arm tightened the smallest amount at her waist, not possessive, just confirming contact. Staying put.

When her whispered words reached him, he didn’t open his eyes right away. The corners of his mouth lifted, barely there, like the smile happened somewhere deeper than consciousness.

“Mm,” he murmured, voice low and rough with sleep, the sound vibrating against her cheek. “Morning to you too.”

His hand moved then—unhurried, familiar—sliding from her stomach up her side, thumb tracing a slow, absent-minded line like he was taking inventory. Still here. Still warm.

He shifted his head just enough to nuzzle into her hair, breathing her in, forehead resting lightly against hers. His lashes fluttered once before finally lifting, eyes heavy but soft when they found her.

“You comfortable?” he asked quietly, the question more habit than concern, like checking the locks even when you know they’re already secure.

His thumb resumed its lazy rhythm at her side, anchoring her without thinking about it. He pressed a gentle kiss into her temple—no rush, no intent beyond affection—and settled back into the pillow, keeping her exactly where she was.

“Day can wait,” he added, voice still half-dream. “Stay right there.”

And with that, he relaxed again, breathing slow and even, content to let the morning hover at the edges while he held onto the part that mattered most.

Declan shifted fully awake then—not all at once, but with that quiet decisiveness he carried into everything. One second he was heavy with sleep, the next his arm tightened with intention.

Before she could protest—or tease him for it—he rolled them gently, careful and practiced, until she was gathered closer instead of merely tucked in. He scooped her up like it was the most natural thing in the world, pulling her higher against his chest so her head fit perfectly beneath his chin, her legs drawn in and cradled between his.

A full-body cuddle. No escape routes. Deliberate.

“There,” he murmured, voice still low, still warm, as if he were solving a problem only he’d noticed. “That’s better.”

He adjusted the duvet with one hand, tucking it back around her shoulders, sealing the heat in. His other arm curved around her back, broad palm resting between her shoulder blades, thumb moving in slow, grounding strokes that matched the rhythm of his breathing.

Declan dipped his head, pressing a kiss into her hair—then another, lingering this time, like he had nowhere else to be and no reason to rush. His cheek rested lightly against the top of her head, stubble scratching softly against her skin.

“You’re freezing,” he added quietly, even though she wasn’t. Even though this was clearly just an excuse.

He shifted again, minutely, until her body aligned even more snugly with his—chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. His leg hooked over hers, anchoring her there with a kind of absent-minded protectiveness that felt older than thought.

Nothing in him was hurried. Nothing was demanding.

Just holding.

He exhaled, long and content, and let his eyes fall shut again.

Freezing? She was practically incubating.

Between the heavy down duvet and the furnace-like heat radiating off the man wrapped around her, Hattie was pretty sure she was closer to heatstroke than hypothermia. But she knew a tactical lie when she heard one, and she certainly wasn’t going to sabotage her own comfort just for the sake of meteorological accuracy.

She hummed a soft, vibrating sound against his chest, shifting just enough to tuck her nose against the warm column of his neck. It was a token gesture, a little performance of "brr, I'm cold" to validate his excuse, even though they both knew he just wanted to be a giant, clingy octopus.

She loved it, though. She loved the sheer, solid presence of him in the mornings. For someone so capable and alert during the day, Morning Declan was heavy and languid, operating purely on instinct and the desire to keep her within a two-inch radius.

She let herself drift there for a few minutes, tracing a lazy pattern on his bicep with her fingertips, listening to the slow, rhythmic thud of his heart. It was the best kind of trap.
But eventually, reality—and the sticky, lingering memory of exactly why she had slept so hard—started to creep in.

"Liar," she whispered into his skin, the word devoid of any actual bite. She pressed a kiss to his throat, feeling the pulse jump slightly under her lips. "I am toasty warm and you know it. You’re just hoarding me."

She tried to shift her hips back, just a test to see if he was actually asleep or just playing possum, but the arm wrapped around her tightened instantly. It wasn't a hard grip, just a firm, immovable reminder that he wasn't done holding her yet.

She sighed, a dramatic little puff of air that ruffled the hair near his ear.

"Declan," she murmured, pitching her voice to that sweet, reasonable tone she used when she was trying to get him to do something he didn't want to do. She walked her fingers up his arm to scratch lightly at the back of his neck. "I really need to shower. I feel gross. And not the good kind of gross anymore."

