Hattie didn’t say anything right away.

She didn’t need to.

Because she could feel it — the way his breathing had changed. The way his body, all broad and strong and usually so taut with tension, had finally given in and relaxed into her. Like he’d stopped bracing for impact and started remembering what it felt like to rest.

Her heart ached with how much she loved him.

Not the shiny, movie-scene kind of love. But the kind that held steady when things cracked. The kind that showed up barefoot in the kitchen, wrapped in a blanket, holding all his sharp edges like they were holy.

Her fingers kept brushing slow along the curve of his back, soothing him without ceremony, just because he needed it. Just because he was hers.

And then—his voice.

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

The way he said it made her whole body melt into his. Made her want to hold onto him tighter, even though there was no space left between them to close.

So she kissed his shoulder, right where the collar of his shirt had rumpled from her cheek, and then tilted her head just enough to nudge her nose along the edge of his jaw.

“You get this whenever you want,” she whispered, her voice soft but certain. “You know that, right?”

He made a small sound, like he didn’t quite believe it even though he wanted to.

So she nuzzled him again, her mouth brushing the edge of his ear, and added, “It’s one of the many perks of shacking up with me. Lifetime supply of blanket-wrapped girlfriend cuddles — no call-ahead required.”

That pulled a quiet breath of a laugh from him — not loud, not full-blown — but real. She felt it in his chest beneath her palms, and the sound went straight to her heart.

“Only catch,” she went on, the smallest smile curling her lips now, “is that this couch’s got about five more nights like this in it before we leave a permanent Hattie-and-Declan-shaped dent right here.”

He didn’t argue.

Didn’t shift or tease back.

He just let her hold him. Let her be the warmth he could come home to. Let her keep talking like it was okay to find lightness in the middle of a heavy night — because it was okay. Because she was okay. Because they were.

She tucked the blanket closer around them and pressed her cheek back to his chest, her eyes fluttering closed.

“Don’t gotta worry about me lettin’ go,” she added, quieter now. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever, long as you want me here.”

Her voice stayed warm and sure, even as she softened it further.

“You’re mine, Declan Caldwell,” she whispered. “And I’m yours. That’s the whole of it.”

Her fingers traced slow, looping patterns at the base of his neck, feeling the steady thump of his pulse there. Not racing. Not fragile. Just there.

And even though her phone was in the other room, and she still had every intention of ordering that BBQ with the weird pickles later…

Right now?

This was where she needed to be.

Blanket tangled.
Legs draped over his.
Breathing in sync.
No sirens.
No uniforms.
Just them.

She could feel his thumb sweeping soft, slow circles along the edge of her hip, and the way he was holding her now wasn’t about need anymore.

It was about having.

And as her lips brushed his collarbone in the quiet that followed, she let herself smile — not big, not for show — but the kind that came from knowing this was exactly where she belonged.

“You keep holdin’ me like this, babe,” she murmured into his shirt, “and I might start thinkin’ the couch is the best part of the house.”

And when he huffed another laugh — small but real — she closed her eyes and let herself stay.

He didn’t laugh this time — not exactly.

It was more like a breath that broke open against her hair, warm and shaky and threaded with something he didn’t have a name for yet. Something that felt a lot like gratitude and a little like surrender.

Because she had him.
God, she had him.

Not just with her words — though those always landed in him like they’d been carved to fit — but with the way she fit herself into his arms like she’d always belonged there. With the way she smoothed her hand up his back like she was steadying him, the one thing he never let anyone see him need.

And when she whispered I’m yours, he didn’t try to swallow the way it hit him. Didn’t hide the way his breath stuttered, the way his fingers tightened just slightly at her hip, like they’d found something to hold onto that finally held back.

He let it happen.

His hand slid up her spine, slow and reverent, fingertips brushing the warmth beneath her shirt like he was memorizing her inch by inch.

“Hattie…” he murmured, and the way her name cracked in the middle wasn’t weakness — it was relief. Pure, bone-deep relief. “Sweet girl, you ain’t ever gonna know what that does to me.”

He tipped his chin forward, pressing a lingering kiss into her hair — not rushed, not searching, just there, like the touch itself was an oath he didn’t know how to say out loud.

She shifted just a little against him, enough that her cheek brushed his chest again, and he felt it — the smile she was trying to hide in his shirt.

It softened him even more.

“That couch could collapse under us right now,” he whispered, voice low and roughened with the kind of affection he only ever let her hear, “and I’d still call this the best damn place in the house.”

