Declan wasn't sure where his body ended and the steam began. The only distinct reality in the world was Hattie’s hands—firm, relentless, and bordering on magic. When she dug her thumbs into the knot of tension at the base of his neck, he felt the exhaustion physically melting off him, dripping away with the suds down his spine. He wasn't ignoring her; he was just completely, utterly paralyzed by the sheer luxury of being taken care of. He had spent the last week in a state of hyper-vigilance; surrendering the wheel was a narcotic he hadn't realized he needed.

Her light slap to his pectoral brought him back to the surface, but only just. He peered at her through the veil of water, seeing the amusement dancing in her eyes. She thought he was broken because he wasn't trying to take control—a fair assessment, historically speaking—but she was missing the point.

"I'm not a zombie," he mumbled, the words vibrating against the wet skin of her neck as he refused to lift his head, content to treat her shoulder as his pillow. "I'm delegating. It's a sophisticated management strategy. Why would I micromanage you when you're clearly an expert? I’m just... supervising. With my eyes closed."

He let her move him, his body heavy and pliant, trusting her completely not to let him drown. It was a rare, vulnerable stillness for him, a silent admission that he felt safe enough to power down. But when her hands discarded the cloth and slid—slick and hot—down the ridges of his stomach to the sensitive dip of his hips, the wiring in his brain finally sparked.

The hitch in his breath was involuntary, a hard, electric reset to his nervous system that cut straight through the fog.

He tightened his grip on her waist, his thumbs pressing into her skin to ground himself against the sudden, sharp spike in his heart rate.

"Careful," he warned, a low, rough sound that was half-growl, half-invitation. He finally lifted his head, water dripping from his nose, to give her a heavy-lidded, heated look that was significantly more alert than it had been ten seconds ago. "The sensors are fine. You just don't want to accidentally trigger the 'awake' protocol before you're finished. It's a lot less docile than the bear."

The growl was effective—it proved the engine was definitely turning over—but it was the clarity in his eyes that actually made her shoulders drop an inch in relief.

She hadn't been poking him just to be bratty; she’d been genuinely scanning for data. Declan ran himself into the ground on a regular basis, and usually, this level of lethargy came with a fever or the start of a nasty chest cold. She had been half-expecting to feel heat radiating off him that had nothing to do with the shower, looking for that glassy, sick sheen in his gaze.

But the "awake protocol" threat? That was pure, unadulterated Caldwell. Sick Declan didn't make jokes about management strategies; sick Declan just grunted and tried to do everything himself until he collapsed.

"Okay, good," she said, her voice dropping the teasing lilt for something softer, more grounded. She reached up, cupping his wet face between her hands, her thumbs brushing away the water dripping from his lashes. "No fever, still snarky. You'll live."

She offered him a small, reassuring smile, leaning in to press a quick, hard kiss to his mouth—not a seduction, but a seal of approval.

"But let's keep the 'awake protocol' offline for now," she murmured against his lips. "I prefer the docile bear. He’s easier to scrub behind the ears."

She stepped back, retrieving the washcloth she’d discarded. She re-lathered it until it was heavy with suds, then placed a hand on his hip, guiding him with a gentle but firm pressure.
"Turn," she commanded softly. "Let me get your back."

He obeyed with a slow, heavy shuffle, presenting her with the broad expanse of his back. It was like washing a wall, if the wall was made of warm, shifting muscle and scarred skin. She took her time, moving the cloth in wide, soothing circles across his shoulder blades and down the deep groove of his spine.

This was her favorite part. Not the power trip of bossing him around, but the quiet, tactile reality of caring for him. There was an intimacy in this that felt deeper than what they’d done last night. It was the service of it. The act of washing away the sweat, the sleep, and the invisible weight of his job, stripping him down until he was just Declan—clean, warm, and safe in her hands.

She focused on the task with a loving efficiency, scrubbing his lower back, then moving to his arms, lifting each heavy limb to wash his biceps and forearms.

"Delegating," she scoffed softly, shaking her head as she worked the soap down to his wrists. "You know, for a control freak, you’re surprisingly good at being pampered. I might have to write this down in your performance review."

She squeezed his hand, interlacing her soapy fingers with his for a moment, just to feel him squeeze back.

"You're doing great," she whispered to his back, her cheek pressing briefly against his wet shoulder blade. "Almost done. But don't think you're escaping once I rinse you off."

She smoothed her hands over his traps one last time, rinsing the suds away.

"You're on standby," she told him, her tone settling into that comfortable, domestic range. "You can hang out here in the steam and keep me company while I get the 'gross' off me. And we’re skipping the hair today—I don’t have the patience for shampooing us both, and honestly, neither do you. Just bodies. Okay?"

The heat of the shower was finally starting to seep into his bones, but it was Hattie’s touch that actually grounded him. When she cupped his face, Declan leaned into the contact instinctively, his eyes fluttering shut as her thumbs swept away the water. The worry he’d seen in her eyes earlier—the kind that made his chest ache with a mixture of guilt and gratitude—was fading, replaced by that confident, loving assessment he relied on more than he cared to admit.

"Hard to kill," he murmured against her palm, his voice rough with exhaustion but sincere. When she pressed that hard, sealing kiss to his mouth, he didn't just accept it; he chased it for a fraction of a second when she pulled away, a silent request for just a little more fuel.

Her comment about the "awake protocol" drew a low, vibration of a laugh from his chest. "Offline sounds good," he agreed, his eyes staying heavy-lidded. "I like the docile bear. The docile bear gets taken care of."

When she commanded him to turn, the order bypassed the stubborn, command-driven part of his brain and went straight to the part of him that trusted her implicitly. He turned slowly, the movement feeling sluggish, like moving through deep water. He let his forehead rest against the cool, wet tile of the shower wall for a moment, breathing in the steam, submitting to her care.

As the washcloth began its work on his back, Declan let out a long, ragged exhale. The tension that lived permanently between his shoulder blades—the physical manifestation of every fire he’d had to put out that week—began to unravel under her firm, circular motions. It was humiliating how good it felt, and yet, with Hattie, there was no shame. Just relief.

He listened to her scoff about his delegation skills, a smirk touching his lips even though she couldn’t see it. When she interlaced their fingers, he squeezed back, anchoring himself to her.

"Make sure you note the high level of cooperation in that review," he rumbled, his voice echoing slightly in the tiled enclosure. "I expect a significant bonus."
He leaned into the pressure as she moved to his arms, the sensation of the rough cloth and her slick, soapy hands making him feel human again. He wasn't Caldwell right now. He wasn't a problem solver. He was just a man being washed by the woman he loved.

"I’m not escaping," he promised quietly when she mentioned rinsing him off. "Legs feel like lead anyway. You couldn't pay me to run."

As she finished rinsing him and stepped back, declaring him on "standby," Declan finally turned back around. He slid down the wall just a few inches, bracing his weight comfortably so he could watch her. The steam curled around them, but his vision was clear, focused entirely on her.

"Standby. I can do standby," he confirmed, watching her reach for the soap.
He crossed his arms over his chest, not defensively, but to keep the warmth in, his gaze following the movement of her hands as she began to wash herself. He felt a profound sense of peace settle over him—a rare commodity.

"Just bodies is perfect, Hattie," he said, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a lazy, appreciative affection. "No hair. No thinking. Just us."

He watched the suds glide over her skin, his mind quiet for the first time in days. He wasn't analyzing threats or calculating timelines; he was just admiring the curve of her shoulder and the way the water sluiced down her spine. "Need me to return the favor?" he offered, though he made no move to take over, happy to let her dictate the pace. "Or are you keeping the pampering strictly one-sided today?"

Hattie grabbed her own washcloth—a soft, textured white square that hung on the hook next to his—and reached for the pump of her body wash. The scent of shea butter and warm vanilla instantly bloomed in the steam, weaving through the lingering, woodsy notes of his sandalwood.

She glanced up at him as she worked the soap into a rich lather. He looked devastatingly good like that—leaning back against the dark tile, arms crossed over that broad, wet chest, water dripping from the ends of his hair. He was watching her with a heaviness that wasn't just sleep; it was a potent, quiet appreciation that made her skin prickle with heat before the water even touched it.

"Strictly one-sided," she answered, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "If I let you wash me, we both know you’ll either fall asleep mid-scrub or get distracted and try to start something your legs definitely can't finish right now."

She stepped back under the spray, letting the hot water cascade over her head and down her back, plastering her hair against her skull. She moved the cloth over her neck and shoulders, relishing the slide of the soap. She could feel his eyes tracking the movement, heavy and tactile, like a physical touch. It was a different kind of intimacy than the frantic energy of last night; it was slow, domestic, and incredibly grounding.

