Hattie’s eyes narrowed at professionally in a way that had nothing to do with irritation and everything to do with the fact that she adored him so much it almost made her teeth hurt.

He sat there—calm, steady, amused—acting like he could be objective about anything involving her. Acting like he could “take notes” the same way he’d take notes on training drills or ladder placement or whatever ridiculous firefighter thing lived in his brain.

As if she hadn’t watched him lose whole sentences just because she walked into a room in leggings.

Please.

She held his gaze for a beat, letting that fondness bloom openly on her face because she didn’t have to hide it with him. He’d made it safe. He’d made her safe. Enough that she could be soft and bold at the same time.

Hattie gave his hand one last squeeze—warm, deliberate, a quiet I heard you—and then finally let go.

Not because she didn’t want the contact.

Because she wanted to lean back too, to settle into her chair and actually eat like a civilized person instead of hovering in a flirtation spiral.

She scooted back, posture loosening, shoulders relaxing. The warmth of him was still there across the table—his presence, his attention—like it didn’t require touch to exist.

Hattie picked her fork back up and took another bite, slow and unhurried. Then another. She let herself actually taste it, actually be here, instead of bouncing around in her own head.

She lifted her glass and took a sip of wine—just enough to warm her throat—then set it down carefully and looked at him again.

God.

It was obscene how easy it was to adore him.

The way he ate, unhurried. The way he watched her even while he did. The way he held himself like he belonged in his own skin—steady, grounded, quietly sure. The kind of man who didn’t do grand gestures because he didn’t need them. He just… showed up. Over and over. In ways that mattered.

Hattie’s mouth softened around a small smile as she took another bite, eyes still on him.

She could feel the confidence in her body like a slow hum—not loud, not performative. Just real. The kind that only existed because she trusted him. Because she knew exactly how he looked at her. Because she knew he liked her like this—bratty and bright and a little bit trouble.

She swallowed, then tipped her head, letting her grin return.

“You’re not taking notes,” she informed him, sweet as sugar.

Hattie speared another piece of chicken and lifted it to her mouth like she was making a point with every bite.

“You’re going to try to take notes,” she corrected, eyes sparkling, “and then you’re going to get far too distracted with how good I look to form a single coherent thought.”

She took the bite. Chewed slowly. Let him sit with that.

Then she lifted her glass again and took another small sip, her gaze never leaving him over the rim.

“And I know this,” she added, lowering the glass, voice quieter but warm with certainty, “because you’re already doing that thing where you think you’re being subtle.”

Hattie’s smile turned fond—softer at the edges.

“And you’re not,” she said gently, like she was teasing a kid for trying to lie. “Not with me.”

She paused long enough to take another bite, then leaned back in her chair, relaxed, her elbow resting lightly on the table as she watched him like he was her favorite view.

It hit her then—how rare this felt. How good. How safe.

She didn’t act like this with anyone else. She didn’t let herself be this openly playful, this demanding, this confident in her own desirability without a voice in the back of her head warning her not to push too far.

But with Declan… there was no warning bell.

Because he wasn’t fragile. He didn’t punish her for being a lot. He didn’t make her shrink.

He just met her.

Hattie’s expression softened again, a quiet sincerity threading through the flirt.

“I only talk like this because it’s you,” she admitted, almost casually, like she wasn’t handing him something delicate. “I’d rather die than try this on someone who wasn’t… steady.”

Her grin came back immediately, because she couldn’t sit in the tender part too long without getting restless.

“So,” she continued, tapping her fork once against her plate like a gavel, “eat your food. Finish your wine. Get your little imaginary notebook ready.”

She tilted her head, eyes bright and wicked.

“Because when I’m done, I’m going to make you sit there and pretend you’re a professional judge…”

A beat.

“…and then I’m going to ruin your ability to be professional at all.”

Hattie took another bite, slow and satisfied, and watched him over her glass like she already knew how the rest of the night was going to go.

Not because she was controlling it.

Because she trusted him enough to play.

Declan didn’t rush his response.

He never did with her—not when she spoke like that, not when there was weight tucked inside the teasing. He let the silence breathe for a second, let her words land and settle in his chest where they clearly belonged.

When she said he wasn’t taking notes, his mouth curved first—slow, knowing. Amused in a way that came from being completely, helplessly caught.

“Yeah,” he said calmly, like he was agreeing with the weather. “That’s because you’re not a drill. You’re a variable.”

He shifted in his chair, long body moving with that lazy confidence that came from years of knowing exactly how much space he occupied. One elbow rested on the table now, his hand loose, relaxed—open.

When she corrected him—*you’re going to try*—his eyes dipped briefly to her mouth, then back up. No apology. No denial.

“I did try,” he admitted. “For about twelve seconds.”

A beat.

“Then you smiled at me like that, and my brain clocked out.”

Her calling him out for thinking he was subtle earned a quiet huff of laughter, the kind that came from his chest, low and warm.

“I’m subtle with everyone else,” he said easily. “You just happen to be my blind spot.”

When she told him *not with me*, his expression changed—not dramatic, just softer. More real. Like she’d named something he wasn’t pretending not to feel anyway.

“Good,” he replied. “I don’t want to be careful with you.”

That landed somewhere steady between them.

When she admitted she only talked like this because it was him—because he was steady—Declan straightened slightly, not out of tension but attention. Like he was being handed something valuable and knew better than to fumble it.

“You don’t have to explain that to me,” he said quietly. “I know what kind of trust that is.”

His voice stayed even, grounded. The firefighter who’d walked into burning houses and come out calm on the other side.

“And I’m not going anywhere just because you’re confident,” he added. “Or demanding. Or trouble.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. Cocky again—but affectionate.

“I like you loud. I like you sure. And I really like that you don’t feel the need to ask permission with me.”

When she told him to eat, finish his wine, get his imaginary notebook ready, Declan picked up his fork on cue—obedient only in the way someone strong chose to be.

He took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. All very deliberate.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said lightly, lifting his glass in mock surrender. “Fueling up.”

Then she threatened to ruin his professionalism, and this time his smile went slower. Darker at the edges. Still gentle. Still safe.

“You’ve already compromised my objectivity,” he said, unbothered. “Anything after dinner is just follow-through.”

He leaned back again, chair creaking softly under his weight, eyes never leaving her face.

“But just so we’re clear,” he added, voice low and steady, “I’m not pretending to be a judge because I need control.”

A beat.

“I’m pretending because you like to see how long I can hold it.”

His gaze warmed immediately after—no challenge, no pressure. Just affection. Just certainty.

“And I’ll let you ruin me,” he finished, soft but sure, “because I trust you to put me back together.”

Then he took another sip of wine, calm as ever.

Waiting.

Exactly where she left him.

Hattie sat in the quiet that followed like it belonged to her.

Because it did.

Because he did.

Declan’s last words landed in her chest and settled there—warm, heavy, reverent in a way that made her stomach flip and her eyes sting if she let herself stare at it too long. The trust. The steadiness. The way he could say something that intimate without making it feel like a demand.

Just an offering.

And Hattie—confident, happy, absolutely glowing in her own skin—felt the simplest, most powerful truth of it:

She got to call this perfect man hers.

Not like ownership.

Like belonging.

Like chosen.

Her mouth tipped into a soft, satisfied smile as she looked at him across the table, heart full in the most obnoxious way. She didn’t have to perform. Didn’t have to protect herself from the tenderness. She could just… enjoy it.

So she did.

She took a few more bites, finishing what was left on her plate because she was full and didn’t want to push it. The last of the rice. A piece of chicken. A few veggies. Slow and unhurried. She sipped her wine again, letting it warm her throat, and kept looking at him over the rim of the glass like she was memorizing something she never wanted to forget.

The way he sat there waiting—patient, calm, not crowding her, not rushing anything. Just present. Just available.

Hattie set her glass down and exhaled, satisfied.

“Okay,” she said quietly, like she was concluding another meeting. “I’m done. I’m officially full.”

She slid her chair back and stood, stretching just enough to loosen her shoulders. Then she picked up her plate and walked it to the trash, scraping the last little bit into it with a few neat taps. Efficient. Domestic. Like this was normal—like this wasn’t her whole heart walking around in a body.