His thumb stroked slow circles at her hip, the steady motion matching the rise and fall of her breathing. He felt her legs tangled with his, blanket warm around them, the faint scent of whatever laundry soap she used clinging to her shirt.

“And you talkin’ ‘bout dents?” he murmured, mouth brushing the top of her ear, “Darlin’, they could replace this whole cushion tomorrow, and I’d drag it right back out here if it meant you’d lay on me like this again.”

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt at that, holding him like she knew exactly how the words unraveled him.

He slipped one hand up to cradle the side of her face, tilting her just enough that he could brush his lips against her temple — a slow, tender kiss that stayed there, lingered, breathed with her.

“I don’t ever wanna put you down,” he admitted quietly. Honestly. “Not after today. Not ever.”

A beat passed — soft, warm, settling.

Then, in a voice that vibrated right against her cheek, he added:

“You’re home for me, Hattie. Even when everything else… ain’t.”

She exhaled, and he felt her whole body melt a little more deeply into him — like she understood, like she took that truth and held it gently.

He wrapped both arms around her then, gathering her closer, tucking her against him until there was nowhere else she could possibly fit but here.

“Stay right here,” he whispered into her hair.
“’Cause I need this. I need you.”

And the way he held her wasn’t fragile anymore.

It was choosing.
It was claiming.
It was keeping.

Because tonight wasn’t about breaking.

Tonight was about the way she put him back together — piece by steady piece — without ever asking him to be anything but hers

She stayed.

Not because he asked her to — though he had, quiet and vulnerable in a way that made her want to cry a little into his shirt — but because how could she not?

Her arms curved tighter around him. Not suffocating. Not urgent. Just sure.

The way he said “home” still echoed through her chest, soft and reverent and so completely Declan it made her throat tighten. That low, rough drawl full of truth he never handed out easily — especially not when he felt this undone.

And God, she felt it.
Every ounce of the weight he let drop into her.
Every inch of the guard he let fall when he curled around her like she was the only thing holding him together.

So she held on.

Not because he was broken. But because she loved him.

Because she knew what he did out there — the way he carried people out of flames and grief and chaos and still somehow came home with enough of himself to wrap around her like this.

She let her fingers drift up into his hair, slow and light, gently combing through the curls at the nape of his neck. His breath hitched once, then steadied.

And for a long time, that was all they did.

Just breathe.

Tangled together under a blanket that had seen too many nap-battles on this exact couch. Warm in the way only worn things could be. Safe in a way that didn’t need to be spoken.

Her cheek rose and fell with the rhythm of his chest. His heartbeat was slower now, but still strong. Still steady.

She pressed a kiss there — soft and grateful.

Maybe she didn’t walk through the fires like he did. Maybe she didn’t hold the weight of someone else’s life in her hands. But she’d seen enough from the admin side of the station to know the look in his eyes tonight.

It wasn’t about her.
It wasn’t about anything she could fix.

It was just about being here.
About not leaving.

So she didn’t.

She let him breathe. Let herself breathe too. Let her fingers draw lazy patterns on his chest while the room settled around them in quiet evening gold.

Until—
Her stomach growled.

Loud enough that his chest shifted just slightly beneath her in acknowledgment.

She laughed softly, low and a little sheepish, and tilted her chin just enough to murmur near his collarbone.
“Well, that’s my cue. Might be time for me to go grab my phone and order us something before I start gnawin’ on your shoulder.”

Her tone was light, warm — a gentle shift back into the world, but only just.

She didn’t move yet.

Not until he let her.
Not until she felt him ready to let the outside in again.

But her hand gave his a quiet squeeze. A promise.
She wasn’t going far.

Just to the other room.
Just long enough to feed them.
Just long enough to come back and be this again.

And maybe — if he still needed it — all night.

Declan didn’t let her go.

Not even a little.

Not even when she joked about gnawing on his shoulder, not when she shifted like she might get up, not when the outside world nudged at the soft edges of the moment they’d carved out together. His arms cinched around her instinctively — gentle, but unmistakably claiming — like his whole body understood what his mind hadn’t quite caught up to:

He wasn’t ready to lose the feel of her yet.

He dipped his head, his lips brushing her hairline, the breath he let out warm against her temple. A sound rumbled low in his chest — half a hum, half a sigh — the kind he only made when something in him finally started to knit back together.

Her joke lingered in the air between them, and God, he loved her for it. How she could pull him out of the worst day of his life with nothing but a soft laugh and the promise of takeout. How she could hold the heavy parts of him without making him feel like a burden. How she always knew the exact second to lighten the weight and the exact second to keep him anchored.