"Besides," she added, dragging the cloth down her arm and over her chest, not rushing, letting him have his view. "I like having an audience. It keeps me efficient."

She scrubbed her stomach and legs quickly, knowing the water was starting to cool just a fraction and that he really did need to get horizontal again soon.

"Just relax, Caldwell," she murmured, catching his gaze again as she rinsed the suds away. "Your only job right now is to stand there and look pretty. And you’re crushing it, by the way."

Declan let out a low, rough sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a scoff and a groan, at her accusation. He didn't move from his spot against the dark tile, mostly because he wasn't entirely sure his legs wouldn't betray him if he tried, but the corner of his mouth kicked up in a tired, crooked grin.

"You have very little faith in my stamina, Hattie," he rumbled, his voice dropping an octave, deepened by the steam and the heavy weight of exhaustion settling into his bones. "I wouldn't fall asleep. Distracted... maybe. But I’d argue that getting distracted by you is a productive use of my time."

He watched the water sluice over her, his eyes dark and unblinking. The steam was thickening, blurring the edges of the shower stall, but she was vivid, the contrast of the white washcloth against her skin drawing his gaze like a magnet. The scent of her vanilla and shea butter hit him, cutting through the damp air and mixing with the sharp, clean smell of the soap on his own skin. It was intoxicating, a soft, sweet warmth that made his head swim more than the heat did.

As she claimed she liked the audience, he shifted his weight, wincing slightly as a dull ache rolled through his quads, but he didn't look away. He tracked the path of the cloth down her arm, over the curve of her shoulder, feeling a phantom friction against his own palms. He wanted to be the one doing that. He wanted to feel the slip of the soap and the heat of her skin under his hands, wanted to replace the cloth with his own touch, grounding himself in the reality of her here, safe and close.

When she told him to relax and just look pretty, he finally pushed himself off the wall, just an inch, the water drumming against his broad back. He reached out, his fingers brushing against her wet hip, a brief, anchoring touch before he let his hand fall back, frustrated by his own physical limits.

"But I want to," he murmured, his voice laced with a petulant, playful edge that softened the intensity of his stare. He leaned his head back against the tiles, water dripping from his lashes as he looked at her with half-lidded adoration. "I always stand here and look pretty."

Declan didn’t stay against the wall. The accusation that he was only good for "looking pretty" sparked a low, defiant heat in his chest that had nothing to do with the steam. He pushed himself upright, ignoring the heavy drag of gravity and the stiff protest of his muscles. He didn't want to just watch; watching felt too passive, too distant for the way his skin was itching to make contact.

He stepped fully into the spray, the hot water hammering against his shoulders as he closed the small gap between them. Before she could rinse the suds from her stomach, he reached out. His hand, large and wet, wrapped around hers, swallowing her fingers where they gripped the white square.

"Overruled," he murmured, his voice rough against the sound of the falling water.

He didn't tug; he just held her hand steady until her grip loosened, then he slid the soft, textured cloth from her palm into his own. It was warm and slick with her vanilla-scented lather, a stark contrast to the calloused roughness of his own skin.

"Turn around, Hattie," he commanded softly, not waiting for her to comply before he stepped closer, pressing his chest lightly against her back to steady himself. He brought the cloth to her shoulder, dragging it slowly down the curve of her spine. He wasn't efficient—he was deliberate. He washed her with a heavy, rhythmic pressure, tracing the muscles of her back as if he were trying to memorize them through the terrycloth. "I can handle a washcloth without passing out. Let me take care of you for a minute."

The "Overruled" hung in the steam between them, low and rumbly and unfairly attractive.
Hattie didn’t fight him for the cloth. She knew when she’d been bested, and frankly, the sudden shift from sleepy bear to stubborn protector was a transformation she always enjoyed watching. She let him take the white square from her hand, her lips curbing into a smirk that she hid by turning around as commanded.

She settled her back against his front, and immediately, she felt the difference. He wasn't swaying with sleep anymore, but he was heavy. As he pressed against her, she could feel the sheer, dense weight of his exhaustion—like gravity was pulling on him twice as hard as it was pulling on her. He was using her as a structural support, bracing his chest against her spine to keep himself steady while his hand went to work.

"You are the worst listener I know, Caldwell," she murmured, though she leaned back into him, locking her knees to take some of his weight. "I give you a direct order to relax, and you stage a mutiny."

She let her head fall forward, exposing the nape of her neck to the spray and to him.
His touch wasn't the brisk, efficient scrub she had given him. It was slow. Heavy. The washcloth moved down her spine in a long, dragging stroke that felt less like hygiene and more like a claim. She could feel the concentration radiating off him, the way he was pouring what little battery power he had left into this one, simple task.

"Mmm," she hummed as he worked the lather over her shoulder blades, the pressure firm and grounding. "Okay. I retract my statement. You can handle the washcloth. But you're leaning on me like a condemned building, just so you know."

She reached back, her hands finding the backs of his thighs, gripping the wet skin there to anchor him, turning herself into the steady foundation he needed.

"Lower," she instructed softly, peering over her shoulder at him through the steam. His jaw was set, his eyes dark and focused on her skin like it was the only thing in the room. "If you're going to prove a point, you might as well get the spot right above my hip."

"Condemned building," he repeated, the words vibrating low in his chest and humming directly against her spine. A rough, tired chuckle escaped him, breath ghosting over her wet skin. "That implies I’m a safety hazard. I prefer to think of it as... strategic structural reliance. You’re sturdy, Hattie. You can take it."

He didn’t pull back. Instead, he leaned into her even more, letting her take the brunt of his weight just like she offered, his body molding to the curve of her back. He pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the slope of her shoulder, tasting the water and the salt on her skin, lingering there for a long beat as if drawing energy from the contact.

"And I'm listening," he murmured against her neck, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "I'm always listening."

He obeyed her instruction seamlessly. He dragged the warm, soapy terrycloth down her ribcage, over the dip of her waist, and settled on that specific spot just above her hip bone. He worked the cloth there in slow, heavy circles, his thumb kneading into the muscle with a firmness that bordered on possessive. He took his time, washing away the day, the stress, and the distance between them.

But he didn't stop at her hip. The "mutiny" she’d accused him of was fully underway now.

He let the cloth glide lower, sliding heavily down the outside of her thigh before curving inward. He felt her breath hitch, the small expansion of her ribs against his arm, and that reaction was all the fuel he needed. He moved his hand between her legs, sliding the textured white fabric right against the slick, sensitive heat of her.

He didn't rush; he was too tired to rush, which only made it more intense. He cupped her through the washcloth, the rougher texture of the cotton acting as a maddening contrast to the slide of the soap. He applied a firm, deliberate pressure right against her clit, rubbing slowly, purposely. He wasn't just washing her anymore; he was wrecking her efficiency, using the friction of the cloth to draw a reaction out of her that had nothing to do with getting clean.

"Is that," he whispered, biting lightly at the sensitive cord of her neck as his hand kept its steady, rhythmic pressure between her legs, "low enough for you?"

Of course. This was exactly why she had tried to relegate him to "stand there and look pretty" duty. She had seen that heavy, half-lidded glint in his eye—the one that said he might be running on fumes, but the engine was still idling hot—and she knew that handing him a washcloth was essentially inviting a fox into the henhouse.

She gasped when the rough texture of the terrycloth slid between her legs, the sensation sharp and startling against the slick heat of the water. It felt good—undeniably good—but it wasn't what she wanted.

The cloth was a barrier. A warm, soapy, textured wall between his skin and hers. And Hattie, despite her earlier protests about showering efficiently, suddenly found herself craving the friction of his calloused palms more than she craved oxygen.

But she knew Declan. If she begged him to drop the cloth, he’d just smirk against her neck, murmur something about "being thorough," and keep torturing her with the cotton loops just to prove he was in charge.

No, she had to be smarter than that. She had to outmaneuver the exhaustion and the dominance.

She bit her lip to stifle the moan building in her throat, forcing her body to remain relatively still despite the rhythmic, maddening pressure he was applying. She leaned her head back against his shoulder, turning her face so her lips brushed his ear, and let out a soft, unimpressed sigh.

"It's... efficient," she murmured, pitching her voice to sound just a little bit bored. A little bit detached. "Very clinical, Caldwell. I feel like I'm being detailed at a car wash."

She felt him pause—just a fraction of a second—the insult registering in his foggy brain.
She pressed her advantage immediately. She wiggled her hips back against him, not in a grind, but in a restless, dissatisfied shift.