She rinsed the plate quickly under the faucet, water running in a soft rush. She didn’t scrub it spotless—just enough to be respectful—then set it in the sink with a gentle clink.

When she turned back, she didn’t go straight to the hallway.

She went to him.

Because she couldn’t not.

Hattie crossed the kitchen, her steps light, and came up behind his chair. Her hand slid onto his shoulder first—warm, familiar—fingers curling into the fabric there like she wanted to feel the proof of him. Like she liked knowing she could touch him whenever she wanted and he’d simply… let her.

She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Not rushed. Not performative.

Soft. Certain. Affectionate in a way that made her feel giddy and safe at the same time.

Her lips lingered for half a beat, just because she could.

Then she pulled back slightly, her fingers still resting on him, thumb giving a small, satisfied stroke at the edge of his jaw.

“I’ll be back,” she murmured, voice warm with promise, eyes bright with that smug little sparkle that always meant trouble was already in motion.

Hattie stepped away, smoothing her hands lightly down the back of his shoulder as she passed—one last touch, like a tether she didn’t need but liked having anyway.

Then she headed down the hall toward their bedroom, already smiling to herself.

Not because she was trying to be sexy.

Because she was.

Because she was happy.

Because she was confident.

Because she was his—and he was hers—and she trusted him so completely that she could turn this into a game without ever worrying the floor would drop out beneath her.

Hattie disappeared into the bedroom with purpose, already scanning in her head—flannel options, softness levels, the one that smelled the most like him.

The first one.

The opening act.

And the moment she found it, she grinned—because she was absolutely going to make him pretend to judge.

And then make it impossible.

Declan stayed seated for a second after she walked away.

Not frozen—just… still. Like his body needed a beat to catch up with what his chest already knew.

He watched her move through the kitchen with that quiet, domestic competence that always undid him more than anything overt ever could. The way she rinsed the plate. The soft clink in the sink. The fact that she didn’t look back because she didn’t need to. She knew exactly where he was. She knew exactly what she did to him.

When her hand came to his shoulder, his breath shifted without permission.

Not sharp. Not needy.

Just deeper.

He leaned subtly into her touch, muscle memory more than intention, and when she kissed his cheek he closed his eyes for half a second—just enough to take it in properly. Like he always did. Like he never rushed these things.

When her thumb brushed his jaw, he turned his head just slightly toward her fingers, voice low when he answered her.

“Take your time,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”

There was a promise in it—but no pressure. Just fact.

As she walked away, hand trailing over his shoulder, Declan exhaled slowly through his nose and finally leaned back in his chair again, gaze drifting toward the hallway she disappeared down.

He picked up his glass, took another sip of wine—not because he needed it, but because he could. Calm. Steady. Grounded in his body the way he always was when he trusted what came next.

A small smile tugged at his mouth.

“Flannel,” he said quietly to himself, already knowing. Already clocking the intention. The opening move.

He shook his head once, amused and fond, and finally stood—tall frame unfolding easily, no rush in him at all. He rinsed his own plate, set it aside, wiped his hands on a towel with deliberate care.

Because this wasn’t a chase.

It was a rhythm.

And when he started down the hall after her, his steps were unhurried, confident—like a man who knew exactly who was waiting for him and exactly how much she trusted him to meet her there.

Declan paused at the bedroom doorway—not because he needed permission, not because he was unsure—but because he knew how this worked with her.

He leaned one shoulder into the frame, tall and easy, arms folding loosely across his chest. The light from the hall caught him just right—broad, steady, familiar. Home.

His eyes tracked her calmly, openly. No rush. No hunger that needed proving. Just attention—full and undivided.

“There it is,” he said quietly, voice low with amusement when he clocked the flannel in her hands. “Knew you’d start gentle.”

He stepped inside then, slow, deliberate, boots soft against the floor as he crossed the room. He stopped a few feet away—not crowding her, never cornering. Just close enough that the air between them felt charged.

“You always do,” he went on, tone fond. “Like you want to see how long I’ll behave if you make it comfortable first.”

A smile tugged at his mouth—warm, knowing.

“For the record,” he added, “I notice all of it. The planning. The confidence. The way you pretend this is casual when you’ve already thought three steps ahead.”

He reached out—not to touch her yet—but to take the flannel from her hands, rubbing the fabric between his fingers like he was testing evidence.

“And you picked the one that smells like me,” he said softly, eyes lifting back to hers. “That’s not subtle either.”

He handed it back, fingers brushing hers just once—intentional, grounding.

“You okay if I keep talking?” he asked, gentle but sure. “Because you’ve got that look like you’re enjoying the quiet, and I don’t want to break it wrong.”

A beat.

Then, quieter—real.

“You don’t have to perform with me,” he said. “You know that, right? You can just… be happy. I won’t take it from you.”

His gaze softened, something protective settling in his posture without turning heavy.

“But,” he added, the cocky edge slipping back in, “if you want to make me pretend to judge you?”

He tipped his head slightly, eyes dark with affection and promise.

“I’m very good at pretending.”

He let his hands drop to his sides, relaxed again, giving her space to choose the next move.

Hattie didn’t interrupt him once.

She just stood there with the flannel in her hands and let him say it—let him name her the way he always did, like he was reading a language off her skin that no one else could even see. Planning. Confidence. Three steps ahead. Like you want to see how long I’ll behave.

Her face stayed composed through it, chin tipped just slightly, eyes steady on him like she was bored.

But inside, she was practically purring.

Because he was right. Because he always was. Because he didn’t say any of it like an accusation—he said it like admiration. Like he liked the way her happiness made her a little wicked.

And the part that mattered most, the part she didn’t let show too easily, was the truth tucked in the middle of his steady voice:

You don’t have to perform with me.

Hattie held onto that like a secret she got to keep. Like a gift he never tired of giving her.

So she let him finish. Let the silence come back in around them.

Then she exhaled through her nose and gave him a look—long-suffering, offended on principle—like he’d ruined something sacred.

“Wow,” she said, flat. “Unbelievable.”

She lifted the flannel slightly, as if presenting Exhibit A.

“I was going to do a grand reveal,” she continued, voice dripping with mock irritation. “I was going to walk out into the kitchen like a supermodel. Maybe do a little spin. Maybe hold the hem like this—” she demonstrated with a tiny flick of fabric, “—and let you pretend you weren’t losing your mind.”

Hattie’s eyes narrowed.

“And you followed me.”

She let the complaint hang there, then added, softer and sweeter—because she couldn’t help it, because it was true:

“Which is exactly what I wanted you to do, so… congratulations. You’re guilty.”

Her mouth tipped into a smile—bratty, delighted, pleased with him in a way that made her chest feel too full.

Then she pointed at the bed like she was assigning a post.

“Your punishment,” she declared, “is that you have to sit right there.”

She waited until he moved—until that tall, steady body obeyed without any need for words—until he was seated and watching her like she’d set the whole room on fire and asked him not to flinch.

Hattie took a slow step back, still holding the flannel, her eyes bright.

“And,” she added, lifting a single finger, “you can’t touch.”

She emphasized it with a tiny wag of her finger, like she was lecturing a man who was clearly too tempted to be trusted.

“Not even a little.”

His hands stayed where they were. His posture stayed easy. But Hattie felt the shift anyway—the attention sharpening, the air changing, the quiet tightening between them like a drawn thread.

Good.

That was the point.

She set the flannel on the edge of the dresser for one beat, then reached for the hem of her tee.

This wasn’t performance. Not really. Not for him.

This was her, happy. Safe. Bold because she could be. Bratty because she knew he wouldn’t punish her for it—he’d just take it.

Hattie lifted her shirt slowly and tugged it up and over her head, tossing it aside with casual confidence. She didn’t rush to cover herself, didn’t flinch from his gaze. She simply existed in it, shoulders relaxed, chin lifted, like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Because with him, it was.

She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her sweats next, sliding them down her hips in an unhurried motion—more deliberate than necessary, because she was a menace and he deserved to suffer a little. She stepped out of them and kicked them aside without looking.

Then she reached for the flannel.

The one that smelled like him.

Hattie slipped her arms into it, pulling it on slow, letting the fabric drag over her skin, letting the sleeves fall into place. She buttoned it lazily—only a couple buttons, just enough to make it look like she was trying, just enough to make it clear she wasn’t.

