Lazy Rooster Ranch
 

Lena had won this round.

She’d called it camping; he’d called it “not a chance in hell.” What they settled on was this compromise—four slanted walls of timber and tin, a mattress with actual sheets, and a little porch that looked like it belonged on a postcard. Not exactly roughing it, but she wasn’t about to apologize for knowing their aging bodies would thank her in the morning.

And God, she loved it already.

The A-frame cabin was small, cozy, and smelled faintly of cedar when she opened the door earlier. Now, a few hours later, the cabin light was behind them and the firelight was in front—crackling, sparking, painting him in gold and shadow. He’d muttered something about how he didn’t have time for all this when she first brought it up, but he’d made the time. Because she asked. Because she told him he’d better.

And now here they were.

The fall air had teeth, crisp and smoky, the kind that clung to her sweater and made her cheeks sting in the best way. Beyond the halo of the fire, the trees pressed in dark and quiet, their tips swaying against a sky littered with stars. She leaned back in her chair, legs stretched out toward the flames, and let herself breathe for the first time in what felt like weeks.

Tomorrow they’d cast lines into cold water at dawn, chasing fish that would probably laugh at her patience. They’d hike trails ribboned with gold leaves in the afternoon, their boots crunching through the hush of the forest. They’d even booked massages, because she refused to come home from a trip like this with nothing but sore calves to show for it. But tonight was theirs.

No deadlines. No buzzing phones. No excuses.

Just firelight, starlight, and the man who finally stopped long enough to sit still with her.

She tilted her head, studying him across the flames—the way the glow caught in his beard, the way his broad shoulders looked almost too big for the folding chair he’d dragged out here. He was relaxed in the way men never admitted they needed to be, the kind of stillness that came only when someone else demanded it.

Which, of course, meant it was her duty to ruin it.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Maren,” she drawled, nudging the toe of her boot toward his. “You agreed to fly fishing at dawn, and I plan on catching more than you. Might as well start bracing your ego now.”

Her mouth curved into a smirk as she leaned back, eyes glittering in the firelight. “And no—before you ask—I will not touch the worms.”

Caleb didn’t look up right away.

He let her jab land, let the silence stretch — not because he didn’t have a comeback, but because he was too damn comfortable to move. Fire popping, wind shifting, the low weight of her voice threading into the moment like it belonged there.

She always did have a way of taking the peace he swore he didn’t need and making him want it anyway.

Finally, he glanced over. One eyebrow lifted, mouth tugging at the corner.

“I said I’d go fly fishing,” he said slowly, voice low like the crackle in the fire, “not that I’d lose at it.”

He shifted in the chair just enough to stretch his legs, the toe of his boot meeting hers — not a shove, just contact. Just there.

“And you weren’t gonna touch the worms anyway. Let’s not pretend that was ever on the table.”

Another beat. He let his eyes scan her face, soft in the firelight, lit up with that wild smirk he could spot a mile away. God, she was something. Always had been. Always would be.

“Tell you what,” he added, tone easing even lower, like a promise stitched into velvet, “You win the fishing. I’ll handle the rest.”

He didn’t explain what the rest meant — gutting fish, hauling packs, making the damn coffee, keeping her warm when the fire burned low — but she’d know. Lena always knew.

And he didn’t need a win.

He just needed this.

Her boots near his. The stars above. And the kind of night that didn’t ask either of them to be anything but here.

Lena didn’t answer right away.

She just raised an eyebrow, slow and amused, like he’d just said something bold at a dinner party and she was waiting to see if he really meant it.

Because oh, she heard that tone. That velvet-wrapped promise.
And she could pretend to be surprised—but she wasn’t.

Not really.

Because Caleb Maren always did have a way of making her feel like the soft things weren’t weaknesses. Like being cared for didn’t mean she wasn’t capable. Like she could be all sharp tongue and garden dirt and firelight sass, and he’d still bring her coffee in the morning and carry her pack just because he wanted to.

She liked that about him.
She liked a lot of things about him.

But she’d rather let him stew for a second.

So she leaned back in her chair, stretching long and easy, like a cat with secrets. “Hmph,” she said, tapping her finger against her chin, “Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t touch the worms, Maren. I’ll have you know they’re excellent for composting, and my tomatoes are thriving this year thanks to a very healthy relationship with a tub of nightcrawlers.”

She flicked her gaze over to him, lips tugging up at one corner. “But hey, I get it. Gotta let you feel useful somehow.”

She let that hang, sweet as honey and just as sticky.

“I mean, I could do the fire and the coffee and the gutting and the heavy lifting,” she added, reaching down to pluck a stray piece of grass from her sock, casual as anything, “but then what would you do? Stand around lookin’ rugged? Because don’t get me wrong, you do that very well. But variety’s the spice of life.”

Her grin widened.

“And besides,” she said, eyes locking with his, voice dipping just slightly, “you like doing all that stuff for me. Admit it. Gets your inner mountain man all puffed up.”

She nudged his boot back with hers, a little sharper this time. Playful. Familiar. The language of their long stretch of years together.

“But if you’re really offering to do ‘the rest,’” she added, drawling the words just enough to make them interesting, “you better be prepared to deliver. Because I plan on catching something tomorrow. And I don’t just mean the fish.”

And then she leaned back again, slow and satisfied, like checkmate was just a mood she lived in.

