Hattie didn’t even try to hide her smile.

Not when he pulled her higher against his chest like she was something precious.
Not when he looked at her like she’d personally rewired the stars just for him.
And definitely not when he started talking about hazardous-duty pay like her hands were lethal weapons.

Because the truth was?
They kinda were.
At least when it came to him.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from giggling out loud — not because she was shy, but because she was dangerously close to doing something impulsive and thoroughly scandalous with said hands.
Instead, she let them rest innocently on his chest…for now.

“Just so we’re clear,” she murmured, lashes dipping as she traced her thumb over the cotton of his shirt, “these emotional support tools? Reserved for you only these days. Fully committed. Monogamous. Might even be retired after you.”

She tipped her head slightly, resting her chin more snugly against him as her eyes flicked up with pure mischief.

“Unless, of course,” she added, soft and slow, “you make me carry myself to the door. Then I might have to revoke your privileges temporarily.”

The low groan he let out beneath her was downright delicious.

She let herself settle then — for real. No more teasing. No more games. Just warmth and heartbeat and safety.

Because yeah, she could joke about her hands and make him laugh and flirt like she wasn’t already planning their future five minutes ago —
But what really got her?

Was how his arms curled around her like he meant it.
How his voice softened when he told her to stay.
How he held her like being close to her had healed something in him that no one else even saw was broken.

She closed her eyes and breathed him in.
Shampoo and skin.
Fresh laundry and something burned low at the edges — not firehouse smoke, but something weightier. Older. Grief maybe, or memory.

Whatever it was, he wasn’t carrying it alone anymore.

She had him now.
And he had her.

“You’re easy to look at,” she whispered after a long beat, her lips brushing the base of his throat. “Even easier to fall in love with.”

She felt his hand tighten gently around hers beneath the blanket.

They laid like that for a while — tangled up in warmth, half-lidded and full of something that buzzed just beneath the skin.
Not need.
Not quite.

Anticipation.

Because dinner was coming.
And after dinner?
She had plans.
Very specific, very intentional plans that required at least one full plate of food and a fair amount of carbs.

So for now, she was content to rest.

At least until a knock came from the front door — sharp, polite, and exactly on time.

She turned her face up to look at him again, already grinning.

“So what’s the verdict?” she asked sweetly. “You still plannin’ on carryin’ me like a southern gentleman? Or should I go flash my dangerous little fingers at the delivery guy?”

Her brow arched just enough to tease — not enough to rush him.

Because she didn’t mind waiting.
Not when she had this.
Not when she had him.

And the way he looked at her in that moment?
It made her think he wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

Not of her.
Not of the night.
Not of the finger wiggle that apparently brought him back to life.

Which meant she had a feeling she’d be getting her cornbread delivered personally.

Declan didn’t move when the knock hit the door.

Didn’t even twitch.

Not because he didn’t hear it — he did, loud and clear — but because the woman on his chest was currently smiling at him like she held the key to his entire nervous system.

And she did.

Every damn wire.

He let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite a groan — something caught halfway between being helplessly in love and thoroughly tormented.

“Flash those little fingers at anybody else,” he warned under his breath, “and I swear I’ll drag you right back in here before he can hand you the bag.”

But he still didn’t get up.
Not right away.

He just stared at her for a moment — really looked — like he was trying to brand the sight of her into his memory before the world interrupted.

Her hair a mess on his chest.
Her smile sweet and sharp all at once.
Her hands — those “dangerous tools” — tucked under her chin like she hadn’t just threatened to weaponize them on a stranger.

He lifted one large, warm hand to cup the back of her head, thumb stroking the soft line right behind her ear.

“You make it real hard to act civilized,” he murmured, voice rough in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

Another knock.
A little firmer this time.

Declan sighed dramatically — one of those long, put-upon exhales that belonged to a man who’d rather die of starvation than untangle himself from the woman stretched over him.

“Alright, alright,” he grumbled, sliding one hand beneath her thighs and the other behind her back in one fluid, practiced motion. “C’mere, trouble.”