His hand slid up her back, fingers sifting through the hem of her shirt just enough to feel the warmth of her skin. Not asking her to stay. Not begging.

Just… keeping her close.

“Mm,” he breathed, his voice low and honeyed against her hair, “you’re not goin’ anywhere yet.”

It wasn’t a command.
It wasn’t even a request.
It was a quiet truth, spoken in the rough-edged softness he reserved only for her.

His thumb traced slow, absent patterns at her waist, grounding himself in the shape of her. Not trembling now. Not unraveling. Just… holding.

“Food can wait a minute,” he murmured, tilting his head so his nose brushed her cheek. “I need another breath of you first.”

And he meant it.

Her scent — that warm, sweet, familiar blend of whatever lotion she stole from her sister and something that was just her — calmed his heartbeat more than anything else ever could. He pressed a small kiss against the top of her head, lingering there like it was the easiest place in the world to rest.

Then, feeling her fingers draw slow patterns on his chest — those soft, looping shapes that always managed to undo him — he let out another breath, softer still.

“You feel so damn good,” he admitted into her hair, barely above a whisper. “Like somethin’ I don’t wanna put down.”

His hand slid up to cup the back of her neck, thumb brushing the dip at her hairline — tender, reverent.

He wasn’t falling apart anymore.

He was falling into her.

And that was a whole different kind of undoing.

He shifted just enough to tuck her even closer beneath his chin, blanket bunching around them like a cocoon.

“Stay a little longer,” he murmured, voice rough and thick with honesty. “Just… let me have you like this a bit more.”

His lips brushed her temple again, softer than a breath.

“Then we’ll get food,” he added, the smallest smile threading through his words. “Promise I won’t let you starve. I need you too much.”

His hands tightened around her — warm, steady, whole.

And in the quiet, he let out the truth he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in all night:

“You’re what gets me through days like this, Hattie.”

Another kiss — this one slow, lasting.

“You. Right here.”

He breathed her in, chest rising under her cheek, body finally fully at ease.

The world could knock again later.

For now, he wasn’t letting her go.

She hadn’t really been trying to move.
She might’ve joked, might’ve shifted just a little — but she hadn’t meant it. And the second his arms tightened around her with that familiar, protective strength, she knew she’d be right here until he decided otherwise.

And honestly? That was just fine by her.

His body was warm and solid beneath her, his breath starting to even out against her skin, and she could feel the edges of his day softening. Could feel him easing, little by little, as if her being here — being his — gave him permission to let go of the things still clawing at the back of his mind.

She smiled, small and wry, against his shirt.
“Well,” she murmured, her voice low and teasing as her fingers stroked along the curve of his ribs, “someone’s clingy tonight.”

His grip didn’t loosen.
If anything, he pulled her closer — like he knew she didn’t mean a word of it.

And she didn’t.

She loved it when he clung to her.
Loved being his soft place to land.
Loved that in the aftermath of something too heavy to name, she was the one he reached for without question.

“You’re lucky I like you,” she added lightly, just to fill the quiet.

But her touch stayed tender — gentle swirls of her fingers on his chest, small press of her cheek into the curve of his neck. She wasn’t teasing anymore. Not really.

Because she knew.

Knew what days like this did to him.
Knew the weight he carried home and the guilt he never said out loud.
Knew how much it cost him to walk through the door and let someone see.

And she wasn’t going to make him talk about it.
Not now.
Not later.
Not ever — unless he wanted to.

Her job wasn’t to ask.
Her job was to stay.

So she did.

She burrowed in closer, tangling her legs with his and letting her body become the anchor he didn’t have to ask for.

The sound of the room settled around them — the hum of the fridge, the soft creak of the couch as he shifted, the rhythmic beat of his heart beneath her ear.

And slowly, steadily, she felt it:

The moment his mind finally stopped spinning.

The moment the firehouse and the call and the weight of it all faded.
Not forgotten — but distant.
Manageable.

She was pulling him back to now.
To this.

Her thumb traced the underside of his jaw.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” she whispered, quiet and certain and full of love. “Food can wait.”

She felt his chest rise beneath her, then fall in a long, slow exhale — the kind that told her he believed her. The kind that told her she was doing exactly what he needed.

“I’ve got you,” she added, softer still, her words a promise and a balm.

She nestled her head under his chin and let her hand drift up to tangle in his hair, curling into the softness there like she was meant to live in this exact spot.

