Hattie didn’t cry.

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

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

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

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

She didn’t cry.

She just held him tighter.

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

And still… he was hers.

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

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

Still Declan.

Her Declan.

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

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

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

She didn’t loosen her hold.

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

She swallowed, slow and sure.

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

That made his hand clutch her shirt tighter.

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

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

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

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

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

And she was.

Right here.

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t ask him to be okay.

She just stayed. Warm and soft and steady.

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

It was still beating.

So was hers.

Together.

Declan didn’t just look at her.

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

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

“Hattie…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, they came from clarity.

From strength.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And instead of pulling away… he leaned forward.

He kissed her.

Not urgent.
Not desperate.

Slow.
Full.
Steady.

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

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

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

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

She didn’t let go.

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

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

So she took one for him.

In. Out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not tonight.
Not ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It undid him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just enough to show he could breathe again.

Because she was holding him.

Because she wasn’t letting go.

And neither was he.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t try to fix it.

She just held him.

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

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

Because he didn’t fall apart.

Not completely.

He let her hold the pieces.

He let her be the pieces.

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

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

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

And she wouldn’t let it fall.

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

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

He didn’t need to.

He’d feel it.

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

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

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

Not tonight.
Not ever.

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

Declan didn’t answer her right away.

Couldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just her.

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

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

His jaw shook.
His breath hitched.
And then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please… just stay.”

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

But it didn’t.

It held.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That one got him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re stuck with me.”

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

“I’m your home now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His grip on her tightened just slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because this wasn’t just how you stayed.

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

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

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

It undid him in the quietest, most merciful way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The blanket settled around their shoulders, warm and heavy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just held her.

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

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

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

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

Soft and simple.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She had steadied him.

And he knew it.

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

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

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

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