When she turned back toward the bed, she leaned her hip against the dresser like she owned the room. Like she owned the moment.

Like she owned him.

Her eyes found his and held. Her smile was wicked and warm all at once.

“Well?” she asked, voice sweet, daring. “Judge.”

Then she pushed off the dresser and did a slow little turn—exactly what she’d threatened earlier, a small runway spin that was more playful than polished. She made it teasing on purpose: the swish of the flannel hem, the way she glanced back over her shoulder like she knew what she was doing to him.

She stopped facing him again, hands at her sides, posture relaxed.

And then she lifted her brows, smug.

“Go on,” Hattie said, soft and satisfied. “Tell me how I did.”

She took a tiny step closer to the bed—close enough to make the no-touch rule feel like a rule—and angled her head, eyes shining with happiness she wasn’t trying to hide.

“Be professional,” she added, like a threat.

Her smile widened.

“I want notes.”

Declan stayed seated.

He didn’t lean forward. Didn’t spread his knees. Didn’t do a single thing that would make it easier on himself—because this mattered to her. Because the rule mattered. Because he liked that she trusted him to hold the line.

But his eyes?

Absolutely did not behave.

They tracked her openly, shamelessly, slow from the top of her head to the hem of the flannel and back again. No rush. No attempt to pretend he wasn’t affected. Just attention—full, focused, reverent in a way that made it clear this wasn’t a game he was tolerating.

When she called him Judge, his mouth twitched.

He dragged one hand over his jaw, thoughtful, like he was actually considering something serious.

“All right,” he said calmly. “Professional.”

He straightened just a little, planting his feet, forearms resting on his thighs now—hands very visibly still. Obedient. Deliberate.

“First impression,” he continued, voice steady but warm, “you’re absolutely abusing the dress code.”

A beat.

“And I respect it.”

His gaze lifted to her face, softened there—always did—before dropping again with quiet appreciation.

“Flannel choice,” he went on, nodding once. “Excellent. Strategic. Smells like me, fits you like you stole it—which you did—and somehow manages to look better on you than it ever has on me.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying her like a man who knew what he was seeing and liked that he wasn’t allowed to reach for it.

“Buttoning is lazy. Intentional. Leaves just enough room for imagination.” A pause. “Unfair, but effective.”

When she stepped closer—close enough to make the rule ache—his jaw flexed. He didn’t move. Didn’t break.

“Confidence,” he said quietly, eyes lifting to meet hers now, locking in. “Ten out of ten. No hesitation. No checking to see if I’m still with you.”

A small smile curved his mouth—fond, proud.

“That’s my favorite part,” he admitted. “You don’t ask if I like it. You already know I do.”

He leaned back a fraction, exhaling slowly, grounding himself again before he finished.

“As a judge,” he said, measured, “I’d say you understood the assignment perfectly.”

Then the cocky edge slipped back in—low, amused, undeniably him.

“As your boyfriend?” His eyes warmed, voice dropping just enough to feel like a promise. “I think you’re enjoying how hard this is for me.”

A beat.

“And you’re right.”

He lifted his hands briefly—palms open, proof of compliance—then let them rest again, still.

“No touching,” he said, repeating her rule with a quiet smile. “Still behaving.”

His gaze stayed on her, steady and unflinching.

“But if you want more notes,” he added softly, “you’re going to have to stay right there a little longer.”

A pause.

“Because I’m not done looking.”

Declan stayed exactly where she put him.

Back straight. Feet planted. Hands resting loose on his thighs like they were weighted there on purpose. Every inch of restraint was deliberate—not forced, not strained. Chosen.

He let the silence stretch again, because he knew she liked it. Knew she liked the way he didn’t rush to fill space, didn’t scramble just because she was daring him to.

His eyes lifted to hers, steady and intent.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said quietly—not accusatory, not amused. Just observant. “I can tell by the way you’re standing like you’ve already won.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth.

“And for the record,” he added, voice low and calm, “you’re right. I am losing.”

He shifted back just enough to get comfortable, like he planned to be here awhile. Like this was something he could sit inside instead of fight.

“As a judge,” he continued, playing along because he liked that she asked him to, “I’d note that you didn’t rush the turn. You let me see you from every angle like you weren’t worried about what I’d think.”

His gaze softened when it met her face again.

“That tells me you feel safe,” he said. “And that matters more than how good you look.”

A beat—then the cocky warmth slid back in, easy and familiar.

“Still,” he went on, “you definitely broke my concentration with the shoulder seam on that flannel. Sits just right. Makes it very hard to remember I’m supposed to be objective.”

He inhaled slowly, visibly grounding himself, eyes never leaving her.

“But I’m holding,” he said simply. “Because you asked me to.”

His voice dropped, quieter now—steady as a promise.

“And because I like showing you I can.”

He glanced pointedly at the space between them—close, charged, untouched.

“You can come closer if you want,” he added calmly. “Rules still stand.”

Then his eyes lifted back to hers, warm and unwavering.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “You don’t need to hurry.”

Hattie could’ve melted on the spot.

Not because he was being good—though he was. God, he was. Hands still. Posture steady. Obedience worn like choice instead of restraint.

But because of the way he listened.

The way he took her seriously even when she was being ridiculous. The way he met her play without ever making it feel silly. The way his eyes kept moving over her like she was something worth studying—worth memorizing—like he could spend the rest of his life looking and still not run out of awe.

It made her feel… adored.

And powerful.

And impossibly safe.

Hattie’s smile turned soft at the edges as she stood there in his flannel, heart full enough to be annoying about it. She let the silence stretch a second longer—because she liked watching him hold it, liked knowing he would—then she shifted her weight and gave him a look like she was absolutely going to make this worse.

“You’re so serious about this,” she murmured, amused, and then—because she couldn’t help herself—she did a small pose like she was on a runway. One hand at her hip, chin tipped, shoulder angled just right so the flannel collar sat open in a way that would’ve been innocent on anyone else.

Not on her.

Not right now.

She held it for half a beat, then changed it—turning slightly, letting the hem swing, crossing one leg in front of the other with a little sway that said I’m not even trying when she very much was.

Her eyes flicked to his face, watching him watch her, and that smug spark returned.

“Okay,” she said lightly, like she was conceding something. “I am enjoying this.”

Another pose—small, playful—she lifted her arms and stretched like she was waking up, letting the flannel ride just enough to tease the shape of her waist before it fell back into place.

Hattie’s grin widened.

“I’m enjoying how hard I’m making this on you,” she admitted, voice warm with satisfaction. “A lot.”

She let that hang, savoring the fact that she could say things like that without flinching. Without wondering if she’d pushed too far. Because it was Declan.

Because Declan didn’t get scared of her intensity. He didn’t punish her for wanting. He didn’t make her feel like she had to shrink down into something easier.

He just… held steady.

Hattie’s expression softened for a second—something gentler flickering through the mischief.

“And yeah,” she said more quietly, eyes staying on his. “I feel safe.”

It wasn’t said like a confession she regretted. It was said like a truth she deserved.

“With you,” she continued, voice low and sure, “I don’t have to brace for the floor to drop out from under me. I don’t have to wonder if the line will move.”

She swallowed, the warmth in her chest tightening a fraction.

“That’s… a big part of why I let things get rougher sometimes,” she added, matter-of-fact but honest. “Because I know it’s still you. I know you’re still listening. I know you’d stop the second I asked.”

Her smile returned—brighter, lighter—because she didn’t want to sit in sincerity too long. Not when she could use it like fuel instead.

“So,” she said, sweet again, playful again, “don’t ruin it by getting all emotional. You’re supposed to be judging.”

She took a slow step forward.

Then another.

Not fast. Not urgent. Just close enough that the rule turned into something you could feel.

Hattie stopped right in front of him, close to his knees, and leaned in just a little, like she was offering him a “better look” the way he’d asked for it.

“Is this close enough, Judge?” she asked, voice honey-smooth.

She tipped her head, letting her hair fall over one shoulder. Letting the flannel collar open just a fraction more. Letting him see exactly what she wanted him to see.

Her hands stayed to herself—no touching, because she liked the rule too. She liked the line. She liked how it made the air between them crackle.