"I mean, I get it," she whispered, letting her voice drip with a sweet, poisonous sympathy. "You're tired. Your grip strength is probably shot. Using the cloth is easier... it’s safer."
She turned her head further, catching his eye with a look that was pure, high-octane challenge through the steam. She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial purr.

"It's smart. You're hiding behind the cotton because you know if you actually touched me—skin to skin—you wouldn't be able to handle the 'awake protocol' after all." She taunted him gently, her eyes dancing. "You're playing it safe, big guy. I didn't take you for the cowardly type."

Declan let out a long, ragged groan that vibrated directly against her spine, a sound of pure, unadulterated annoyance mixed with dark amusement. He knew exactly what she was doing. She wasn’t bored—her breath had hitched, he’d felt it—but she was manipulative as hell, and she knew exactly which levers to pull to get a reaction out of him.

"Clinical," he muttered, the word rough with disbelief. He stopped the pleasurable, rhythmic motion between her legs instantly, leaving her aching and cold where the warmth had just been. "You are pushing every single button I have, Hattie. And you’re doing it because you want me to lose control again. You want exactly what you got last night, and you think insulting my technique is the fastest way to get it."

He didn't pull away, though. Instead, he leaned down, pressing his chest firmly against her back, his mouth hovering right next to her ear, his wet hair dripping onto her shoulder.

"You better be careful, Hattie," he warned, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that cut through the steam. "Haven’t you learned anything yet? I don't respond well to being baited."

He nipped the sensitive skin below her ear, just hard enough to make a point, before soothing it with a slow swipe of his tongue.

"I can either give you exactly what you want," he whispered darkly, "or I can hold out just because I know my willpower is stronger than yours. Keep calling me safe, and see which one you get.”

To prove his point, he moved his hand. He didn't drop the washcloth, and he certainly didn't replace it with skin-to-skin contact where she wanted it most. Instead, he slid the cloth all the way down, abandoning her core entirely.

He bent his knees slightly, dragging the soapy cloth down her thigh, over her knee, and down the curve of her calf. He washed her ankle. He washed the arch of her foot. It was maddeningly thorough, completely non-sexual, and a blatant display of the control he’d just bragged about. He was cleaning her, just like he said he would, denying her the satisfaction of breaking him.

After a long moment of focusing on her feet, he straightened up, the water sluicing down his chest. He tossed the washcloth onto the shelf with a wet thwack.

"Now," he murmured, reaching blindly for the bottle on the ledge.
He pumped a quarter-sized dollop of shampoo into his palm, rubbing his hands together to emulsify it before he brought them to her head. His fingers slid into her wet hair, strong and firm, massaging the scalp.

"Let’s get the rest of you clean," he said, his tone shifting from teasing threat to something quieter, more intimate. "Since you're so concerned with efficiency."

The second his fingers dug into her scalp, lacing the heavy, floral scent of her shampoo through her wet hair, Hattie went rigid.

The soothing, rhythmic massage that normally would have turned her into a puddle of goo? It didn't even register. All she could feel was the cold, slimy slide of betrayal.

No hair. She had been very specific. She had been clear. She had issued a direct, easy-to-follow operational guideline: Just bodies.

And it wasn't just about the time. It was the order. Everyone knew—or at least, everyone who lived with her should know by now—that the hierarchy of shower operations was sacred. Shampoo, rinse, conditioner (let sit), body wash, rinse everything. If you shampooed after the body wash, the residue ran down your clean skin, and you had to scrub all over again. It was inefficient. It was messy. And coming from a man who prided himself on logistics, it was sloppy work.

She didn't lean into his touch. She didn't hum in appreciation.

Instead, she ducked.

She dropped her level sharply, slipping out from under his hands like oil, and spun around to face him. The water battered against her chest as she glared up at him, water streaming down her face, her eyes narrowed and sharp.

"Strike two, Caldwell," she snapped, her voice cutting clearly through the noise of the shower.

She reached up and aggressively wiped a sudsy drip from her forehead, flicking it onto his wet chest with a distinct lack of affection.

"I said no hair," she enunciated, spacing the words out like she was speaking to a toddler or a particularly slow probie. "I said it five minutes ago. 'Just bodies.' Remember? Or did the steam melt that part of your brain?"

She saw his hands hover in the air for a second, arrested mid-massage, looking large and empty. He blinked, looking confused and slightly offended, but she didn't soften. Not even a little bit.

"And now you’ve ruined the rotation," she continued, crossing her arms over her chest, not for modesty, but as a barrier. A wall. "Shampoo, conditioner, then body. That is the law. Now the shampoo is going to run down my back, which means I’m not clean anymore, which means this entire shower has been a waste of time."

She took a step back, pressing her spine against the cool glass door, putting maximum distance between them in the small space. She tilted her chin up, looking at him with a mix of defiance and absolute, unyielding stubbornness.

"You want to talk about willpower?" she challenged, her voice dropping to a cool, flat tone. "Fine. Let's test it. Because I am not moving. I am not turning around. And I am certainly not letting you finish that half-assed massage just because you think you can steamroll me with your 'dominance'."

She stared him down, her eyes wide and unblinking despite the water dripping from her lashes. She locked her knees. She set her jaw.

"You want to be in charge? Then fix it. Without touching me."

She knew exactly what she was doing. She was being difficult. She was being a nightmare. And she was absolutely certain that the exhausted, heavy-lidded man in front of her would crack long before she did. He wanted soft, pliable Hattie? Too bad. He got the stone wall. Let's see how his "patience" handled that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The audacity of the man.

Neurotic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy the view.

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

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

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

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

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

Your move, bear.

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

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

But not today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He couldn't wait to marry her.

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

Only then did she step into the spray.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your move, Caldwell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One Mississippi, two Mississippi...

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

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

Easy, Caldwell.

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

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

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

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

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

Please. He was a professional.

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

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

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

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

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

Gotcha.

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

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

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

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

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

Dripping on the bathmat.

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

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

Hurry up?

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

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

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

If he wanted to wait, he could wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now? Now they were going to work.

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

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

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

Declan didn’t turn right away.

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

Vanilla. Heat. Intent.

Then he looked up.

And yeah—there it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Barely,” he added.

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

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

Of course he had heard her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t look at her right away.

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

Then he glanced over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He always did.

"Impatient?" Hattie echoed, the word rolling off her tongue with a lightness that belied the thrumming energy under her skin.

She turned her hand palm-up beneath his, lacing her fingers through his broad, warm ones, anchoring herself against his thigh. The contact was heavy and grounding, a stark contrast to the way her pulse was starting to pick up speed.

"I can be patient," she lied, leaning her head back against the leather headrest, though she didn't take her eyes off his profile. The passing streetlights cut across his face in rhythmic flashes—illumination, shadow, illumination, shadow—highlighting the hard set of his jaw and the focused intensity of his gaze.

"I'm just being... efficient," she teased, borrowing his favorite word. She squeezed his hand, letting her thumb graze the side of his index finger. "Consider this the pre-heat cycle. I wouldn't want you pulling a muscle trying to keep up with me later."

She shifted slightly in her seat, testing the limits of the seatbelt, letting her knee knock gently against the center console. She wasn't going to push it further—not really. She wasn't going to unbuckle or reach for his belt or do anything that would make him pull over on the shoulder of the highway. That wasn't the game.

The game was containment. The game was sitting here, strapped in and safe, while filling the cab with enough tension to choke on.

"Besides," she murmured, her voice dropping to a low, sultry hum that competed with the engine. "You talked a big game this morning, Caldwell. 'Awake protocol.' 'Not docile.' I'm just making sure you're actually awake enough to handle what's coming."

She watched his hands on the wheel—steady, capable, white-knuckling the leather just a fraction harder than necessary.

"Because once we get through that front door," she whispered, "I'm done being cooperative."

Declan let out a slow breath through his nose—not a laugh, not a growl—just that controlled exhale that meant she’d hit exactly where she meant to.

“Efficient,” he repeated, glancing at her this time. Just a second. Just enough. His eyes flicked from her face to where their hands were laced together and back to the road. “That’s one word for it.”

Her fingers threading through his grounded him and unraveled him at the same time. He tightened his grip slightly, not to stop her, just to remind her that he was right there—present, steady, very much aware.

“Pre-heat cycle,” he went on, tone dry, but there was a pull of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “You say that like I didn’t spend all day keepin’ one eye on the clock and the other on you.”

The truck rolled smoothly under his hands as she shifted, the seatbelt tugging her back just enough to make the moment hum instead of explode. He noticed everything—he always did. The knock of her knee. The way her voice dipped. The way the cab felt smaller when she spoke like that.

He flexed his fingers around hers once, deliberate.