The blanket was warm.
The man beneath her even warmer.
And whatever was waiting outside the door?

It could wait.

Because she wasn’t moving.
Not until he was ready.
Not until he let her go.

And even then — only long enough to come right back.

Declan didn’t tighten his hold this time.
He changed it.

Instead of clinging, instead of anchoring himself in her like he had earlier, he shifted his hand up her spine and flattened his palm between her shoulder blades — steady, warm, intentional. Not desperate. Just present.

A breath left him, softer than before, and he turned his head enough to press his lips to the side of hers, slow and grounding instead of seeking.

“Darlin’…” he murmured, voice low but clearer now, calmer. “You know what I’m thinkin’ about?”

He didn’t wait for her to answer.
Didn’t make her guess.
Didn’t fall back into any earlier loops.

“I’m thinkin’ about takin’ you off this couch.”

His thumb brushed the back of her ribs in a way that wasn’t sexual — it was practical, gentle, like a man easing back into his body after being somewhere heavy.

“Not ‘cause I wanna stop holdin’ you,” he added, his voice dipping with a rough fondness, “but because this cushion is doin’ somethin’ terrible to my spine.”

A faint laugh — a real one — caught in his chest, surprising even him.

“And I know your little self is comfortable,” he went on, nudging his nose into her hair, “but baby, I’m losin’ the feeling in my right leg.”

Not dramatic.
Not heavy.
Just truth, softened by the affection threading through every word.

His hand slid to her hip, giving it a small, coaxing squeeze.

“How about we move to the bed,” he said, tone warm now, almost boyish in the way only she ever got to hear, “and you let me be a pillow that doesn’t creak every time either of us blinks?”

Another slow kiss — this one to her shoulder.

“And once we get settled,” he murmured, “you can decide if you still wanna order somethin’… or if you want me to make somethin’ real quick.”

He lifted his head just enough to meet her eyes.

“Your call, Hattie. I’m with you either way.”

She smiled against his chest, a slow curl of affection that melted through every part of her.

Because there it was.
That voice. That tease.
That dry little thread of humor laced with exhaustion and fondness and something only hers.

Declan.

Her Declan.

He was back.

And not all at once — not like flipping a switch — but piece by piece, word by word, breath by breath.
And now here he was, making jokes about his spine and calling himself a creaky couch pillow.
Hers, through and through.

She gave a soft laugh and tilted her head up to glance at him, one brow raised.
“Well, I was gonna ask if you wanted me to kiss it better,” she teased, “but I’m not exactly certified in spinal realignment, so I guess the bed will have to do.”

He snorted softly, and she grinned wider.

Then, with a contented hum, she sat up and slowly peeled herself off of him — which she could have done more gracefully, but his leg was half-numb and she may have giggled under her breath when he groaned a little at the blood rushing back.

“You poor old man,” she teased, standing and brushing imaginary dust off her thighs. “Come on, before I have to roll you in there.”

She extended a hand, palm up, and waited.
He took it instantly.

But instead of letting go, she curled her fingers tighter around his and tugged gently until his arm wrapped snug around her shoulders.

She leaned into his side like it was second nature — because it was — and guided them toward the bedroom.

“Let the record show,” she murmured as they passed the hallway light, “you asked for this relocation. If your back still hurts, I’m gonna start making you sleep with one of those little neck pillows like you’re on a red-eye flight.”

When they reached the bedroom, she stopped at the edge of the bed and turned to face him — hand still in his, smile crooked and full of something warm and shamelessly sweet.

She rose onto her toes and kissed him — slow and deliberate.
Not hungry. Not rushed.
Just theirs.

And when she pulled back, her voice went light again.

“Alright, Captain Clingy,” she said with a wink, “get comfy.”

Then she gave his chest a small push — playful but effective — and watched as he let himself fall back onto the bed with a contented huff.

She grinned at the sight of him sprawled out, rumpled and hers, then padded softly into the kitchen, bare feet warm against the hardwood.

Her phone was still where she’d left it on the counter.
Right next to the spot where he’d stood earlier — shoulders stiff, jaw locked, eyes stormy and tired in a way that had cracked something in her chest.

She paused there for a beat, thumb hovering above the screen.

Then she glanced toward the bedroom and smiled, soft and full of relief.

She made the call.
Two full plates from Rodeo Bar & Grill — one chicken-fried steak, one pulled pork sandwich, extra cornbread, spicy pickles for him.