Hattie bent slightly at the waist, bringing her face closer to his—close enough to make his restraint a physical thing in the room—and smiled like she’d already won again.

“Take your notes,” she whispered, eyes shining. “Get a really good look.”

Then she straightened, slow and deliberate, and did one more tiny turn right there in front of him—small enough to be cruel, playful enough to be a dare.

When she faced him again, she lifted her brows.

“Well?” she asked, smug and bright. “Still behaving?”

Declan didn’t move.

Not when she stepped closer.
Not when she leaned in.
Not when the air between them tightened into something you could almost hear.

But his breath changed—slow, controlled, deeper through his nose like he was grounding himself on purpose. Like he knew exactly what this cost him and was choosing it anyway.

His eyes lifted to hers when she asked if he was still behaving, and this time there was no teasing in his expression. No laziness. Just focus—steady and unflinching and unmistakably present.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

One word. Solid. Certain.

Then, because she asked for notes—because she trusted him to keep listening—he let his gaze move again. Slow. Thorough. Appreciative without being possessive. He took her in the way a man does when he isn’t trying to take anything at all.

“You’re pushing the boundary,” he said evenly, voice low and warm. “Not crossing it. That’s intentional.”

A beat.

“And you’re watching me the whole time to make sure I’m still here.”

His jaw flexed once, the smallest tell that this wasn’t easy—but still controlled.

“I am,” he added. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”

When she talked about safety—about knowing he’d stop, knowing he was listening—something settled heavy and sure in his chest. Pride, maybe. Responsibility. Love that didn’t need dramatics to exist.

“I would,” he said simply. “Immediately.”

No hesitation. No bravado.

“You don’t have to brace with me,” he continued, voice steady as a hand on her back. “And you don’t have to earn my attention by making things rough.”

Then—softening, just a little—

“But I understand why you play at the edge,” he said. “Because you trust I won’t let you fall.”

Her being this close—her voice low, her confidence bright—made his restraint feel almost visible. But he held it. Because that was the point. Because she liked knowing he could.

“As a judge,” he went on, returning to the game because she asked him to, “I’d say proximity increases difficulty.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth.

“Significantly.”

He stayed seated, hands still, eyes locked on hers now—not her body, not the flannel. Her.

“But as the man who loves you?” he said quietly. “I see someone who’s happy. Someone who’s testing the ground because she knows it’s solid.”

He inhaled slowly, then let it out.

“So yes,” he finished, calm and sure, “I’m still behaving.”

A pause.

“But you should know”—his voice dropped just a touch, warm with promise—
“I’m only doing it because you asked me to.”

His gaze softened, affectionate and steady.

“And because I like showing you that you’re safe… even when you’re being a menace.”

Hattie held his gaze and felt that single word—Yes—hit her like a pulse.

Not because it was a victory.

Because it was a choice.

Because he was sitting there with all that strength and all that want and all that patience, and he was still listening. Still holding the line. Still proving—again and again—that her rules mattered because she mattered.

It made her heart feel stupidly full.

And it made her body feel… very aware.

Hattie let a slow smile spread across her mouth, soft at first, then sharpening into something smug and pleased. She didn’t look away. She didn’t have to. She loved him as a person—she loved the man he was when nobody was watching, the steadiness, the tenderness, the way he took care of her like it was instinct.

But she also loved him like this.

The heat of him under control. The restraint. The way it gathered inside him like a storm he was holding back with his own hands.

Because when it finally broke—when she finally let him stop behaving—it didn’t come out gentle or half-measured.

It came out full force.

And she liked that. She liked the intensity. She liked the edge.

Not because she needed to prove anything.

Not because she was trying to earn his attention by letting things get rough.

Hattie didn’t need to barter for his focus. She had it. She’d always had it.

She just… genuinely liked it.

Her body could take it. More than take it. Her pain threshold was high, and in sex it climbed even higher—like something in her brain flipped and turned pressure into pleasure, heat into relief. It wasn’t bravery. It wasn’t sacrifice.

It was preference.

Hattie exhaled softly, almost a laugh, and let her fingertips skim the edge of his knee—barely there, not breaking the rule, just a tiny touch of presence before she withdrew again.

She tilted her head, eyes bright, voice warm.

“I know,” she said quietly, when he told her she didn’t have to earn anything. Her smile softened for a beat. “And I’m not.”

Then the brat in her returned, pleased and bold.

“I just…” She let her gaze drag over him—slow, appreciative, not shy about it. “I like you like this.”

She leaned in a fraction, close enough that the no-touch rule felt loud in the room.

“I like your self-control,” she murmured, sweet as sin. “I like watching it build.”

Her brows lifted, playful, like she was sharing a harmless opinion instead of lighting a match.

“And besides,” she added, with a casual shrug that didn’t match the heat in her eyes, “we can save the vanilla stuff for when we’re older and our bodies don’t work as well.”

A beat.

She smiled wider.

“Right now, I’m in my prime. And I plan to enjoy it.”

Hattie stepped back half a step—not retreating, just giving herself room to tug lightly at the flannel hem and let it fall back into place. A tiny, deliberate tease. A reminder that this was still her game.

Then she looked at him again—straight on, warm and wicked and happy.

“So,” she said, voice light, like this was a perfectly reasonable question, “do you need a better look at this one still…”

She paused, letting the second option hang in the air like a dare.

“…or are you ready to take it off me yet?”

Hattie’s smile turned positively smug.

“Because if you want to wait a little longer,” she continued, nodding toward the dresser as if she had a whole lineup planned—because she did, “I already know which one I’m modeling next.”

She leaned in just slightly, lowering her voice.

“And you’re going to hate it.”

Her eyes sparkled.

“Not because it’s ugly. Because it’s going to make behaving even harder.”

Then she straightened again, hands behind her back like she was innocent, like she hadn’t just thrown gasoline on a fire and asked him to stay seated.

Hattie held his gaze, confident and affectionate all at once—safe enough to play at the edge because she knew he would catch her every time.

“So, Judge,” she murmured, smile slow, “what’s the ruling?”

Declan didn’t answer right away.

He looked at her—really looked at her—with an expression that wasn’t heat first, but something deeper and steadier underneath it. Like admiration came before want. Like the want mattered because of the admiration, not instead of it.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and even, but threaded through with unmistakable affection.

“I know,” he said softly, in response to her I’m not earning it. Not defensive. Not correcting. Just acknowledging her truth. “I can see that.”

His gaze lingered on her face longer than anywhere else, like he needed her to understand that part most.

“And I love that about you,” he continued. “That you don’t push because you’re unsure. You push because you’re curious. Because you’re alive in it.”

He shifted slightly on the bed—not breaking the rule, not leaning forward—just adjusting, grounding himself again. Big hands still open. Still empty.

When she told him she liked him like this—controlled, contained—his mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I figured.”

There was no embarrassment in it. No apology. Just truth.

“You’ve always liked knowing where the edge is,” he went on, eyes warm, attentive. “And you like knowing I can stand right at it without tipping over.”

A beat.

“And you like knowing,” he added gently, “that when I do move, it’s because you asked me to.”

Her teasing about being in her prime earned a low, breathy laugh from his chest—soft, fond, amused in the way of a man who adored the woman in front of him.

“You’re not wrong,” he said. “And I’m not rushing you through any of it.”

When she asked if he needed a better look—or if he was ready to take it off—his eyes darkened just a fraction, not with hunger alone but with deliberation. Thoughtfulness. Choice.

He inhaled slowly, visibly steadying himself again, then lifted his gaze back to hers.

“As the judge,” he said, calm and measured, playing the role because she loved it, “I’d say you’re clearly trying to influence the outcome.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth.

“And it’s working.”

But he stayed seated. Stayed still. Because that mattered.

“As the man who loves you,” he continued more quietly, “I’m in no hurry to skip past the part where you feel powerful. Confident. Seen.”

His eyes softened, something almost reverent settling there.

“You shine when you’re like this,” he said. “Not because of what you’re wearing—or not wearing—but because you trust me enough to play.”

He let the silence stretch for a beat, then answered her question at last.

“So here’s the ruling,” Declan said, voice low and sure.

“I’m still behaving.”

A pause.

“But I’m not waiting because I need more convincing.”