Before she could protest or preen or attempt another finger wiggle assault, he scooped her clean off the bed.

Not bridal-style.
Not thrown-over-the-shoulder barbaric.

But something in between — strong and sure, like she weighed absolutely nothing and he’d carried her this way a thousand times.

Her surprised little inhale brushed warm against his neck, and he smiled — slow and shameless.

“That’s right,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to her temple as he walked them toward the front door. “You think I’m lettin’ you charm the delivery guy with those hands? Not a chance.”

She clung a little tighter around his shoulders — not out of necessity, but because she liked it. He felt it in the way her fingers curled, soft and instinctive.

“You sit tight,” he murmured, lowering his forehead to hers right before reaching the door. “I’ll get your cornbread.”

He set her down on the little entryway bench only long enough to open the door.

And the second the bag changed hands, Declan’s voice shifted — polite, steady, firefighter-professional.

“Thanks, man. Have a good night.”

Door closed.

Lock clicked.

And when he turned back to her?

He wasn’t professional anymore.

Not even close.

He held the takeout bag in one hand, his expression soft with something so warm it made her toes curl.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he extended his free hand to her — palm up, fingers open, like she was something he was asking to dance or worship or both.

“C’mere,” he said, voice low and full of that quiet, devastating affection that had undone her from the start. “Let me feed my girl.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes cutting over her face with aching fondness.

“And after dinner?”
A grin tugged his mouth sideways.
“I’m usin’ every emotional support tool I got to make sure you can’t stand without holdin’ onto me.”

He didn’t say it dirty.
He didn’t have to.

It was a promise wrapped in warmth, wrapped in love, wrapped in the same steadiness he’d held her with all night.

He offered his hand again — patient, gentle, sure.

“Come back to bed, Hattie.”

A beat.

“My arms aren’t done with you yet.”

Hattie didn’t protest when he scooped her up.

She could’ve.
Should’ve, maybe — something flirty, something dramatic.
But all that escaped her was the quietest little “oh” against his throat, breath catching as his arms locked around her like they were built to carry her.

And maybe they were.

Because good lord, he made it feel easy.
Not just the lift — but her.
Being with him. Being wanted by him.
Wanted like this.

By the time he kissed her temple, she was smiling into the curve of his jaw like she had a secret.

Because she did.

He was her secret.
This softness.
This safety.
This boyish, beautiful man with those massive hands and that quiet devotion in every movement.

She wrapped her arms a little tighter around his shoulders — just because she could — and nuzzled her nose against the side of his neck with an innocent hum, all warmth and mischief.

“I like this,” she murmured, just loud enough for his collarbone to hear. “Delivery service with a view.”

When he set her on the bench, she let her fingers linger — sliding slowly from the back of his neck down to his arm, reluctant to let go even for a second.
Not because she didn’t think he’d come back.
But because she didn’t want to.

She watched him open the door, polite and steady and just this side of protective.
Firefighter Declan.
Mister Reliable.

But the second he turned back to her?

It was her Declan again.

The one who looked at her like she was something he got to keep.
Like he was the lucky one.

And when he held out his hand — palm up, fingers open, like she was something precious he wanted to hold again — she felt it all at once.
Every inch of affection he didn’t know how to say except through gestures like this.

She reached for him without hesitation.

Placed her hand in his. Small. Willing. Steady.

And when he said “Come back to bed, Hattie”, her whole chest squeezed.

Not because he was asking.
But because he meant it.

Like the bed wasn’t right without her in it.
Like he wasn’t right without her next to him.

So she stood — letting him help, even though she didn’t need it — just to feel the way his fingers closed around hers.
And when he added that soft little promise about his arms not being done?

She leaned up on her toes, just barely, and brushed her mouth along his jaw.

Not quite a kiss.
Not quite not.

“Good,” she whispered, letting her smile curve slow and sweet as honey. “Because I don’t plan on goin’ far, sugar.”

She gave his hand a squeeze.

Then tugged him toward the bed with playful purpose — one step ahead, already plotting cornbread first and whatever came after slow.

Her stomach growled as if on cue.

She laughed — unapologetic.