“I’m awake,” he said simply. No bravado. No challenge. Just fact. “Been awake since about nine this mornin’, if we’re bein’ honest.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“But I like that you’re testin’ it,” he added, voice lower now, roughened by restraint. “Means you trust me not to lose my head.”

The streetlights kept sliding by, steady and relentless, and he stayed exactly that—focused, contained—right up until her last words landed.

Done being cooperative.

His jaw set. Not hard. Intent.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, eyes forward, hand still covering hers on his thigh. “I figured.”

His thumb brushed once over her knuckles—slow, grounding, unmistakably affectionate.

“Just do me a favor,” he murmured. “Make it through the front door with me.”

A beat.

“After that,” he added, the corner of his mouth finally tipping up, “we’ll see how much cooperation either of us has left.”

"Deal," she whispered, the single word heavy with compliance.

She gave his hand one last, firm squeeze before relaxing her grip, though she didn't pull away. She let her hand rest comfortably in his, palm to palm, a silent treaty for the last mile of the drive.

She could do that. She could wait for the front door. Because the truth was, despite all her talk of efficiency and impatience, she loved the build-up. She loved watching him restrain himself. She loved knowing that the man driving this truck with perfect, lawful precision was the same man who was currently visualizing exactly how he was going to take her apart the second the lock clicked shut.

She sat back in her seat, turning her head to watch the familiar neighborhood streets roll by. The silence in the cab wasn't empty anymore; it was thick, charged with the kind of electricity that made the hair on her arms stand up.

When he turned onto their street, Hattie felt her pulse kick up a notch.

She watched him back into the driveway—because of course he backed in; he was incapable of parking nose-first like a civilian—and waited for the truck to shudder to a halt. The engine cut, plunging them into sudden, ringing silence. The headlights died, leaving them in the shadow of the garage.

She waited while he unbuckled, the sound loud in the quiet cab. She watched him open his door, sliding out into the cold night air, and listened to the crunch of his boots on the concrete as he walked around the back of the truck.

A small, secret smile touched her lips.

When her door pulled open, letting the winter chill rush in to mix with the heated leather, she was ready. She unclicked her seatbelt, the strap retracting with a sharp zip, and turned toward him.

He was standing there, big and dark and imposing, offering her a hand down.

"Thank you," she murmured softly, taking his hand.

She stepped down carefully, her boots finding purchase on the concrete, and didn't let go of him once she was steady. Instead, she moved closer, seeking his warmth against the biting air. She tucked her hand securely into the crook of his arm, leaning her weight against his side as they turned toward the house.

It was a quiet, domestic walk up the driveway. She didn't tease him. She didn't drag him. She just walked with him, matching his stride, her head resting briefly against the heavy fabric of his sleeve. It felt good just to be near him, stripped of the performative distance of the office.

They reached the front porch, the motion sensor light flicking on to bathe them in a soft, yellow glow.

Hattie stepped back just enough to give him room to work. She watched him pull his keys from his pocket, her hands clasped loosely in front of her coat, looking up at him with wide, adoring eyes. She was patient. She was sweet. She was exactly the girl he wanted her to be.

But as he slid the key into the lock and the tumbler clicked over, she felt the shift in the air. The barrier was gone.

She took a small breath, the cold air filling her lungs, and offered him a soft, innocent smile that didn't hide the darkening of her eyes.

"We made it," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of the door opening. "Home safe."

Declan’s hand closed around hers before the door even finished swinging inward.

“Home,” he echoed quietly—not triumphant, not teasing. Certain.

He stepped in first, just enough to block the cold, then drew her with him over the threshold. The door shut behind them with a solid click, the sound deep and final, and the world outside fell away all at once. The porch light cut out. The house wrapped around them in dim warmth and familiar quiet.

He didn’t rush her.

He never did.

Instead, he slid his jacket off one shoulder and then the other, tossing it onto the hook by the door without breaking eye contact. His keys followed, set deliberately on the tray like punctuation. Everything in him slowed—not because the moment demanded speed, but because it deserved attention.

He looked down at her then, really looked—at the way her eyes were darkened but steady, the way she’d tucked herself into his arm outside without asking, the way she stood here now with all that patience coiled tight under her coat.

“You did good,” he said again, softer this time. Not a command. Not a test. Appreciation.

His hand slid from her arm to her waist, warm and grounding, drawing her closer until the space between them disappeared in a way that felt inevitable. He rested his forehead briefly against hers, breathing her in like he’d been holding that breath since lunch.

“Safe,” he murmured, brushing his thumb once along her side. “Warm. Exactly where you said you’d be.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth—not cocky, not smug. Just… satisfied.

He leaned back enough to look at her face, eyes steady, affectionate, full of intent that didn’t need to announce itself to be understood.

“C’mon,” he said quietly, guiding her deeper into the house with a gentle pressure at her back. “Let’s get you outta that coat.”

Not hurried.
Not restrained.

Just the calm, unmistakable certainty of a man who kept his word—and was very aware that the waiting part was officially over.

Declan guided her a few more steps inside before stopping, the house settling around them with that familiar, lived-in quiet. He reached up and slid her coat off her shoulders slowly, deliberately, like there was nowhere else he needed to be and nothing else competing for his attention. He hung it up properly—because of course he did—then turned back to her, hands finding her waist again, steady and warm.

He studied her face for a beat, the softness there, the patience she’d carried all the way home. His thumb brushed an absent, grounding line at her side, not teasing—just there.

“You hungry?” he asked, voice low and easy, like the question mattered. Like the answer mattered even more.

Not rushed.
Not loaded with expectation.

Just Declan, checking in the way he always did—making sure she was taken care of before anything else.

You hungry?

Hattie searched his face, her eyes narrowing just a fraction as she scanned him for a tell.
Any other day, she wouldn't have hesitated. She would have known that Declan—her protector, her provider, the man who practically tracked her caloric intake like it was a vital stat—was genuinely asking because he wanted to feed her. It was how he loved.

But today? After the shower standoff, the lunch footsie, and the agonizingly polite tension of the drive home?

She had to wonder. Was this a trap? Was he standing there, looking devastatingly calm and considerate, just to see if she would snap? Was he waiting for her to groan, shove him against the wall, and declare that the only thing she wanted to eat was him, just so he could smirk and notch another victory in the "Hattie Broke First" column?

It was entirely possible. He was competitive, and he was patient, which was a dangerous combination.

Part of her wanted to do it. Part of her wanted to abandon all pretense of domestic normalcy and tackle him right here on the entryway rug.

But she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. If he could play the long game, so could she.

"Actually," she said, her voice steady, deciding to call his bluff with pure, unadulterated sweetness. "I am hungry. Starving, actually."

She reached up, her hands smoothing over the front of his shirt, feeling the solid warmth of his chest beneath the cotton.

"And I’m fairly certain you are, too," she added, tilting her head to give him a knowing, affectionate look. "I saw that sad sandwich you inhaled at lunch. That barely counts as fuel for a man your size."

She stepped back, just half a pace, creating a little breathing room between them. It was a strategic retreat, a signal that she was choosing the stove over the bedroom—for now.

"I can make us something," she offered, her tone shifting into that gentle, caring register that she knew soothed him after a long shift. "Nothing complicated. You can help if you want, or..." She softened her gaze, brushing a thumb over his wrist. "You can just go sit down. Decompress. I don't mind flying solo in the kitchen if you need a minute."

She turned toward the hallway that led to their bedroom, pausing to glance back at him over her shoulder.

"But first," she said, gesturing vaguely to her professional attire. "I have to get out of this skirt. I need sweatpants immediately."

Declan watched her the whole time she spoke, expression unreadable in that way that usually meant he was listening very carefully. Not weighing a move. Not laying a trap. Just taking her in—the sweetness, the restraint, the way she chose him and the house and dinner even when every nerve between them was humming.

A corner of his mouth tipped up when she said starving. Not smug. Amused. Fond.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, honest. “I am.”

Her hands on his chest grounded him more than she probably realized. He covered one of them with his own, thumb pressing once into her palm like punctuation.

“And for the record,” he added, low and steady, “there’s no bluff to call. I asked because I meant it. You eat. I eat. That’s the whole plan.”

He glanced down at her skirt when she gestured to it, then back up to her face, eyes warm with approval.

“Sweatpants is the right call,” he said. “Doctor’s orders.”

When she turned toward the hallway, he didn’t grab her. Didn’t rush her. He caught her wrist gently instead—just enough to stop her for a second—and leaned in to press a brief, soft kiss to her temple. Nothing heated. Just his version of I see you.

“I’ll start something simple,” he murmured. “You change. I’ll put on some music. We’ll make food like normal people.”

A beat. His thumb brushed her wrist again, affectionate and grounding.