His gaze held hers, steady and affectionate.

“I’m waiting because I want you to decide when the rules change.”

A faint smile—warm, devoted, unmistakably his.

“And when you do,” he added softly, “I’ll be right here. Listening.”

Hattie’s smile turned slow and dangerous.

Because of course he said that. Of course he did.

He could’ve made it about hunger. Could’ve made it about the rule, the game, the teasing. But he always did this thing where he put the center back where it belonged—on her. On what she was feeling. On the fact that she wasn’t performing. She was shining because she was happy. Because she was safe.

Powerful. Confident. Seen.

And he wasn’t rushing her past it.

Hattie swallowed once, the affection in her chest going bright and thick—and for a second, she wanted to kiss him so badly it almost annoyed her. Like her body leaned toward him before she even told it to.

But she didn’t.

Not yet.

If he wasn’t in a hurry to skip the part where she felt like this… neither was she.

Hattie flashed him a smile—warm, wicked, absolutely in love—and then let it sharpen into something bratty.

“Good,” she murmured, as if approving his answer. “Because I wasn’t done anyway.”

She let the silence sit just long enough to make it ache, then tipped her head.

“Option two,” she announced lightly—like this was a menu and she’d already decided what he was getting.

Hattie lifted her hands to the buttons of the flannel.

And she did it slowly.

Not because she needed to be dramatic.

Because she liked watching him hold still.

Because she liked making him watch her with his hands empty.

Because it made her feel powerful in a way that wasn’t about controlling him—it was about knowing she was safe enough to play.

Her fingers worked each button one by one, eyes never leaving his. The fabric loosened over her chest, slipping open. The room felt smaller with every quiet click.

When she got to the last one, she didn’t rush. She just let it part, let it fall away from her shoulders.

Then she slid it off her arms in one smooth motion and tossed it onto the bed beside him—right next to his thigh—like a taunt placed carefully within reach.

He still couldn’t touch.

Hattie’s smile widened.

“Stay,” she reminded him softly, sweet as sin.

Then she turned away.

Not because she was shy—she wasn’t—but because she liked knowing he’d watch her even when she wasn’t facing him. She crossed to the dresser with deliberate calm, the kind of confidence that only existed because she knew exactly what he was and exactly what he wouldn’t do without her say-so.

She opened a drawer, riffling through flannels like she was choosing weaponry.

And then she found it.

The one they kept for a reason.

A little too small for him—shorter in the body, tighter in the shoulders—but perfect for her because it didn’t swallow her whole. It sat closer. It looked like hers instead of borrowed.

Hattie pulled it out and held it up, glancing over her shoulder with a glint in her eyes.

“This one,” she decided.

She didn’t put it on the normal way.

Of course she didn’t.

Instead, she wrapped it around her body and buttoned it up the front—but only high enough that it became a strapless little dress, snug across her chest, the hem hitting high enough to feel like a threat. Then she took the sleeves and crossed them around her waist, pulling them tight and tying them in a neat knot like a belt.

A flannel turned into a strapless dress.

A problem turned into a plan.

When she turned back to him, she posed immediately—hand on her hip, chin tipped, that bratty runway confidence back in full force.

“Well?” she asked, like she’d done him a favor. “Now you can’t even pretend you’re unbiased.”

Hattie took a step toward him.

Then another.

Slow. Controlled. A little sway in her hips that was just enough to be mean about it.

She did a small, dramatic turn halfway across the room—like she was showing the “dress” off properly—then continued toward the bed with the most ridiculous little runway walk, one foot crossing in front of the other like she’d watched one too many fashion shows and decided she could absolutely do it.

Because she could.

Because she was happy.

Because she was his.

And he was sitting there—hands empty, eyes full—watching her like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.

Hattie stopped right in front of him, close enough that her knees brushed the edge of the mattress.

Then she leaned in—crowding his space on purpose—tilting her head as if she were granting him a closer inspection.

“Okay,” she whispered, eyes bright. “Better look.”

She held his gaze, the knot of the sleeves tight at her waist, the buttoned-up strapless front making the whole thing feel scandalous and playful at once.

“Give me your review,” Hattie murmured, voice soft and smug. “And take your time.”

A beat.

Her smile turned downright wicked.

“Because I’m not done with you yet.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Not because he didn’t know what to say—but because saying anything at all felt dangerous when his entire body had already answered for him.

Declan stayed exactly where she’d left him. Hands braced on his thighs. Shoulders tight with restraint. Jaw set like he was holding something back with sheer will alone.

His eyes, though—those were gone.

They dragged over her slowly, deliberately, like he was committing her to memory instead of appraising her. The knot at her waist. The way the flannel hugged her. The confidence rolling off her in waves so thick it felt like heat.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than before. Rougher. Honest in a way that didn’t bother pretending.

“You know damn well that’s not fair,” he said quietly.

A pause.

Then softer. Slower.

“But if we’re calling it a review…”

His gaze lifted back to her face, steady and reverent all at once.

“It’s a problem.”

One corner of his mouth tipped up—not a grin. Something more dangerous than that.

“You look like you planned it,” he went on. “Like you woke up and decided you were gonna ruin my concentration for the rest of the night and then followed through.”

His eyes flicked—just once—to the knot at her waist. Back up again. He didn’t reach. Didn’t lean in.

Held.

“And I don’t feel unbiased,” he admitted. “I feel… compromised.”

A breath.

“But still listening.”

He shifted just enough that his knees nudged closer to hers, closing the space without touching her. Letting her feel it without giving her the satisfaction yet.

“If this is you not being done,” he added, voice dropping even lower, “I’m gonna need you to be real clear about what comes next.”

His eyes stayed locked on hers.

Because he wasn’t asking for permission.

He was asking because she mattered.

“And I swear,” he finished, a quiet edge of a smile breaking through the restraint, “I’ll take my time.”

Compromised.

The word hung in the air between them, thick and heavy, and Hattie savored the taste of it like the first sip of that expensive red wine.

She watched the way his knuckles bleached white where he gripped his own thighs, the tendons in his forearms cording with the effort of not reaching for her. It was a potent, heady drug—this visible, physical proof of just how much he wanted her. She loved the safety of him, the absolute certainty that he wouldn’t cross the line she’d drawn in the sand until she erased it.

But God, she was ready to erase it.

She didn't back away. She didn't spin for another review. Instead, she stepped forward, moving deep into the V of his spread legs until her shins pressed firmly against the denim of his jeans, the flannel "dress" bunching slightly at her thighs.

She felt the heat coming off him in waves.

"Being a problem is kind of my specialty, Caldwell," she murmured, her voice dropping to a husky, confident purr. She reached up, not to touch him yet, but to slowly trace the line of her own collarbone, drawing his heavy, darkened gaze exactly where she wanted it. "And if you're compromised... then I'd say the fashion show was a resounding success."

She looked down at him, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs—not from fear, never from fear—but from anticipation. She wanted the weight of him. She wanted the "rougher intensity" that she knew he kept on a tight leash for the rest of the world. She wanted to feel his hands, heavy and possessive, claiming the skin she’d just spent ten minutes teasing him with.

"You want clarity?" she whispered, leaning down.

She moved deliberately, lifting one leg to plant her knee on the mattress beside his hip, then the other, until she was straddling his lap. She settled her weight down on his thighs, feeling the hard ridge of him beneath her, the friction electric even through the layers of fabric.

She brought her hands up to cup his face, her thumbs brushing over the rough stubble along his jaw, forcing him to look her dead in the eye.

"The review period is over," she announced, her voice trembling slightly with the force of her own need. "And the 'no touching' rule is officially rescinded."

She leaned in close, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, her breath hot against his skin.

"I don't want you to take your time, Declan," she admitted, the bratty facade cracking just enough to reveal the desperate, demanding woman underneath. "I want you to put your hands on me. I want you to ruin the flannel. And I want you to do it now."

She pulled back just enough to see his eyes, her expression shifting into a dare, a challenge, a plea.

"Grab me," she ordered softly. "Show me just how compromised you are."

The snap of his restraint was almost audible. The leash didn’t just loosen; it incinerated.