“Alright, alright,” she teased, tossing him a look over her shoulder. “Feed me fast, Caldwell. These emotional support tools don’t recharge themselves.”

And just like that, they were back in bed.

Him with the takeout.
Her with the grin.
And both of them hungry — for food, for each other, for everything they hadn’t even dreamed of yet.

But tonight?

It started with dinner.
And ended with them.

Declan damn near dropped the food.

Not because she startled him.
Not because she tugged him toward the bed like she knew exactly what she was doing.
But because of the way she whispered sugar like it was something sinful and holy all at once.

His jaw flexed.
His fingers tightened around hers.
And when her little stomach growl followed right after?

He almost laughed — the real kind, the kind that loosened every muscle in his body and made him feel human again.

He set the takeout down on the nightstand with a soft thud, tossed the blanket aside just enough for her to crawl in, and followed her right onto the mattress — bracing himself on one knee as he watched her flop back into the pillows like she belonged there.

Which, hell, she did.

“Lord help me,” he muttered under his breath, not hiding the smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, “I swear you flirt harder when you’re hungry.”

He leaned in — slow, deliberate — and kissed the corner of her mouth, stealing the exact spot she’d brushed against his jaw.

Not deep.
Not filthy.
Just a warm, claiming press of lips that said I’m right here.

Then he settled beside her, propped on an elbow, and reached for the food.

“No rushin’ those support tools,” he teased, sliding the plate toward her. “Can’t have ‘em malfunctionin’ on me. They’re essential equipment.”

He watched her take the first bite — watched the way her shoulders relaxed, her eyes softened, her whole face lit up like he’d just handed her a miracle on a paper plate.

And God, it hit him right in the chest.

Her joy.
Her comfort.
Her ease with him.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just let the hush fill the room — warm, golden, steady.

Then, softer, almost like he couldn’t help himself:

“You know somethin’, Hattie?”
He brushed a knuckle down her jaw, gentle as a sigh.
“I think you’re the best damn view I’ve ever had while eatin’ dinner.”

He let the words hang there.

Not playful.
Not teasing.
Just true.

And then—because he had to keep it from getting too serious for her sake and his—he added with a low, wicked hum:

“Though if you keep talkin’ sweet to me, sugar… that cornbread’s gettin’ cold real fast.”

His eyes dipped to her mouth.

Not subtle.

Not sorry.

And his hand slid under the blanket, settling warm on her thigh like it had a homing instinct.

“Eat,” he murmured, voice dropping just a shade deeper. “Then I’ll take my turn.”

A beat.

“On dessert.”

He didn’t wink.
He didn’t need to.

The smile on his face said every damn thing for him.

She didn’t look at him right away.

Didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how fast her stomach flipped when he said “then I’ll take my turn.”
Didn’t let him know how thoroughly he’d already wrecked her with that hand on her thigh and that voice in her ear.

Instead, she took another bite.

Slow. Intentional.
Sweet cornbread, warm on her tongue.

And then — like she hadn’t just made a silent, full-body vow to ruin him after dinner — she let her lashes flutter and moaned just a little under her breath.

“Mm,” she hummed, licking a crumb from the corner of her mouth. “This is so good.”

Her foot brushed his ankle beneath the blanket. Innocent.
Except not at all.

She leaned back against the pillows like she had all the time in the world, one hand tucked behind her head and the other lazily dragging another bite of barbecue across her plate.
Taking her time.
On purpose.

Because he had told her to eat.
And he needed food too.

Which meant he was getting fed whether he liked it or not.

She peeked at him from the corner of her eye, watching the way he watched her — like she was some slow-motion movie he never wanted to end.

She loved that look.

“You know what I think?” she murmured, swirling her finger in the pickle juice at the edge of his container. “I think you’re about two seconds from forgetting you need fuel too.”

She plucked out one of his spicy pickles — the kind she’d only ever taken one bite of before declaring “absolutely not, this is a crime” — and held it up between them with a little flourish.

“For your health,” she said sweetly, biting back a grin. “You can’t live off dessert alone, baby.”