“Thanks,” she said quietly into the phone, her eyes still on that same spot at the counter. “Delivery’s perfect.”

By the time she slipped back into the bedroom, phone in hand, her heart felt a little lighter.

Declan was exactly where she’d left him — stretched out, already settled, shirt rumpled and arms open in invitation.

She crossed the room, placed the phone gently on the bedside table, and then crawled back into bed without hesitation — curling herself into his side like a blanket he didn’t know he needed.

“Food should be here soon-ish,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to the curve of his shoulder as she tucked her arm across his stomach.

Then her fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt — slow, sure, and warm — seeking out the comfort of bare skin the way someone might reach for sunlight through curtains. Not to tease. Not to distract. Just to feel.

To remind herself he was here. Safe. Home.

She let her leg tangle with his, her nose nuzzling the space beneath his jaw as she breathed him in.

And then she just stayed.

Pressed close.
Soft, flirty, and entirely his.

Declan watched her crawl back into the bed like she’d been made for it.

For him.

For right here.

And somehow, even after the day he’d had — even after the storm that had ripped through him not an hour ago — she slid beneath his arm and all the leftover static in his chest finally eased.

He let out a low exhale, one he didn’t mean to let her hear, but she caught it anyway when she tucked herself against his side like she belonged in the space between his ribs.

“Lord have mercy,” he muttered, voice warm and dragging at the edges as his hand slipped beneath the blanket and found the small of her back. “You come in here smellin’ like lavender and actin’ all sweet… I’m supposed to relax with you temptin’ me like that?”

She hummed into his neck, fingers sliding under his shirt, soft and light and maddening in that way she always was — not on purpose, just by existing.

His hand drifted up her spine, slow as syrup, tracing the shape of her like he needed to memorize it all over again.

“You sure you ordered food for us,” he teased lightly, tilting his head just enough to brush his lips across her hairline, “and not just delayin’ the inevitable where I gotta scoop you up and carry you everywhere ‘cause you refuse to grow more than five-foot-two?”

Her palm flattened against his stomach in dramatic offense, and he laughed — a real, full sound that rumbled under her cheek.

“There it is,” he murmured, softer now. “That sound right there… hadn’t realized how bad I needed it today.”

He didn’t say thank you.
Not because he wasn’t grateful — but because that was too small a word for what she’d given him tonight.

Instead, he shifted just enough to pull her fully across his chest, guiding one thigh over his with a firm, gentle grip that made it clear he wasn’t letting her drift an inch away.

“That call’s done,” he said quietly, his lips brushing her temple as his thumb stroked the back of her shoulder. “Work’s miles from here. And whatever tried to chew me up today… you chased it out the second you touched me.”

He pressed a slow kiss to the side of her jaw — not hungry, not urgent.
Just steady.
Grounded.
Claiming her without needing to take anything at all.

“Reckon you should get some kind of medal,” he murmured into her skin, “for puttin’ a grown man back together with nothin’ but a blanket and them little hands of yours.”

He felt her laugh — felt it against his throat, soft and warm — and he turned his head enough to press another kiss just beneath her ear.

“And darlin’,” he added, voice dropping lower, “I ain’t complainin’ about your hands on me. Ever. But you keep slidin’ ‘em under my shirt like that, and I’m gonna forget we got dinner on the way.”

His fingers skimmed her hip, playful but tender, before settling her even closer — if that was possible.

“You can stay right where you are,” he said, cheek resting against the top of her head. “Matter of fact… don’t you dare move ‘til that knock on the door. I’m gettin’ selfish.”

He tugged the blankets around them one-handed, then breathed her in slow and deep — the kind of breath you take when you finally let yourself believe you’re safe.

“I’m good now,” he murmured, voice almost drowsy with contentment. “’Cause you’re here.”

Then, in a rare, boyish whisper — soft enough that only the pillow and her hair could hear:

“And I don’t ever wanna sleep without you again.”

Hattie didn’t say anything right away.

She just breathed.

Let herself melt into his chest, slow and warm and content, with her cheek tucked over the steady beat of his heart.
His voice rumbled beneath her — smooth and low and lazy now, like molasses catching the late sun — and she let the sound of it settle into her bones.

This was everything.
Not the medal. Not the joke. Not even the kiss, though she felt that one in her ribs.

Just… him.
Softer than he let most people see.
Speaking like she was the only place he ever wanted to land.

And God, she’d never needed any trophies.
Never needed praise.
She only ever needed him.

Her Declan.

The one who held her like this was sacred.
Like she was his safe place, too.