Her words—ruin the flannel, do it now—were the match tossed into a pool of gasoline he’d been standing in all night. The agonizing friction of her weight settling onto his lap, the heat of her breath on his ear, it was too much. He was done being safe. He was done waiting.

"Compromised doesn't even begin to cover it, Hattie," he growled, the sound raw and scraping against his own throat.

He moved with a sudden, violent speed that belied the stillness he’d maintained for so long. His right hand shot out, clamping onto her waist, his fingers digging into the soft curve of her hip through the flannel fabric, anchoring her against him.

At the same time, his left hand flew up to cradle her face. It wasn't a gentle caress; it was a possessive claim. His thumb pressed firmly into her jawline, tilting her head back, demanding access and ensuring she couldn't look anywhere but at him. He saw the spark of triumph—and the answering flare of arousal—in her eyes just before he eliminated the agonizing inch between them.

He pulled her down to him, crushing her mouth with his.

It wasn't a polite, testing kiss. It was a collision. It was starvation finally meeting a feast. He devoured her, his lips moving against hers with a bruising intensity, tasting the expensive wine she’d savored and the provocative smirk he’d wanted to wipe off her face all evening. He poured every ounce of frustrated need, every suppressed instinct, into the kiss, taking everything she offered and demanding more. He had her exactly where he wanted her, and God help him, he wasn't letting go.

The kiss was fire, but it wasn't enough. He needed total conflagration. He needed to consume the space between them until there was nothing left but heat and friction.

He broke the seal of their mouths with a guttural sound, leaving them both gasping in the sudden, charged silence of the room. She looked wrecked, her lips swollen and her eyes hazy with the same desperate need that was clawing at his insides. The sight of her like that—so completely undone after hours of cool, untouchable composure—snapped the very last thread of his sanity.
She reached for him again, but he was faster.

"No," he rasped. "My turn."

His hand slid from her jaw, moving down her neck with bruising pressure to intercept her hands before they could land on his shoulders. He captured her wrists in a grip that was absolute, brooking no argument.

He didn't give her time to process the shift. He used the leverage of her position astride him to press her backward, bearing down with his own weight until she was forced to lay flat against the mattress beneath him.

He followed her down instantly, looming over her, his heavy thighs caging her hips. With one swift, decisive movement, he swept her arms upward along the sheets until they were stretched high above her head. He transferred both of her slender wrists into one of his large hands, clamping them effortlessly to the mattress.

She was wide open to him now. Completely vulnerable. Entirely his.
He stared down at her, watching the rapid, shallow rise and fall of her chest beneath the rumpled flannel dress. He saw a flicker of something new in her eyes as she realized the extent of her powerlessness—not fear, never fear with her—but a thrilling jolt of submission.

"You wanted the leash off, Hattie," he breathed, lowering his head until his lips hovered just inches from hers, his voice dark with promised retribution. "So now you deal with what happens when it’s gone."

The air left Hattie’s lungs in a rush as her back hit the mattress, but the sound that escaped her throat wasn't a protest—it was a breathless, broken laugh of pure victory.

Finally.

She lay there, pinned and exposed, staring up at the man who had spent the last ten hours being the perfect, restrained gentleman. The gentleman was gone. In his place was a storm, and she had deliberately, happily walked right into the center of it.

She felt the steel band of his fingers clamping her wrists together above her head. The grip was absolute. Unyielding. It was the kind of strength that could crush, but she knew—with a bone-deep certainty that made her heart ache—that it never would. He was her safe place, even when he was looming over her like a threat.

She couldn't resist testing him. It was instinct.

She twisted her wrists slightly, pulling her arms apart as if trying to break his hold.
Declan didn't even blink. He didn't shift his weight. He just held her there, immovable as a mountain, his grip tightening just enough to send a clear message: You aren't going anywhere until I say so.

A shiver of electric delight raced down her spine, and her body went boneless, sinking deeper into the sheets in total, delicious surrender. She loved the weight of him caging her hips. She loved the helplessness of her position.

But just because she was pinned didn't mean she was silenced.

She looked up at him, her chest heaving against the flannel dress that was barely holding on, her eyes dark and dancing with defiance. She licked her swollen lips, tasting him, and arched her back just enough to brush her body against his chest—a tease, a taunt, a dare.
"Took you long enough," she whispered, her voice husky and unrepentant.

She smiled, a slow, provocative curve of her lips that dared him to tighten his grip even more.

"You talk a big game about consequences, Caldwell," she purred, looking straight into his darkened eyes. "But we both know you're obsessed with me. So stop stalling... and ruin the dress."

Declan didn’t smile back. That would have been too easy, too soft for the moment she had painstakingly carved out between them. Instead, his jaw worked, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he absorbed the taunt, the arch of her back, and the undeniable truth in her words.
She wanted a storm? She was about to drown in it.

He leaned down, his face hovering mere inches from hers, close enough that their breaths mingled in the charged air. He let her see everything he’d been holding back—the raw hunger, the possessiveness, the absolute, unwavering focus that made the rest of the world bleed away until only she remained.

"Careful, Hattie," he rumbled, his voice a low, rough scrape of sound against the silence of the room. "You think you’ve won because I snapped? You think this is victory?"
He shifted, the heavy friction of his body against hers drawing a gasp from her that tasted like victory to him. He kept her wrists pinned high and tight with one hand, letting her feel the impossibility of escape, while his free hand trailed down the column of her throat. His fingers were calloused and hot, moving with a terrifyingly slow deliberation over the collar of the flannel.

"You're right," he murmured, his thumb brushing over the pulse frantically beating at the base of her neck. "I am obsessed. I’ve spent every minute of the last ten hours thinking about exactly this. About how you look when you finally stop fighting me and just... let go."
His eyes locked onto hers, dark and burning, stripping her bare long before his hands would. He wanted her to know exactly what was coming. He wanted to see that spark of thrill flare in her eyes one last time before the chaos took over.

"You want consequences?"

His hand fisted into the neckline of the flannel fabric. He didn't hesitate. With a sharp, violent jerk of his wrist, the sound of tearing fabric shattered the quiet, the dress ripping from the collar down to her waist, buttons scattering across the mattress like hail.

He didn't look at the dress. He only looked at her.

"Done," he growled against her lips. "Now tell me to stop."

He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn't need one. The dilation of her pupils and the hitch in her breath were the only permission he required.

He crashed his mouth down onto hers, silencing any last retort she might have had. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a claiming. He kissed her with all the pent-up frustration of the last ten hours, his lips moving against hers with a starving, desperate heat that demanded everything she had.

He finally released her wrists, but only so he could get his hands on her properly. His palms, rough and warm, swept down the expanse of skin he’d just exposed, pushing aside the ruined flannel to map the curve of her shoulders, the dip of her waist, the frantic rise and fall of her ribs. Every touch was heavy, possessive, branding her.

"You wanted a storm, Hattie?" he murmured against her jaw, his voice vibrating through her bones as he trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down the sensitive column of her throat. He felt her shiver beneath him, felt her hands instantly tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and the reaction fueled him.

He shifted his weight, settling deeper between her legs, pressing her into the mattress until there was no space left between them, just heat and friction and the rapid staccato of two hearts beating like sledgehammers.

"You’ve got one," he growled, his hand sliding lower, gripping her hip with bruising intensity. "I’m not going to be gentle. Not tonight. You pushed me over the edge, darlin', and now you’re going to fall with me."

He pulled back just an inch, his eyes black with intent, searching her face to make sure she was still with him, still craving the chaos she'd unleashed.

"Last chance," he whispered, his thumb grazing her lower lip. "Tell me to stop, or I’m not letting you out of this bed until morning."

The sound of the flannel tearing was the most satisfying thing Hattie had heard all day.
It was a sharp, violent punctuation mark on ten hours of agonizing restraint. The pop of buttons hitting the hardwood floor echoed like applause, and the sudden rush of cool air against her bare skin was instantly chased away by the searing heat of his palms.

She didn't flinch. She didn't gasp. She melted.

When his mouth crushed hers, Hattie stopped thinking entirely. There was no strategy left, no game, no bratty comebacks. There was just Declan—heavy, overwhelming, and consuming her whole. She met his kiss with a frantic desperation of her own, her lips parting instantly to welcome the invasion, her tongue tangling with his as she drank down the taste of his control snapping.