She wriggled her brows once, just to push her luck, and then gently tapped the pickle to his lips like she was feeding him a grape on a chaise lounge in some ridiculous old painting.

“There you go, tough guy. Open wide.”

His mouth twitched — she could feel the heat rolling off of him now — but she didn’t let her hand drop.
Didn’t stop smiling.
Didn’t stop playing.

Because even though she knew what came next — dessert, devouring, the kind of praise that made her toes curl — she also knew this moment mattered just as much.

This was hers.
The teasing. The tenderness. The control she had in the palm of her hand and the quiet way he let her keep it.

So she sat there, curled in the blankets beside him, every inch of her lit up with affection.

And waited.

Pickle in hand.
Heartbeat steady.
Grin locked and loaded.

He could take the bite — or take the bait.
Either way, she planned to savor every second.

Declan didn’t take the bite.

Not at first.

He leaned in like he would — like he was about to humor her and open his mouth and play the game she thought she was controlling — but then he stopped.
Right there.
Half an inch from her fingers.

Close enough that her pulse stuttered.
Close enough that his breath warmed her knuckles.
Close enough that she forgot for a second what, exactly, she’d been teasing him about.

But he didn’t take the pickle.

Oh no.

His hand came up instead — slow, deliberate — and he wrapped his fingers around her wrist. Not tight. Not restraining. Just enough to make her feel it.

Enough to make every nerve in her arm light up.

“Sweetheart,” he drawled, low and sinful, eyes locked on hers, “I’m real glad you’re worried about my health.”

His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist once — a lazy, warm pass that sent a shiver straight down her spine.

“But if you think I’m lettin’ you feed me a damn pickle like I’m some kinda baby bird…”

He leaned even closer — lips brushing the pad of her thumb — and her breath caught like he’d snapped it right out of her lungs.

“…you don’t know me half as well as you think you do.”

Then — because he was a menace — he tilted his head and took the pickle between her fingers.

Not from her hand.

From her.

His mouth brushed her fingertips as he bit down — slow, exaggerated — eyes still locked on hers, pupils gone dark with heat and mischief.

A quiet sound left her throat, something between a gasp and a caught breath, and he swallowed the pickle like it was nothing.

Like she was the only flavor he cared about.

He let go of her wrist just long enough to pluck the rest of the pickle from her stunned fingers and toss it back into the container.

Then he slid his hand onto her thigh again under the blanket — higher this time, confident, claiming — and tugged her gently closer until her knee bumped his hip.

“Hattie,” he murmured, his mouth grazing the edge of her jaw now, “I said you needed to eat.”

His lips brushed her cheekbone — soft, teasing, unfair.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t return the favor.”

His fingers squeezed her thigh.

Not subtle.

Not sorry.

“And if you keep lookin’ at me like that…”
His breath ghosted over her ear.
“…I’m not makin’ it to dessert.”

He pulled back just enough to see her face — flushed, dazzled, half-annoyed she’d lost control and half-ready to climb into his lap over a damn pickle.

Then he smirked — slow, wicked, fond.

“You wanna keep playin’?” he asked softly, brushing her hair back behind her shoulder, fingertips warm against her skin.
“Or you wanna come sit in my lap while we finish this food before I lose my mind entirely?”

The challenge hung between them.

Warm.
Charged.
Inevitable.

Either way?

He’d already decided dessert was being served in bed.

But he was giving her the next move.

She didn’t blink.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t so much as breathe for a second.

Not until he bit down and her fingers felt it — felt the slow pull of his mouth, the heat of his breath, the way he didn’t just take the pickle, he took her with it.

Her heart stuttered.
Her body flushed.
And her lips parted on instinct, like they needed to do something with all that air she suddenly couldn’t find.

She should’ve known better.
Should’ve known teasing him was never really teasing.
Not when the second he wrapped his hand around her wrist, she forgot what the hell she was even holding.

Because it wasn’t about the pickle.
It was never about the damn pickle.
It was about him — and the way he could unravel her with a look, a grip, a word.

She wasn’t mad she lost.
She liked losing to him.