She waited for him to release her. He didn't. The grip on her back remained steady, his breathing didn't even hitch, and he made absolutely no move to uncage her. He was stonewalling her with cuddles.

"Okay," she whispered, accepting her fate with a small smile pressed against his collarbone. "I guess I’ll just be dirty forever. This is my life now. Held hostage by a stubborn heater."

"Mmm. Hostage," he rumbled against the top of her head. It was a lazy admission of guilt, completely devoid of remorse.

Then, without warning, the world tilted. Declan didn't release her; instead, he shifted his weight, swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, and stood up, hauling her up with him effortlessly. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, and the heavy duvet—robbed of its anchors—slid off their backs to pool on the floor in a neglected heap of feathers.

He let out a long, ragged groan that vibrated right through her ribs, a sound that was half protest at leaving the horizontal world and half pure, sleepy exertion.

"Well, if you’re showering, I’m showering too," he rasped, his voice rough with sleep and absolute stubbornness.

He carried her into the en-suite, his bare feet padding silently against the tile, and lowered her onto the closed lid of the toilet. He stood there for a second, swaying slightly, blinking specifically at her with heavy-lidded eyes. Then, with a slow, heavy exhale, his hands moved to the waistband of his boxers. He fumbled slightly, his fine motor skills clearly still recharging, peeling the fabric down while looking like he might fall back asleep standing up.

He kicked his boxers aside, not bothering to check if they actually made it near the hamper. The air in the bathroom was cooler than the bed, and he resented it immediately.

He pulled the glass door open and reached in, his shoulder muscles bunching as he twisted the handle. He didn't waste time finding a middle ground; he cranked it all the way to the right. The pipes gave a shuddering clank, and then the water hissed to life, drumming hard against the tile.

He kept his hand under the spray for a second, waiting for the icy bite to turn into the scalding steam he needed to actually function. When the steam finally started to curl up around his wrist, he didn't step in yet. Instead, he leaned his forehead briefly against the cool glass of the enclosure, eyes sliding shut again for just a heartbeat before he turned his heavy gaze back to her.

"Get in," he muttered, the command soft and gravelly, extending a hand toward her. "Before I fall asleep standing here."

Hattie sat on the closed toilet lid for a moment longer than necessary, just drinking him in. There was something obscenely endearing about watching a man capable of hauling heavy gear up a flight of stairs be completely defeated by the concept of morning.

He looked like a sulky, overgrown bear that had been poked out of hibernation too early—leaning his forehead against the glass, eyes squeezed shut against the harsh reality of being awake, looking massive and warm and ridiculously pathetic. He had managed to get the water temperature perfect without even opening his eyes fully, a testament to that innate, sleepy competence that she found frustratingly attractive.

She stood up, suppressing a grin.

"You are tragic," she told him affectionately, the words soft in the steam-gathering room.

She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her cotton shorts, skimming them down her hips and stepping out of them with a quick, efficient shuffle. She kicked them toward the general vicinity of his boxers—close enough for government work—and then grabbed the hem of her tank top. She peeled it up and over her head in one smooth motion, the cool air biting at her skin and making her nipples harden instantly.

She tossed the shirt aside and reached out.

His hand was still extended, waiting for her in the open space between the shower door and the vanity, a silent, stubborn invitation.

She slid her palm against his. His fingers curled around hers instantly—an automatic, magnetic latch that didn't require conscious thought. It was a grip that said gotcha.

Hattie stepped past him into the spray, gasping softly as the scalding water hit her chest. It was intense, bordering on too hot, exactly how he liked it. She didn't let go of him, though. She turned back, water streaming down her face, and gave his hand a firm, insistent tug.

"Come on," she urged, pulling the mountain to Muhammad. "In you get. The water’s fine."

He followed her lead, stumbling slightly over the threshold before the water hit his broad back, instantly darkening his skin. He groaned again, a rumble of appreciation for the heat, and practically slumped against the tiled wall, looking down at her through wet lashes.

Hattie reached for the bar of soap and the washcloth, lathering it up with brisk, capable movements while he just stood there, swaying imperceptibly like a skyscraper in a high wind. She stepped into his space, pressing her wet front against his wet front, tilting her head back to catch his sleepy gaze.