She felt the exact moment he released her wrists, the steel bands of his fingers letting go to sweep down her body.

She didn't use her freedom to push him away. She didn't use it to shield herself.
Her hands flew to him, instinct taking over. She dug her fingers into the hard muscle of his shoulders, then slid them up to bury them deep in the short hair at the nape of his neck. She pulled him down, anchoring him to her, her grip tight and trembling. She wasn't fighting him; she was holding on for dear life as the storm he promised swept them both away.

She arched her back, pressing her bare chest against his shirt, seeking every inch of friction she could get. The rough denim of his jeans against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, the weight of his hips settling between hers—it was grounding and intoxicating all at once.

Victory.

He asked if she thought she’d won, but he had it wrong. They were both winning. He got the release of taking her; she got the bliss of being taken.

When he pulled back, hovering just inches from her lips, his eyes black and searching, Hattie felt a surge of love so fierce it almost hurt. Even now—wrecked, panting, and hovering on the edge of the cliff—he was checking the rigging. He was giving her the power of the veto.

She looked up at him, her eyes blown wide, her chest heaving against the mattress. She traced the tension in his jaw with her gaze, seeing the raw need he was holding back just for her.

"Stop?" she breathed, the word a shattered whisper.

She shook her head against the pillow, her hands tightening in his hair, pulling him back down where he belonged.

"If you stop," she promised, her voice trembling with the absolute truth of it, "I will never forgive you."

She lifted her hips, grinding shamelessly against him, leaving absolutely no doubt about what she wanted.

"Don't let me out," she demanded softly, surrendering her last scrap of control to him. "Keep me here. Ruin me, Declan. I'm yours."

The air in the room seemed to ignite at her words. Ruin me.
It was a permission slip signed in desperation, and Declan accepted it with a low, guttural growl that vibrated against her lips. The last remnant of the gentleman—the part of him that hesitated, that worried about bruising her porcelain skin or overwhelming her—died right there.

He tore his mouth from hers, not to stop, but because he needed more. He needed skin on skin. He sat back on his heels just long enough to rip his own shirt open, popping buttons with the same reckless violence he’d used on her dress. He didn't bother taking it off fully; he just shoved the fabric down his arms, needing the friction of his bare chest against hers.

"You're mine," he rasped, the words less of a statement and more of a vow. "Remember you asked for this."

He descended on her again, but this time, he didn't go for her mouth. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord there, making her buck beneath him. His hands were everywhere—rough and demanding. One hand tangled in her hair to hold her head back, exposing her throat to his mouth, while the other swept down her body, reclaiming the territory he’d exposed.

He palmed her breast, his thumb swiping hard over the peak, satisfied by the sharp gasp that punched out of her lungs. He treated her body like it was his to conquer, his touch firm, searing, and possessive.

"Beautiful," he muttered against her skin, moving lower. He kissed the slope of her breast, the dip of her waist, tasting the salt on her skin and the heat radiating off her.

He didn't stop at her waist. He shifted, his heavy thighs forcing her legs further apart, opening her up completely to his gaze. He looked at her then—flushed, wrecked, and open—and the sight nearly undid him.

"Look at you," he groaned, his voice thick with lust. "So ready for me."
He didn't give her time to feel self-conscious. His hand slid down, cupping her through the thin fabric of her panties before hooking his fingers into the lace and tearing it aside. He didn't wait. He slid his fingers into her slick heat in one smooth, claiming stroke, watching her eyes roll back, needing to see her face as he took her apart.

"That's it," he whispered darkly, matching the rhythm of his hand to the erratic beating of her heart. "Fall apart, Hattie. I've got you."

Would you like to continue from Hattie's perspective as the intensity builds, or stick with Declan as he pushes her further?

Declan watched the flush spread across her chest, a chaotic, beautiful map of what he was doing to her. He refused to close his eyes. He wouldn't miss a second of this. Every hitch of her breath, every frantic twist of her hips—it fueled the fire that had been burning a hole in his chest all day.

"Open your eyes," he commanded, his voice a rough scrape against her ear. He needed her to see him. He needed her to know exactly who was taking her apart.

When her lashes fluttered open, hazy and unfocused, he leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers, their sweat mingling. He felt the tension in her body wind tighter, felt her trying to climb that peak, and he kept the pressure steady, relentless. He wasn't just giving her pleasure; he was demanding her surrender.
"Don't you hide from me," he murmured, biting gently at her jawline. "I want to see you break."

He felt the moment she went over the edge—the way her breath suspended, her body going rigid against him before shattering completely. He absorbed her cry with a crushing kiss, holding her through the waves of it, his own heart hammering a violent rhythm against his ribs. He didn't stop until she went boneless beneath him, utterly spent.

Only then did he slow, his hand still resting possessively against her, his breathing harsh in the sudden quiet of the room. He pulled back just enough to look at her—hair messy, lips swollen, chest heaving—and felt a savage kind of satisfaction settle in his bones.

"See?" he whispered, brushing a damp strand of hair off her forehead with a tenderness that belied the storm he'd just unleashed. "I told you I've got you."

The world narrowed down to the rough slide of his calloused fingers and the crushing weight of his mouth on hers.

When he ripped his shirt open, the sudden friction of his bare chest against her sensitive, exposed skin was a shock to the system that nearly sent her over the edge right then and there. It was too much sensation—the heat, the sweat, the glorious, heavy reality of him pressing her into the mattress.

She tried to close her eyes, to retreat into the dark where she could just feel without thinking, but his growl pulled her back. Open your eyes.

She forced her heavy lids up, her vision blurring, and found him staring down at her with a look of such raw, focused possession that it stole the breath from her lungs. He watched her like she was the only thing that existed. He watched her undoing as if he were memorizing it.

And then he shattered her.

The climax hit her like a physical blow, a blinding white light that started at his fingers and tore through her entire body. Her hips bucked off the mattress, seeking more, seeking him, and a scream ripped from her throat—only to be swallowed instantly by his mouth.

He kissed her through it, deep and demanding, catching every broken cry, every gasp, every shudder. He held her together while she fell apart, his lips the only anchor in a storm that was tossing her violently against the rocks. It was overwhelming, consuming, and absolutely perfect.

When the waves finally began to recede, leaving her floating in a haze of endorphins and exhaustion, Hattie went limp. Her hands slid from his hair to rest weakly on his shoulders, her chest heaving against his as she tried to remember how to breathe.

She lay there for a long moment, blinking up at the ceiling, her body humming with the aftershocks.

Then, the realization hit her.

She turned her head on the pillow, looking at him with wide, accusing eyes. Her bottom lip jutted out in a genuine, petulant pout.

"You cheated," she whispered, her voice a breathless, shaky whine.

She smacked his bare chest weakly with the back of her hand, a pathetic attempt at punishment.

"That wasn't... that wasn't the plan, Declan," she complained, the words tumbling out in a rush of needy frustration. "You made me finish too fast. I didn't want to finish like that."

She shifted her hips restlessly beneath him, the emptiness there suddenly aching and unbearable compared to the fullness of the climax she'd just ridden out.

"I wanted you inside me," she whimpered, looking up at him with desperate, glassy eyes. "I wanted to feel you when I went over. You can't just... wreck me and leave me empty. Fix it."

Declan looked down at her, his chest heaving, the red mark on his skin where she’d smacked him fading almost as quickly as it appeared. Her pout—that genuine, bratty, needy look—hit him harder than the slap ever could.

She was right. He’d been so focused on proving a point, on watching her come undone under his hand, that he’d denied them both the one thing they actually needed: the connection. The crash. The feeling of being completely woven together.

The thought of her feeling empty made his stomach twist. He couldn't have that. He wouldn't have that.

"You're right," he rasped, catching the hand that had hit him and pressing a rough kiss to her palm. His eyes were dark, burning with a renewed, heavier fire. "I cheated. And I hate disappointing you, Hattie."

He shifted, the movement smooth and predatory, aligning his body with hers. He didn't make her wait this time. He didn't tease or taunt or hold back to prove he could. He moved between her legs, the heavy weight of his hips settling exactly where she wanted him.

"You want me inside?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble against her ear as he braced himself on his forearms, caging her completely. "You want to feel everything?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He saw it in the desperate arch of her hips.