Hattie swallowed hard, pulse drumming low behind her ribs, and let herself be pulled closer.

Her thigh pressed against his.
His palm was a brand on her skin.
And when he murmured her name like that — God, that voice — she thought she might actually melt right into the mattress.

But she didn’t pout.
Didn’t sass.
Didn’t play coy like she had any real power in this dynamic.

Instead, she set her plate down carefully on the bed next to them, every motion deliberate.
Her eyes never left his.

And then, without a single word, she climbed into his lap.

Smooth. Slow. Obedient.

Her knees bracketing his hips, her hands resting light on his shoulders — not to hold him down, but to offer herself up.
Because that’s what it was.
An offering. A surrender. A silent acknowledgment of his control.

She leaned in close, close enough that her lips nearly brushed his, but didn’t.
Her voice was low, sweet, laced with just the edge of defiance that got her in trouble every time:

“You gonna feed me now, or just stare at me like you’re already thinking about the second course?”

A beat.
A smirk.
A flicker of something dangerous in her eyes — but not dominant.

Not even close.

Because she might tease.
She might push.
She might play the brat with a smile and a tilt of her chin.

But at the end of the day?
She belonged right here.
In his lap.
In his hands.
At his mercy.

And she’d never wanted anything more.

Declan didn’t answer her.

Didn’t smirk back.
Didn’t tease.
Didn’t even pretend to hesitate.

The moment she settled onto his lap — warm, soft, pliant, exactly where he’d wanted her — something in him clicked into place with a quiet, feral kind of certainty.

His hands slid to her hips like gravity pulled them there, fingers spreading slow, deliberate, claiming the shape of her like she was something carved for him and him alone. He held her still — not harsh, but steady, grounding her in a way that made her breath catch right in the center of her throat.

He let her question hang there between them, trembling and charged:

You gonna feed me now, or just stare at me like you’re already thinking about the second course?

God help him.

He was thinking about the second, third, fourth — every course she didn’t even know she was offering.

His jaw worked once, slow, like he was trying to keep himself from devouring her too fast.

Then he slid one hand from her hip to the small of her back, guiding her closer, chest to chest, until her breath mingled with his and her lips hovered a heartbeat from his own.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low enough to vibrate through her, “I’ve been thinkin’ about the second course since you moaned over cornbread.”

His thumb swept the line of her waist — coaxing, appreciating, coaxing again.

“But you asked a question…”

He lifted his other hand without breaking eye contact, reached blindly for her plate, and plucked a piece of cornbread between his fingers — slow, controlled, with the quiet authority of a man who knew exactly what he was doing to her.

He brought it to her lips.

“Open.”

One word.
Soft.
Unassailable.
A command wrapped in velvet.

When she obeyed — and God, she did — he fed her the bite, fingertips brushing her mouth just long enough to make her shiver.

His gaze didn’t budge from her face.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, voice dipped in warmth and possession both.

He wiped the tiniest crumb from her lower lip with his thumb.
Dragged it slow.
Watched her try — and fail — not to react.

“You sit in my lap,” he continued, thumb drifting from her lip to her chin, tilting it up just enough to make her meet his eyes, “and ask me if I’m thinkin’ about dessert…”

His hand slid from her jaw to the back of her neck, curling into her hair.

“…and expect me to behave?”

He tugged her in just a little — not enough to kiss her yet, but enough that she felt the promise of it everywhere.

His breath brushed her mouth.

“You’re playin’ with fire, Hattie.”

His fingers tightened in her hair — gentle, but firm enough that her pulse jumped.

“And you’re gonna get exactly what you’re lookin’ for… if you finish your dinner like a good girl.”

He didn’t move his mouth to hers.

He let her feel the space, the restraint, the power thrumming low and steady in his voice.

Then he fed her another bite — deliberately, slowly — every touch intentional.

“Now,” he murmured, eyes dark and soft all at once, “you ready for another bite, darlin’? Or you already thinkin’ about skippin’ straight to dessert?”

She didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t smirk.
Didn’t push.
Didn’t pretend she had any power here.

Because she didn’t want it.