"Okay, here’s the deal," she said, resting a soapy hand on his chest, feeling the heavy, slow thud of his heart beneath the muscle. She smirked up at him, her voice dripping with playful indulgence. "I will do all the work. I will scrub the grumpy bear clean. But you have to promise to stay upright on your own two feet, because if you tip over and squish me, the spa service is officially closed for business."

The accusation drifted through the steam—affectionate, but accurate. He felt tragic. His brain was wrapped in thick, damp cotton wool, and the only reality he was currently willing to accept was the heat radiating from the pipes and the cool glass against his forehead. He heard the soft rustle of fabric dropping to the floor, a sound that usually commanded his full attention, but right now it just signaled that help was arriving.

He kept his hand out, a blind, stubborn sensor in the void. When her palm finally slid against his, the contact was like a grounding wire snapping into place. The connection was instantaneous, cutting through the haze of exhaustion. He didn't need to open his eyes to know it was her; he knew the shape of her fingers, the specific strength in her grip.

Then came the tug—firm, demanding, and impossible to ignore.

He peeled himself off the glass with a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, stumbling obediently toward the heat. The moment he crossed the threshold, the water hammered against his shoulders, scalding and perfect. It was a physical relief so intense his knees actually buckled a fraction, and he slumped back against the tiled wall, letting the spray drown out the morning.

He was content to stay there, a static object in a moving stream, until he felt the brisk scrub of the washcloth and the sudden, glorious pressure of her body pressing into his. She was small and slick and solid, forcing him to focus. He cracked his eyes open, peering down through water-spiked lashes as she laid her hand over his heart.

He listened to her terms—the playful threat about the spa service closing if he crushed her—and a slow, heavy smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was a fair point; he felt swaying and massive, like a tree with shallow roots.

"I think," he rasped, his voice a wrecked baritone that sounded like it had been dragged over miles of gravel, "that is the most generous contract I’ve ever been offered."

He freed one hand from the wall, wrapping his arm heavily around her waist to anchor himself, burying his face in the wet curve of her neck. He breathed her in—soap and steam and Hattie.

"I promise to stay vertical," he murmured against her skin, the vibration humming against her throat. "Just don't stop."

"Deal," she whispered, leaning back just enough to create the space she needed to work, though she didn’t dislodge the heavy arm clamped around her waist.

She started at the top, just like she’d promised. She re-lathered the washcloth, the scent of his sandalwood soap blooming in the steam, and pressed it against the broad, wet expanse of his shoulders. She scrubbed firmly, digging her fingers in to work out the knots of tension that always seemed to live in his trapezius muscles. He leaned into the pressure instantly, his head lolling forward, offering her better access like a cat begging to be scratched.

It was satisfying work. There was so much of him to wash. She dragged the cloth down the center of his chest, swirling over the dark hair and the hard pectorals, watching the suds cascade down his ribs. He was pliable under her hands, shifting only when she nudged him, compliant in a way that was almost unnerving.

She paused as she reached his sternum, resting her soapy palm flat against his heart again. He hadn't tried to take the cloth. He hadn't made a move to wash her. He was just... existing.

"Hey," she said softly, giving his pectoral a light, playful slap with the wet cloth. "Earth to Declan. You still with me in there?"

She tilted her head, trying to catch his eye under the shower spray.

"You are operating at about ten percent capacity, pulling a serious zombie act," she teased, a smile playing on her lips as she searched his face. " Usually, by now, you've tried to steal the soap or micromanage the water temperature. You feeling okay?"

She didn't wait for a verbal answer—she knew he was likely saving his words for emergencies only—but she watched him closely. It wasn't worry, exactly, but a fond curiosity. It took a lot to drain the batteries of a man who ran on caffeine and adrenaline, and seeing him this subdued felt like a rare achievement.

Satisfied that he wasn't actually fainting, just luxuriating in his own laziness, she hummed and continued her work. She moved the cloth lower, scrubbing over the rigid definition of his abs. Her knuckles grazed the V-lines of his hips, and she felt his breath hitch, a small, involuntary reaction that proved the systems were definitely still online.

"Good," she murmured, discarding the cloth to use her slick hands instead, sliding them down his sides to grip his waist. "At least the reflex sensors are working."