“And if you decide you don’t feel like flying solo,” he added, eyes flicking up to meet hers, “I’ll be right in the kitchen. Not going anywhere.”

Then he let her go, already turning toward the kitchen with that calm, capable energy she trusted more than anything—rolling up his sleeves, setting the night back into something warm, steady, and theirs.

Declan moved through the kitchen with that quiet, deliberate rhythm that came from years of doing things the same way every time—no wasted motion, no clatter, just steady competence.

He set his keys in the bowl by the door, shrugged out of his jacket, and hung it on the hook without looking. Sleeves rolled up next. Always sleeves first.

He opened the fridge and took inventory like it was second nature. Chicken, vegetables, leftover rice from yesterday. Good enough. More than good enough. He pulled things out and lined them up on the counter, spacing them neatly, already building the meal in his head.

The radio came on low—nothing distracting, just a familiar station, something with a steady beat. He let it hum in the background while he grabbed a cutting board and a knife, testing the weight of it in his hand before setting to work.

Chop.
Slide.
Chop.

The sound was grounding. The kind of thing that let his shoulders drop a notch after a long day.

He glanced once down the hallway, not calling after her, not rushing her. Just checking. Making sure she was taking her time like she said she would. Like she deserved to.

Back at the counter, he started seasoning—salt between his fingers, a measured shake, nothing dramatic. Oil in the pan, heat coming up slow. He waited for it properly, because rushing heat was how things burned and he didn’t rush things he cared about.

A faint smile tugged at his mouth as he worked.

She’d chosen dinner. Chosen normal. Chosen home.

That mattered.

When the pan finally responded the way he wanted—heat just right—he added the chicken, the sizzle sharp but controlled. He stepped back half a pace, watching it like he watched everything else: attentive, patient, ready to adjust if needed.

“Alright,” he murmured to no one in particular, more habit than anything. “We’re on.”

He reached for a second pan, started the vegetables, timing it so everything would land together. No rush. No pressure. Just the quiet satisfaction of making something warm for the person he loved.

And every so often—between flips and stirs—his eyes drifted toward the hallway again, waiting for the soft sound of her footsteps, already knowing exactly how it would feel when she reappeared in sweatpants, relaxed, fed, and home where she belonged.

"Normal is overrated, Caldwell," she called back over her shoulder, a teasing lilt in her voice as she walked down the hall. "But I suppose I can make an exception if there's food involved."

She pushed into the bedroom, the sanctuary of their shared space immediately lowering her blood pressure another notch. She didn't waste time. She stripped off the "Admin armor"—the tweed skirt, the tights, the chic turtleneck—and tossed them into the hamper. In their place, she pulled on her favorite gray fleece-lined sweatpants, the ones that felt like wearing a cloud, and a simple white fitted t-shirt that hugged her frame without being restrictive.

Next came the hair. She gathered the waves she’d spent twenty minutes perfecting this morning and twisted them up into a high, messy bun, securing it with a silk scrunchie.

She moved into the en suite, turning the tap to warm. She grabbed her cleanser and washed the day off her face—the mascara, the blush, the professional polish—scrubbing until her skin felt fresh and clean. She patted her face dry with a fluffy towel, looking at her reflection. No makeup. No styling. Just Hattie.

She turned to leave the room, but stopped short at the sight of the bed. The duvet was a tangled mess, the pillows askew—a chaotic testament to how distracted she had been by the shower standoff this morning. She couldn't leave it like that. Quickly, efficiently, she pulled the sheets taut, smoothed the duvet, and fluffed the pillows, restoring order to the room in under thirty seconds.

Better.

She padded back down the hallway, her bare feet silent on the hardwood, following the savory scent of garlic and searing meat.

Declan was exactly where she knew he’d be—standing at the stove, looking broad and capable and unfairly good at domesticity. Hattie walked right up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, interlacing her fingers over his stomach. She pressed her cheek against his back, feeling the solid heat of him through his shirt, and placed a soft, lingering kiss right between his shoulder blades.

"Mmm, that smells incredible," she murmured, standing on her tiptoes to peek over his arm at the sizzling pans. "Chicken and veggies? You know the way to my heart."

She squeezed him tight, soaking in the comfort of him, before loosening her grip just enough to look up at the side of his face.

"I can take over if you want," she offered softly, her voice warm and helpful. "If you want to go get changed and put on something comfortable, I've got this. Or I can chop something? I'm at your service, Chef."

Declan didn’t startle when she wrapped around him. He never did. If anything, his body adjusted automatically—stance widening just a touch, shoulders relaxing as if this was the position he’d been waiting for all along.

“Normal’s fine,” he said calmly, voice low and even, eyes still on the pan as he gave it a careful stir. “Overrated keeps us fed.”

Her kiss between his shoulder blades drew a quiet breath out of him, something slow and steady, like he’d been carrying the day around in his chest and she’d just set it down for him. One hand stayed on the spatula; the other came back to rest over her interlaced fingers at his waist, thumb pressing there in a familiar, grounding way.

“Chicken, veggies, rice,” he confirmed. “Nothing fancy. Just… solid.”

He tipped his head slightly so he could glance down at her from the corner of his eye—bare feet, soft clothes, hair up, face clean and unmistakably hers. The sight did something small and permanent to his expression, the kind of softness he didn’t bother hiding at home.

“You look better already,” he said simply, like it was an observation, not a compliment he was fishing for credit on.

At her offer, he shook his head once, easy.

“I’ve got it,” he said. “Almost done.” Then, after a beat, he added, “But if you want a job…”

He nudged the cutting board toward her with his hip, precise even in the small movement.

“Can you rinse the rice? Second drawer down—strainer’s on the left.” A pause. “And keep me company.”

He finally turned enough to look at her properly, hand sliding from her waist to her lower back, thumb brushing the hem of her t-shirt in a way that was affectionate, not distracting.

“And no,” he added, faint amusement threading his voice, “you’re not taking over. You just got home.”

Declan kept moving with that quiet, practiced rhythm—pan off the heat, burner turned down, a quick glance at the timer on the oven like it had personally wronged him if it ran long.

He felt her before he looked again. The way she stayed close. The way she always did what he asked without making a show of it.

“That’s it,” he said when he heard the water start, the soft clatter of the strainer. “Just till it runs clear.”

"I always feel better when the pantyhose are off," she quipped softly, though the smile she gave him was tender. "But I'm glad you approve of the 'scrubbed clean' look. It's much lower maintenance."

She begrudgingly untangled herself from his back—though she trailed her hand along his waist for as long as she could before stepping away—and moved to the drawer he’d indicated.

She found the fine-mesh strainer exactly where he said it would be (because Declan’s kitchen organization was military-grade) and measured out the rice. She moved to the sink, turning on the cold tap and letting the water rush over the grains.

"And regarding your logic," she called out over the sound of the running water, a playful edge to her voice. "You say 'you just got home' like you haven't been on the exact same shift, Caldwell."

She swirled the rice with her fingers, the cold water a sharp contrast to the warmth of the kitchen.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," she continued, "but I'm pretty sure my day involved lifting files and coffee mugs. Yours involved... what? Throwing ladders? Hauling hose lines? Breaking down doors?" She shook her head, amused, watching the cloudy starch swirl down the drain. "But sure, I'm the one who needs to rest. Your chivalry is showing, and it's very cute, but technically incorrect."

She watched him out of the corner of her eye while she worked. There was something undeniably soothing about watching Declan cook. He didn't rush. He didn't make a mess. He moved with an economy of motion that was fascinating to watch—flipping vegetables, checking heat, adjusting seasonings with those large, capable hands that had been holding hers so possessively in the truck just twenty minutes ago.

When the water finally ran clear, she shook the excess moisture from the strainer and carried it over to him.

"Rice is prepped, Chef," she announced, setting it down on the counter beside him.
Instead of retreating to a safe distance, she stepped right into his personal space again. She leaned her hip against the counter, facing him, so she could watch him work up close.

"You know," she said quietly, her voice dropping to that warm, intimate register again. "I really do love it when you cook. You make it look so effortless."

She reached out, unable to help herself, and lightly traced one of the veins on his forearm where his sleeve was rolled up.

"And the rolled-up sleeves are a very nice touch," she teased gently. "Safety first, obviously. But the aesthetic benefits aren't lost on me."

Declan let out a low huff of a laugh at that, shaking his head as he tipped the rice into the pot and set it on the burner. He nudged the heat down with his knuckle, then glanced at her over his shoulder—eyes warm, mouth soft, all the sharp edges from earlier filed down to something gentler.

“Yeah,” he said, amused. “I’ll concede the pantyhose point. Those things are a crime.”