When he got to the part about her “little hands,” she turned her face — slow and deliberate — and rested her chin right on the center of his chest, blinking up at him with exaggerated innocence.

Her mouth curved, just barely, and she brought her hands up next to her face — dainty and dramatic — and wiggled her fingers.

“Excuse you,” she said, mock-offended, “these little hands are federally registered emotional support tools.”

Then she tucked them both under her chin with a flourish, curled sweetly against him like she hadn’t just made herself laugh.

“And they’re off duty until dinner gets here,” she added with a wink, her voice all soft Southern sass and affection. “Otherwise, I might be tempted to use them inappropriately.”

Her lashes dropped, just a touch.
Not enough to start anything.
Just enough to let him feel the tease.

But she didn’t move.

Didn’t climb on top of him.
Didn’t push the moment further.

She just stayed right there, chin resting lightly on his chest, eyes fixed on his face like she was memorizing him for the hundredth time.

And she was.

Because she could look at him like this forever and still find something new to love.

Her fingers wiggled once more under her chin — playful and impossibly soft — before she settled deeper into the circle of his arms.

“Don’t worry, baby,” she murmured, nuzzling her nose against the line of his collarbone. “We’ll behave… for now.”

And she sighed — content and a little dreamy — as her thumb traced slow circles on his chest through his shirt, just enough to keep his heart tethered to hers.

Dinner would come.
The night would stretch long.
But for this moment — wrapped around each other, safe and half-smiling — she was exactly where she wanted to be.

Declan froze the second she did the hand-wiggle.

Not dramatically — not like she’d shocked him — but in that slow, dawning way where a grin sneaks up his chest, pushes past the wreckage of his day, and makes itself comfortable right behind his ribs.

Lord help him.

He tilted his head down to look at her properly, the corners of his mouth tugging up in that crooked, boyish way he only ever let out when she pulled something like this.

“Emotional support tools, huh?” he drawled, voice thick with amusement, his hand sliding from her waist to the small of her back like he was claiming her without even thinking about it. “Sweetheart, those hands could file for hazardous-duty pay with the way you use ’em on me.”

She wiggled her fingers again — smug and impossibly adorable — and he had to tip his head back into the pillow and laugh, low and warm.

“You know what?” he said, pulling her a little higher on his chest, “I take back what I said earlier. I’m the one who’s lucky you like me.”

She blinked at him slowly, lashes fluttering in that way that made something in his stomach drop, and he groaned under his breath — dramatic, suffering, completely undone by her.

“And don’t even start,” he warned gently, thumb brushing the curve of her jaw. “You say ‘use them inappropriately’ one more time, and I promise you—food or no food—I ain’t gonna be the one behave-in’.”

His hand settled at her hip, warm and steady, thumb drawing a lazy arc against her skin as if his fingers had their own opinions about behaving.

Then she nuzzled into his collarbone, soft and sweet and completely unaware of the way it short-circuited every neuron he had left.

Declan inhaled sharply.
Once.
Quiet.
Like she’d knocked the breath out of him without even trying.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he whispered into her hair, lips brushing the crown of her head. “Every damn time I think I’ve got a read on you, you hit me with—” he gestured vaguely at her wiggly-hand bit, “—whatever that was. And I swear, baby, it kills me.”

He didn’t let her lift her head.
Didn’t let her pull back even an inch.

He wrapped both arms around her, big and warm and sure, tucking her fully into the hollow of his chest like she belonged nowhere else.

And then—quietly, right against her hairline, so soft she could feel it more than hear it:

“Stay right here.”

Not desperate.
Not broken.
Just full of a fresh, glowing kind of need that came from loving her on purpose.

His fingers found her hand under the blanket and threaded through hers, slow and reverent.

“I don’t want this moment endin’ yet,” he murmured. “Not when you’re lookin’ at me like that. Not when you’re laughin’ in my shirt. Not when you’re makin’ the whole damn day make sense again.”

Her thumb traced circles on his chest.

His thumb did the same on the back of her hand.

Perfectly in sync.

Then—soft, teasing again, but dipped in warmth:

“And when dinner gets here?” he whispered, tipping his chin to nudge her forehead with his own. “You better believe I’m carryin’ you to the door so you don’t have to ‘use your emotional support tools’ on the delivery guy.”

He punctuated it with a slow kiss to her forehead, deep and sweet and grounding.

“Now c’mere,” he breathed, tightening the blanket around both of them, “and let me hold the woman who just brought me back to life with a damn finger wiggle.”