Not when his voice dropped like that — slow and Southern and edged with warning.
Not when his thumb dragged across her lip like he owned the shape of her.
Not when his hand was in her hair, fingers warm and steady, guiding her every move like he knew exactly what she needed before she did.

She took the second bite in silence.

Her lips parted the moment he lifted it — instinct, trust, offering.
Her eyes stayed on his, unblinking, and she felt it all the way down — the obedience, the intimacy, the heat coiled low and slow and certain.

He was feeding her like it mattered.
Like she mattered.

And when his thumb brushed her lip again, she leaned into it — not to provoke, not to flirt, just to feel.

A breath caught in her throat.
Small.
Telling.

And when she finally spoke, her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“I’m not thinkin’ about skippin’,” she said, chin tilted just enough to meet his eyes, every inch of her open and reverent. “I’m thinkin’ about how good it feels to be fed by the man I love.”

Her words landed soft between them — no bravado, no teasing. Just truth.

Because that’s what this was.
Not just a game.
Not just seduction.

It was his hands.
His voice.
His control, steady and sure and exactly where she felt the safest.

And God, didn’t she want him?

Not just on top of her — though that too, always that — but with her. Grounded in her. Wrapped around her. Claiming her with every look, every touch, every quiet command.

She stayed still in his lap.
Soft.
Silent.
Waiting.

Waiting for him to decide when she got her next bite.
Waiting for when his restraint would finally slip.
Waiting to be undone in the exact way he wanted her to be.

And not for one second did she try to move.
Not when his hand stayed firm on the back of her neck.
Not when his fingers curled tighter around her thigh.
Not even when her own heart stuttered and begged and ached with the anticipation of it.

Because she trusted him to take her there.
When he was ready.
How he wanted.

And if dessert was coming?

She’d earn it.
One bite at a time.

Declan didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Because the second those words left her mouth — quiet, reverent, so full of truth it rocked him to his bones — every ounce of teasing in him went still.

She wasn’t playing anymore.
She wasn’t provoking him.
She wasn’t trying to win.

She was giving herself to him with one soft sentence:

I’m thinkin’ about how good it feels to be fed by the man I love.

Something in his chest tightened, deep and aching and beautiful, and his hand in her hair softened instantly — not weaker, not looser, but tender. Like she’d struck something holy inside him.

His thumb stroked her jaw once.
Slow.
Possessive.
Loving.

“Hattie…” he murmured, her name slipping out like a prayer he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Then he guided her just an inch closer — not enough to kiss her, but enough that she felt the weight of him, the heat of him, the way his whole body responded to hers like it had always been meant to.

“Don’t say things like that,” he whispered, voice low and wrecked, “unless you want me to come apart right underneath you.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth — soft, parted, waiting.

“But since you’re bein’ honest…”

His other hand slid from her thigh up her hip, slow and deliberate, tracing the curve of her like he was mapping her body all over again.

“…you oughta know somethin’, too.”

He lifted another small piece of cornbread — tiny, intentional — and brought it to her lips.

This time, he didn’t look away from her eyes.
Not for a second.

“You bein’ in my lap like this,” he murmured, brushing the edge of the bite against her lower lip, “lettin’ me take care of you — that might be the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.”

She opened her mouth, obedient and trusting, and he fed her slow — deliberately slow — dragging his fingertips across her lip again before pulling back.

The sound that left her was soft, almost too quiet to notice.

But he noticed.

His thumb caught that tiny sound on her tongue and guided her chin up gently.

“And hear me real clear,” he breathed, his forehead nearly touching hers now, “I’d feed you every night of my life if it makes you look at me like that.”

His hand tightened in her hair — not to control her, but to steady him.

“You hear me? Every night. Every meal.”
A pause, heavy and intimate.
“Dessert included.”

He let that settle — warm and hot and full of promise — before he leaned in, brushing the faintest kiss to the corner of her mouth.

Not full.
Not consuming.
Just a taste.

Then he pulled back, barely, eyes dark and impossibly tender.

“Another bite, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low and sinful. “Or you want me to hold you a minute first?”