He stirred once, slow and deliberate, then set the spoon aside. When he turned fully toward her, it wasn’t rushed. He leaned his hip into the counter across from her, closing the space just enough to acknowledge what she was doing without stopping it.

“And I don’t ‘approve,’” he added, voice quieter now, fond. “I just like you like this. Comfortable. Home.”

Her running commentary didn’t escape him either. He listened while she rinsed the rice, let her finish making her case like she needed to win it out loud. When she mentioned ladders and hose lines, his mouth twitched again.

“You’re not wrong,” he said easily. “But you also don’t stop all day. Different kind of tired.” His gaze flicked briefly to her hands, then back to her face. “Doesn’t make it less real.”

When she handed him the strainer, he took it from her without breaking eye contact, fingers brushing hers—intentionally this time.

“Thanks,” he murmured, sincere.

Then she stepped closer. Of course she did.

He stayed still when she leaned against the counter, when her fingers traced his forearm. His breath shifted—not sharp, not restrained like earlier—just slower, heavier, like he was letting himself feel it now that they were home.

“You know,” he said quietly, turning his arm just enough that her fingers followed the movement, “I roll the sleeves up so I don’t get oil on my shirt.”

A beat.

“But I’m not mad you noticed.”

He reached out then, knuckles brushing her waist—easy, familiar, nothing sharp about it anymore—and let his hand rest there, grounding both of them.

“You hovering is allowed,” he added, a small smile finally breaking through. “Just don’t steal the chicken before I plate it.”

His thumb gave a gentle press at her side, affectionate, unmistakably hers.

“Dinner’s almost done,” he said. “Stay right there.”

"I am offended," Hattie murmured, though her eyes were dancing with mirth. She pressed a little closer to his side, careful to keep her fingers away from the sizzling pan. "I have zero intention of stealing the chicken. I am a civilized woman, Declan. I am waiting for the plated presentation."

She stayed exactly where he told her to—right by his side, hovering in his personal space like a moth drawn to a very handsome, very capable flame.

She watched him stir the vegetables, the movement rhythmic and soothing, and she felt a wave of affection hit her so hard it almost knocked the wind out of her. It wasn't just that he cooked—though that was a major bonus—it was the way he did it. It was the pre-warmed truck. It was the way he validated her exhaustion even though his was physical and hers was mental. It was the way he looked at her in sweatpants like she was wearing couture.

He took care of her in a thousand quiet ways every single day, and she loved him for it with a fierceness that sometimes surprised her.

When he turned off the burner under the chicken, signaling they were in the home stretch, Hattie moved.

She stood on her tiptoes, resting a hand on his bicep to steady herself, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek, right where his jaw met his neck.

"Thank you," she whispered against his skin, pouring all of that appreciation into two simple words.

She pulled back before he could get too distracted, flashing him a small smile, and turned to the cupboard. She grabbed two dinner plates—the heavy stoneware ones they used for everyday meals—and carried them back to the stove.

She set them down on the counter next to the pans, ready for him to serve, and paused.
She couldn't resist.

As she stepped away to head toward the fridge, she reached out and gave his butt a firm, appreciative pat.

"Good hustle, team," she teased, tossing a grin over her shoulder as she walked away.
She pulled open the refrigerator door, the cool air washing over her heated face, and peered inside at their options.

"Alright, Declan," she called out, scanning the shelves. "What's your poison tonight? Water? Beer? Or are we celebrating survival with a glass of wine?"

Declan let the moment breathe instead of rushing past it.

The kitchen had settled into that late-evening quiet he loved—the low hum of the vent fan, the faint sizzle fading as the pans cooled, the warm, savory smell of garlic and pepper clinging to the air. He stood solid at the stove, sleeves still rolled, forearms dusted with a fine sheen of steam and oil, like the work had left its signature on him. When she pressed close, he angled his body just enough to shield her from the heat without making a thing of it—habit, instinct, care folded into motion.

“Civilized,” he echoed, amused, glancing down at her with that look that said he knew exactly how feral she could be and adored her anyway. “I’ll remember that when you’re hovering like this.”

He finished plating with the same steady attention he brought to everything—chicken sliced clean, vegetables tucked in just so, a final pinch of salt adjusted by feel rather than measure. When she kissed his cheek, gratitude warm and unguarded, his shoulders eased. He leaned a fraction into it before she pulled back, the smallest tell that her thanks landed.

He slid the plates forward, ceramic whispering against the counter, then reached to wipe his hands on a towel, folding it once, twice, precise. The pat to his backside earned a low laugh that rumbled out of him, not embarrassed, just delighted.

“Team effort,” he said, dry but fond. “You handled logistics. I handled heat.”

At the fridge, when she asked about drinks, he watched her through the open door light—bare feet on tile, hair twisted up, sweatshirt-soft comfort replacing the day’s polish—and something in his chest went quiet and full at the same time.

“Water keeps me honest,” he said, tone easy. “Beer says the shift’s officially over.” He set the towel aside, eyes lifting to hers. “Wine,” he added more softly, “means we’re not in a hurry.”

He carried the plates himself, careful not to jostle them, set them on the table where the light fell warm and forgiving. As she passed, his fingers caught the waistband of her sweatpants—gentle, grounding, not a demand—just enough to keep her close for a heartbeat.

“Sit with me,” he murmured, voice low, steady, the morning’s edge long gone. “Eat. Tell me one thing about your day that doesn’t involve a phone ringing.”

Then he released her, already reaching for glasses, already thinking ahead to the quiet stretch after dinner—no rush, no agenda—just the two of them, fed and settled, the day finally behind them.

"In that case," Hattie murmured, a slow smile spreading across her face as she reached for the bottle of red wine sitting on the rack, "we are definitely not in a hurry."

She carried the bottle over to the small wooden table, moving with a relaxed grace that felt miles away from the efficient bustle of the station. Declan had already set the stemmed glasses down, the crystal catching the dim light of the room. She uncorked the bottle—the soft pop echoing satisfyingly in the quiet kitchen—and poured a generous amount for him, then for herself, the ruby liquid swirling against the glass.

She set the bottle down and slid into the chair across from him, tucking one leg up underneath her on the seat. It was bad posture, and her chiropractor would hate it, but she was home, she was comfortable, and she was with him.

She picked up her fork and took her first bite, closing her eyes for a second as the flavor hit her tongue. It was just chicken, rice, and vegetables—the kind of meal a thousand people made every night—but somehow, when Declan made it, it tasted like comfort. It was perfectly seasoned, perfectly cooked, and made with the specific kind of care that he put into everything he touched.

"You know," she said, opening her eyes to look at him with genuine warmth. "It's actually rude how good this is. It's just chicken, Declan. Why does it taste like a hug?"

She took another bite, humming happily, before taking a sip of her wine.

"Okay, one thing not work-related," she mused, setting her glass down. She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the table. "So, around 11:00 AM, while Chief was droning on about the budget in his office and I was pretending to type a memo? I actually spent a solid twenty minutes researching those A-frame cabins up north."

She tilted her head, watching him over the centerpiece.

"I found this one that has a wood-burning stove and zero Wi-Fi signal," she told him, a playful, inviting glint in her eyes. "I bookmarked it. I figured we might need a place to disappear to in a few weeks when the 'civilized' act wears off."

Declan watched her the way he always did when she settled in—like the room had finally clicked into place.

The cork’s soft pop earned a slow curve of his mouth, his eyes tracking the pour with appreciation that had nothing to do with the wine. He waited until she sat, until she tucked that leg under herself like she was claiming the chair, before lifting his own glass.

“Not in a hurry,” he echoed, low and satisfied. “Good call.”

He took a bite when she did, unshowy about it, but the look on his face shifted just a fraction—pride, quiet and earned—when she closed her eyes. He didn’t rush to answer her hug comment. He chewed, swallowed, then met her gaze over the rim of his glass.

“It’s not the chicken,” he said, matter-of-fact, a hint of smug threading through. “It’s timing. And you were hungry.” A beat. “And I pay attention.”

He reached out and nudged her glass an inch closer when she set it down, an unconscious caretaking move he didn’t bother to hide. Then he leaned back in his chair, one arm draped easy over the back, listening—really listening—as she talked about the meeting, the pretending, the cabin.

At “zero Wi-Fi,” his eyebrows lifted. At “bookmarked it,” his smile went slow and dangerous in the best way.

“Twenty minutes,” he repeated, impressed. “That’s a serious search. Means you filtered reviews.” He tipped his glass toward her. “Respect.”

He took another bite, then set his fork down, eyes steady on hers now. “Wood stove I can handle. Quiet I like.” A pause, cocky-soft. “No signal means you can’t be interrupted. Or rescued.”