He pushed into her, a slow, deep, unending slide that seemed to fill every inch of the hollow space she’d complained about. He watched her face the entire time—watched the pout dissolve into a gasp of pure relief, watched her eyes flutter shut as she finally, finally felt the weight of him grounding her.

When he was fully sheathed, he paused, his forehead resting against hers, both of them breathing hard.

"Better?" he groaned, the word wrecked.

He began to move, but this wasn't the storm from before. This was heavy. It was deliberate. He gave her exactly what she asked for—long, deep strokes that hit every sensitive nerve, grinding against her to make sure she felt him everywhere. He let go of the control he prized so much, letting her wrap her legs around his waist, letting her pull him deeper, surrendering to her need to be filled.

"I’m here," he whispered, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his voice fierce. "I’m right here, Hattie. Take everything you want."

Declan reached down, his large hand snapping out to cup her jaw, his fingers digging into her cheeks just enough to command her total attention. He tilted her head back, forcing her glazed, heavy-lidded eyes to meet his.

"Look at me," he ordered, his voice a rough, shattered sound that brooked no argument. "Don't you dare close your eyes, Hattie."

He needed this. He needed more than just the physical sensation; he needed the connection that came from staring straight into her soul while they were this close. He wanted to see the exact moment the realization hit her—that he was completely, irrevocably hers.

His thumb stroked the high curve of her cheekbone, a stark contrast to the fierce intensity of his gaze.

"I want you to see exactly who has you," he breathed, searching her face, drinking in the flushed skin and the way her lips parted. "I want you to know I'm never letting you go."

He held her gaze through the rising tide, locking them together in a bubble of heat and ragged breathing, refusing to let her look away until the very end.

"Better" was an understatement. It was a lifeline.

The moment he pushed inside her, the jagged, aching emptiness that had made her whine vanished, replaced by a feeling of total, glorious fullness. Hattie let out a long, ragged sound—half-sob, half-moan—as her body stretched to accommodate him, welcoming him home with a desperate clench of her internal muscles.

She didn't just feel him physically; she felt him ground her. The room stopped spinning. The air came back into her lungs.

"Yes," she gasped, her legs instantly locking around his waist, her ankles crossing to trap him there. She dug her fingers into the bare skin of his back, feeling the flex and shift of heavy muscle as he began to move. "God, Declan... yes."

She wanted to lose herself in it. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut and drift away on the rolling tide of sensation, letting the friction of his hips against hers be the only reality. It was too much—too good, too heavy, too intimate—and her instinct was to hide in the dark.
But he wouldn't let her.

When his hand snapped onto her jaw, forcing her head back, her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She tried to flutter her lashes down, to retreat, but his command was absolute. Look at me.

She forced her eyes to stay open, locking onto his. The intensity of his gaze burned hotter than the friction below. He was staring right through her, stripping away the Admin, the brat, the girlfriend, until there was just Hattie—naked, needy, and completely his.

"I see you," she whispered, the words trembling out between shallow, broken pants. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes—not from sadness, but from the sheer, crushing weight of being loved this fiercely.

She reached up, her hand trembling as she cupped the back of his neck, her thumb stroking the damp hair there. She needed him to know. She needed him to know that there were no barriers left, no rules, no reservations.

"Declan," she breathed, her voice cracking with the force of her emotion. She pulled him down just an inch, her eyes searching his, pleading and promising all at once. "Stay with me. Don't you dare leave. I want you to finish inside me."

She arched her hips, meeting him thrust for thrust, offering him everything she had.

"I want all of you," she vowed, a single tear finally escaping to track down her temple. "Fill me up. Make me yours. Please."

The raw honesty in her voice, the tear tracking down her temple, the way she begged him to stay—it broke something in him. It shattered the last of his restraint, the last of his need to be in charge, to pace this, to control the outcome.

Her words wrapped around his heart and squeezed. Make me yours.

"Always," he choked out, the word torn from his throat. "You’re already mine, Hattie. Every part of you."

He couldn't hold back anymore. Her plea was the tipping point. The look in her eyes—so open, so trusting, so completely surrendered to him—stripped him bare. He didn't just want her body; he wanted this. He wanted the way she looked at him as if he hung the stars. He wanted to be the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her sweat and perfume, his arms tightening around her like iron bands. He gave her everything. He let go of the rigid control he’d been maintaining, matching her desperation, his movements becoming less calculated and more driven by pure, unadulterated need.

He felt the tension coil tight in his own body, a rapidly ascending peak that he had no interest in stopping. He heard her breath hitch, felt her hands gripping him as if she were drowning, and he held on tighter.

"I’m with you," he swore against her skin, his voice rough with the force of it. "I’m not leaving. I’ve got you."

When the release finally claimed them, it wasn't just physical. It was a collapse. He shuddered, a groan ripping from his chest as he poured every ounce of his adoration, his obsession, and his love into the moment. He held her through the aftershocks, his heavy body pressing her into the mattress, refusing to let even an inch of space come between them.

He stayed there long after the room had gone quiet, his breathing harsh and loud in her ear, his heart hammering against her ribs. He didn't pull away. He didn't roll over. He just held her, his face buried in her hair, feeling the rise and fall of her chest, grounded by the absolute certainty that he was exactly where he was meant to be.

He kissed the damp skin of her shoulder, a soft, lingering touch that was a stark contrast to the storm from moments before.

"I've got you," he whispered again, the promise heavy and permanent in the silence. "I'm never letting you go."

He didn't move away. Not yet. The weight of him remained settled over her, a heavy, grounding blanket that shielded her from everything else. His breathing was still ragged, hot gusts of air against the sensitive skin of her neck, slowing incrementally as his heart rate tried to match the thudding rhythm of hers.

He shifted just enough to take the brunt of his weight onto his forearms, the muscles there trembling slightly with the aftershocks of exertion, creating a small pocket of space just so he could look at her.

One hand detached from the mattress to cup the back of her head, his fingers threading through her tangled hair, massaging the scalp with slow, rhythmic pressure. He pressed his lips to her temple—not a kiss, really, just a seal. A lingering pressure.

He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb, wiping away the wetness of the tear she’d shed, smearing the salt against her flushed skin with a tenderness that contradicted the violence of the last hour.

With a reluctant exhale, he finally rolled to his side, but the separation lasted less than a heartbeat. His arm hooked instantly around her waist, dragging her flush against his chest, tangling their legs together so completely it was impossible to tell where he ended and she began.

He reached down to pull the duvet up over her shoulder, tucking it under her chin, cocooning her. His hand settled flat on the small of her back, his palm burning hot, holding her there against him as if gravity alone wasn't enough.

The weight of him was the best blanket she had ever known.

For a long time, Hattie didn't move. She didn't want to. She lay pinned beneath him, her body feeling wonderfully heavy and boneless, humming with the kind of deep, bone-marrow satisfaction that silenced every single spinning thought in her head. The world outside this bed—the station, the budget, the emails—didn't exist. There was only the steady thud of Declan's heart against her ribs and the heat of his skin seeping into hers.

When he finally shifted, taking his weight onto his forearms to look at her, she leaned into his touch, closing her eyes as he wiped the tear from her cheek. It was such a tender gesture, so at odds with the way he had just unraveled her, and it made her chest ache with a fresh wave of love.

As he rolled to his side, she let out a small, protesting whimper at the loss of his heat, but he silenced it instantly by dragging her against him.

She went willingly, melting into his chest, her leg hooking over his hip to tangle with his. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in—sweat, soap, and that unique, earthy scent that was just Declan.

When he pulled the duvet up, tucking it securely under her chin like she was something precious that needed protecting, she smiled against his skin. He never stopped being the caretaker. Even wrecked and exhausted, his first instinct was to make sure she was warm.
She splayed her hand flat over his heart, feeling the rhythm slowly returning to normal beneath her palm.

"You're stuck with me now, Caldwell," she murmured, her voice thick with sleep and contentment. She pressed a soft, lazy kiss to the pulse point on his neck. "No return policy on this kind of obsession."

She snuggled closer, if that was even possible, closing her eyes and letting the darkness of the room wrap around them.

"Thank you," she whispered, the words barely audible, meant only for him. "For catching me."