He leaned forward just enough to close the distance across the table, voice warm. “When the civilized act wears off, I don’t want witnesses. Or schedules.”

Then, gentler, because he knew when to land it: “Send me the link.” A small smirk. “I’ll check the road conditions. And whether the porch is sturdy enough for coffee at sunrise.”

He lifted his glass again, clinked it lightly against hers. “To disappearing,” he said. “And to dinners that feel like home.”

Declan took another sip, eyes never leaving her over the rim of the glass. The wine had softened the edges of the evening, but not the focus—if anything, it sharpened it.

“So,” he said casually, like he wasn’t already mentally packing a bag. “If we disappear for a few days… what’s the plan, Monroe?”

He tilted his head, studying her the way he did when he wanted the real answer, not the playful one.

“You bringing books you’ll pretend to read?” A corner of his mouth kicked up. “Or are we committing fully—long walks, bad sleep schedules, too much coffee, no alarms?”

He reached across the table and hooked a finger around the stem of her glass, giving it a gentle tug that drew her attention back to him if it had wandered.

“And be honest,” he added, voice lower now, affectionate but sure. “Is this a recharge trip… or a ‘lock-the-door-and-forget-what-day-it-is’ trip?”

His thumb brushed the base of her glass, slow and absentminded, the way his hand always moved when he was already picturing her there with him—firelight, quiet, no uniforms, no clocks.

“Either way,” he said, softer, grounded. “I’m in.”

A beat. Then the faintest smirk.

“But if there’s no Wi-Fi,” he continued, “you’re in charge of playlists. I’m not spending three days listening to whatever spooky forest sounds you think are ‘vibes.’”

"To dinners that feel like home," Hattie murmured, the clink of their glasses soft and resonant in the quiet kitchen.

She took a slow sip of the wine, letting the rich, dry red linger on her tongue before swallowing. The warmth of the alcohol bloomed in her chest, mixing with the warmth of the room and the steady, grounding heat of Declan’s gaze.

"You say 'no rescue' like it's a threat," she teased, setting her glass down and picking up her fork again. She speared a piece of chicken, eyeing him with a playful glint. "When in reality, that is the strongest selling point of the entire listing. If the fire marshal can't reach us, he can't ask you to pick up an overtime shift."

She took a bite, savoring the food. He was right—it wasn't just the chicken. It was the fact that he knew she liked the vegetables slightly charred, and he knew she needed rice after a long day, and he sat there looking like that while he watched her eat.

When he asked about the plan—books versus "bad sleep schedules"—she chewed slowly, letting him wait just a beat.

"First of all," she said, swallowing and dabbing the corner of her mouth with her napkin. "I always bring books. It's a security blanket. If I don't have at least three paperbacks in my bag, I break out in hives."

She leaned forward, mirroring his posture, resting her chin in her hand as she traced the rim of her wine glass.

"But... let's be real," she admitted, her voice dropping to a husky, honest purr. "I think we both know I'm not going to get much reading done. If I have you in a cabin with a wood stove and no cell service? That is strictly a 'forget what day it is' situation. I plan on wearing nothing but your flannel shirts and socks for seventy-two hours straight."

She smiled at him—a slow, smitten expression that was all softness and promise.
"And excuse you," she added, feigning indignation at his playlist comment. "My 'spooky forest sounds' are actually highly curated indie folk, and they are essential for the A-frame aesthetic. You just don't appreciate art, Caldwell."

She nudged his foot with hers under the table, a gentle, affectionate press.

"But fine. Since you're driving, and since you're checking the road conditions—which is very sexy of you, by the way—I will allow you to have some input on the music. I'll make a compromise playlist. 'Forest Vibes Meets Country Roads.' How does that sound?"

Declan lifted his glass with hers, the corner of his mouth softening in a way that only ever happened at home, when the day was done and it was just them.

“To dinners that don’t feel rushed,” he said quietly, meaning more than the food, meaning this—her across from him, relaxed, real.

He watched her the way he always did when she was comfortable: the small, unconscious tells, the way her shoulders finally dropped, the way she leaned forward when she was invested. It made something steady and satisfied settle in his chest.

“No rescue is not a threat,” he agreed, deadpan, then allowed a slow, pleased grin. “It’s a fantasy. You’re right. If no one can find us, no one can ask me for a favor.”

He took a bite of his food, chewed, nodded once like he was filing the information away. Cabin. No signal. Her in his flannels. That image landed and stayed.

“Three paperbacks,” he said. “Minimum. You’ll read… what, a chapter and a half before you forget they exist?”

His gaze warmed when hers did, when her voice dropped and she said forget what day it is like it was an invitation and a promise rolled into one.

“Seventy-two hours,” he repeated, low, amused. “That’s ambitious, Monroe.”

He shifted back in his chair, comfortable, clearly enjoying himself now. “But I like the planning. Wood stove means I’m chopping the firewood. You’ll pretend you’re helping. I’ll let you. We’ll drink too much coffee in the mornings and probably too much wine at night.”

He glanced down when she nudged his foot, nudged back—gentle, grounding.

“And flannels,” he added, eyes back on hers. “I’ll pack extras. You always steal mine and then claim they’re ‘more comfortable because they smell like me.’”

At her playlist compromise, he laughed quietly, genuine.

“Forest Vibes Meets Country Roads,” he said. “I can live with that. As long as I get at least one song I can sing badly while driving.”

He reached across the table, not in a rush, covering her hand where it rested near her glass. His thumb brushed her knuckles once, slow and familiar.

“And for the record,” he said, voice warm, sure. “Getting away with you? No alarms, no uniforms, no expectations except showing up for each other?”

A beat.

“That’s not me ‘allowing’ a trip,” he added, a little cocky now, smiling at her like she was the best plan he’d ever made. “That’s me looking forward to it.”

He lifted his glass again.

“So,” he said. “When are we disappearing?”

"You singing badly is non-negotiable," Hattie countered, flipping her hand over beneath his so she could interlace their fingers again. "It’s part of the road trip charm. If I don’t hear you belting out at least one chorus of something embarrassing while tapping on the steering wheel, I’m going to assume you’ve been replaced by a doppelgänger."

She looked at him across the table—the warmth in his eyes, the relaxed set of his shoulders, the way he was already mentally packing extra flannel and coffee for a trip she had only half-seriously pitched him ten minutes ago.

A soft flutter started in her chest.

It was supposed to be just a daydream. A way to kill twenty minutes between filing invoices and answering the non-emergency line. She had looked at the pictures of the A-frame, sighed over the wood stove, and thought, That would be nice, before closing the tab and going back to reality.

But Declan? Declan didn't do "just nice." He took her idle whims and turned them into plans. He took her "I wish" and turned it into "We will."

"Honestly?" she admitted, her thumb brushing the side of his hand. "I haven't gotten that far. I was mostly just scrolling to avoid looking at the budget spreadsheet again. It was just a... silly little brain break."

She paused, biting her lip slightly, her gaze softening as she took in the man sitting across from her.

"But now that you're talking about chopping wood and morning coffee..." She shook her head, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I think we need to make it happen. For real."

She squeezed his hand, anchoring herself to him.

"We can look at the calendar later," she decided, dismissing the logistics for the moment. "Figure out when the shifts align and when the roads aren't totally washed out. I'm sure we can find a weekend in the next month or so where the circus can run without us."

She picked up her fork again, taking another bite of the meal he’d made her, feeling content in a way that went bone-deep.

"For now," she said softly, "I'm pretty happy just being here. Even if the Wi-Fi works and I'm not wearing your flannel... yet."

Declan’s fingers tightened around hers just a fraction when she laced them together, like the contact grounded something that had already decided where it wanted to land.

“Noted,” he said, a low huff of a laugh under his breath. “I’ll make sure it’s something truly embarrassing. Real commitment to the bit.”

He watched her as she talked—really watched her. The way her confidence softened into honesty. The way she downplayed something that mattered to her because she didn’t want to ask too much, even though he knew better. He always did.

“A silly little brain break,” he echoed gently, shaking his head. “That’s usually how the good stuff starts with you.”

He shifted forward slightly in his chair, elbows resting on the table now, still holding her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I don’t hear ‘silly,’” he went on, voice steady, warm. “I hear you wanting quiet. Space. Time where nobody needs anything from you except me making coffee the right way.”

At her mention of calendars and shifts and washed-out roads, his mouth curved—not rushed, not dismissive, just sure.

“We’ll find it,” he said. “We always do. A weekend. A stretch of days. Doesn’t matter when, as long as it’s ours.”

He glanced down at their hands, then back up at her, eyes softening when she said she was happy just being here.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”

He squeezed her hand once, thumb brushing over her knuckles in that familiar, absent way.

“And for the record,” he added, a little teasing warmth creeping back in, “the Wi-Fi working doesn’t mean I can’t make you wear my flannel. That part isn’t location-dependent.”

He lifted his glass again, not clinking this time—just holding it there for a second, like a pause he didn’t want to rush past.

“So we’ll eat,” he said. “Finish dinner. Maybe open another bottle. Sit here until we forget what time it is.”

A beat.

“And then someday soon,” he finished, eyes steady on hers, “we disappear.”

Declan leaned back in his chair a little, still holding her hand, his thumb tracing a slow, thoughtful line along her knuckle like he was mapping out the next thought before he said it.

“You know what I keep thinking about?” he said, tone easy but intent. “How quiet it gets when we’re away from everything. Not empty quiet. The good kind. The kind where you can hear the stove ticking after you turn it off. Wind in the trees. You humming without realizing you’re doing it.”

He tilted his head, studying her like she was already standing in that cabin doorway in socks and one of his shirts.

“I think you’d sleep better up there,” he added. “Not crash sleep. Real sleep. The kind where you wake up slow and don’t apologize for it.”

A corner of his mouth lifted, just a touch cocky.

“And I’d make breakfast that actually takes time. None of this ‘fuel and go’ nonsense. Pancakes. Eggs the way you like them. Coffee strong enough to wake the dead.”

He glanced down at her plate, then back at her eyes.

“And you’d pretend you weren’t impressed,” he said. “But you’d eat three pancakes anyway.”

He squeezed her hand again, grounding, warm.

“We could hike if you want,” he continued. “Or not hike at all. Sit on the porch. Read for twenty minutes before you get distracted. I don’t need an itinerary.”

Then, softer—more honest than teasing—

“I just want a few days where you don’t have to be on. Where nobody’s pulling at you from every direction.”

He lifted his glass, finally clinking it gently against hers this time.

“So yeah,” he said quietly, a small smile settling in. “We’ll disappear. And when we come back, the circus will still be there. It always is.”

His eyes stayed on hers, steady and affectionate.

“But tonight?” he added. “Tonight I’m exactly where I want to be. With you. Good food. No alarms. No radios.”

A pause, then a glint of humor.

“And if you want to start practicing the flannel situation early,” he said, “I’m not gonna stop you.”

Hattie’s chest did that stupid little thing it always did when he said something simple and meant it all the way through.

Not because it was poetic. Not because it was dramatic.

Because it was him.

Because he didn’t talk about taking care of her like it was a chore he’d earned points for. He talked about it like it was the most natural instinct in his body—like she was something precious and obvious, like the way you reach for a blanket when someone shivers without thinking twice.

And she loved him for it in a way that made her feel almost embarrassed by how deep it ran.

She looked at him across the table, fingers still laced with his, and let the warmth of his thumb brushing her knuckle settle into her bones. His voice had been steady through all of it—plans, quiet, pancakes, her sleeping better—like he’d already decided she deserved rest without ever needing to negotiate for it.

Hattie swallowed.

“You know I hate that you know me,” she said softly, the words bright with affection even as she tried to make them sound like a complaint. Her eyes narrowed a fraction, playful, because if she got too sincere she’d start doing that annoying blinking thing. “It’s rude.”

She glanced down at their hands, then back up, her mouth curving.

“And it’s also…” She tilted her head, conceding the point like it pained her. “Really hot.”

She let the beat hang—because she could—and used it to take another bite, unhurried. Rice, chicken, veggies. Real food. The kind that made her feel cared for in a way she didn’t always let herself admit she craved.

The kind that made her want to be soft.

But soft didn’t mean quiet.

Soft, with Declan, meant bratty.

Hattie chewed, eyes on him over the rim of her glass, watching him like she was filing away everything he’d just said for later. The porch. The quiet. The real sleep. The disappearing.

“It’ll be good,” she said finally, matter-of-fact in a way that made it sound settled. Not a wish. A conclusion. “Whenever it happens. It’ll be good for both of us.”

She squeezed his fingers once, a small pulse of agreement. Then her expression shifted—mischief sliding into place like a crown.

“And speaking of your flannel agenda,” she added, voice lightening, “I think we need to be responsible about this.”

Her eyes flicked pointedly to his shirt. Then back to his face.

“Because you can’t just throw random flannel options at me and expect excellence,” she said, dead serious. “This is a science.”

She took another bite like she wasn’t actively planning trouble.

Then she leaned in a fraction, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret.

“So,” Hattie continued, sweet as honey, “once I’m done with my food… I am happily willing to put on a fashion show for you.”

She paused just long enough to enjoy the way the words landed.

“You can sit there,” she said, gesturing with her fork like she was assigning him a role, “and we can decide which flannels you’re bringing… for me.”

Her smile turned slow and innocent.

“And if you’re very good,” she added, eyes sparkling, “I’ll even do little turns.”

Hattie sat back in her chair, satisfied with herself, and resumed eating like she hadn’t just escalated the evening into something that would absolutely ensure nobody was getting “real sleep” anytime soon.

Another bite. Another small, deliberate chew. A glance up through her lashes.

“I’ll need a judging rubric,” she went on, as if this was professional work. “Like… comfort. Softness. How dramatic you look when you take it off and hand it to me like it’s a sacred offering.”

She took a sip of her drink, then added, completely casually:

“And you’re not allowed to rush me. Fashion takes time.”

Hattie’s fingers tightened around his again, a gentle tether, and her voice softened just a fraction—just enough truth to thread through the teasing.

“I like that you think about me like that,” she said quietly. “Like your first instinct is always… ‘how do I make this easier for her.’”

Her mouth twitched, fighting a smile.

“Even when you pretend you’re just being practical.”

Then—because she couldn’t sit in sincerity for too long without getting restless—she tipped her head and let her grin return, bratty and bright.

“Anyway,” she concluded, lifting her fork like a gavel, “finish your dinner. Because after this, you’re getting a private runway show in your own kitchen.”

A pause.

“And you’re welcome.”

Declan didn’t interrupt her once.

He stayed right there, fingers laced with hers, listening the way he always did when she started like this—half teasing, half confessing, all heart—like every word mattered because it came from her.

When she said, You know I hate that you know me, his mouth twitched first, then softened into a smile that had nothing smug about it.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You do hate it.”
A beat.
“And you love it just as much.”

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, grounding, steady.

“And for the record,” he added, low and warm, “I don’t think it’s rude. I think it’s efficient.”

Her really hot earned her a slow exhale through his nose, the kind that meant she’d landed the hit exactly where she meant to.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You keep saying things like that and I’m gonna start thinking you enjoy being understood.”

When she talked about the trip—It’ll be good—he nodded once, decisive, like she’d just confirmed something he’d already filed away as fact.

“It will,” he agreed. “And we won’t overthink it. We’ll just go.”

Then came the flannel.

Declan leaned back in his chair a little, eyes tracking hers as she gestured, declared science, escalated with alarming confidence. By the time she said This is a science, he was openly amused.

“Oh, I know,” he said dryly. “I’ve seen you apply ‘science’ to throw pillows.”

Her fashion show pitch got a quiet huff of laughter out of him, and he lifted his glass for a sip like he was bracing himself.

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “I sit. I observe. I judge softness and drama.”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting.

“And I’m not allowed to rush you.”

Her little turns made his eyebrows lift just a fraction.

“Dangerous offer, Monroe,” he said mildly. “You’re assuming I’m capable of remaining objective.”

When she mentioned the judging rubric—how dramatic you look when you take it off and hand it to me like it’s a sacred offering—he shook his head, smiling now, helpless about it.

“That one’s unfair,” he said. “I already look dramatic when I take my jacket off. That’s just genetics.”

But then her voice shifted. Softer. Truer.

I like that you think about me like that.

Declan didn’t joke over that part. He didn’t deflect.

His thumb slowed where it brushed her knuckle.

“It’s not pretending,” he said simply. “It’s instinct. You make things lighter just by being you. I just… try to return the favor.”

A pause, then—quiet certainty:

“You deserve to have things be easy sometimes.”

Her grin came back, bright and bratty, and when she ordered him to finish his dinner, he laughed under his breath and picked up his fork.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, pointedly casual. “Finishing dinner.”

He took a bite, eyes never leaving hers.

“And for the record,” he added, voice low and amused, “I accept your gratitude.”

Another bite. Slow. Deliberate.

“But just so we’re clear,” he finished, leaning back slightly in his chair, “I’m absolutely going to take notes.”

A beat.

“Professionally.”