Let him think he had her figured out.
She still had a few tricks up her sleeve.

Always did.

God, she was good at this.

Caleb let the fire crackle between them while she unraveled him with that slow, smug grin and that voice—equal parts challenge and sin. The kind that made him want to roll his eyes just to hide the way his chest pulled tighter every damn time she got like this.

Like she knew he couldn’t look away.
Like she knew the effect she had on him and chose to wield it anyway.

And yeah—he did like doing things for her.
He liked the way her mouth curved when he handed her coffee without asking.
The way she let her hand rest on his back when he loaded her gear into the truck.
The way she didn’t say thank you—just kissed his cheek like it was a given.
Like he was a given.

That part always undid him most.

He leaned back in the chair, let his arm stretch across the top rail behind him, and gave her a look. That slow, even one that always said Careful, Hartley. You start something, I’ll finish it.

“You’re not wrong,” he said finally, voice rough around the edges but warm underneath. “I do like taking care of you.”

A pause.

“But I also like proving you wrong.”

He let that settle, just long enough for her eyebrow to twitch again, before he added—dry as smoke—
“So, go ahead. Touch the worms. Start the fire. Gut the fish. Do it all.”

He tilted his head, eyes catching hers.
“But if you so much as flinch, I’m takin’ over. And I’m not lettin’ you forget it.”

His boot stayed pressed to hers now. Not a nudge. Not a tease. Just anchored. Just here.

Because that was the thing about Lena.

She liked to push. He liked to hold.

And somewhere in the middle of all that friction, they’d built something that felt more like home than anything he ever thought he’d deserve.

He looked at her a second longer—long enough to soften the edge in his voice.

“And if you do catch something tomorrow?” he added, low and steady. “I’ll clean it. Cook it. And tell everyone in town you were the better fisherman.”

He smiled then. Real. Crooked.

“Only because it’s true.”

And God, he loved her. Wouldn’t say it out loud—not right now. Not while she was sitting there all satisfied and smug and waiting to pounce on whatever softness he let slip.

But it sat in him anyway.

In the boots touching.
In the coffee tomorrow.
In every unspoken thing that lived between firelight and stars.

Let her think she had the upper hand.

He had her.

That was the win.

Oh, he thought that was cute.

Lena didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just narrowed her eyes like a cat catching movement in the dark, head tilted ever so slightly, the corners of her mouth lifting slow and dangerous.

He wanted to play that game?
Please.
She invented it.

“Prove me wrong, huh?” she echoed, letting the words roll lazy off her tongue like she wasn’t already mentally cataloging all the ways she was going to out-fish, out-hike, and out-snark him tomorrow. “Sweetheart, if I had a dollar for every time you tried to one-up me, I’d have bought this whole damn ranch and renamed it Lena’s Victory Lap.”

She reached for the enamel mug on the log beside her—wine, not coffee, because she wasn’t a savage—and took a slow sip like she was toasting to his delusion. Then pointed at him with the rim.

“And for the record?” she said, eyes sparking now, voice teasing but pointed. “I have touched the worms. I just let you do it because you get that little glint in your eye like you’re single-handedly saving civilization. And I find that deeply entertaining.”

Another sip. A shrug.

“Plus, I like when your hands smell like cedar and river water and ego.”

She let that sit for half a second, then grinned wide, feral and full of teeth.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Maren—if I flinch, it’s only ‘cause I’m bored watching you try to keep up.”

She leaned back again, calm as hell, hair catching the firelight like it had a mind of its own, face softening only slightly as she looked at him. Really looked at him.

Because the truth was, she did like the way he took care of her.
Liked the way he moved around her like it was second nature.
Liked that he never made her feel like she had to prove she could carry it all—just gave her the space to decide when she wanted to, and the backup when she didn’t.

And sure, they teased and tangled and took turns pretending the scoreboard mattered—
But the real joke?

They always ended up winning.
Because they always ended up with each other.

She sighed, content and amused and slightly tipsy, setting the mug back down. Then gave him a look so smug it could’ve been trademarked.

“You’re damn right I’ll catch something tomorrow,” she said, voice syrupy with challenge. “And when I do, I expect it cleaned, seasoned, and plated like you’re auditioning for a cooking show. Preferably shirtless, but I’m flexible on that.”

Pause. A wink.

“Just remember who reeled it in.”

And then she turned her gaze back to the stars, satisfied, smug, and—though she’d never admit it out loud—already melting a little at the thought of waking up to him making that coffee.

Let him think he had the last word.
She already had him.

Caleb had no business smiling like that.

Not when she was sitting over there looking like sin in a sweater, talking trash with that honey-slick voice and raising her wine like it was some kind of royal decree.

Not when every line out of her mouth made him want to haul her out of that damn chair and kiss her until she forgot the damn score.

Not when she said shirtless, and then had the nerve to wink at him like she hadn’t just set the entire forest on fire.

He exhaled through his nose. Shook his head slow. Let the smile come.

“Lena’s Victory Lap,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “Sounds about right.”

He watched her for a second—legs stretched, hair catching the glow like kindling, mouth curled around that smug little trophy of a smirk—and felt something deep in his chest shift. Settle. Like everything he’d never known he needed had pulled up a chair beside the fire and decided to stay.

She’d always had that effect on him. Could raze him to the ground and rebuild him with the same damn sentence.

He leaned forward again, elbows to knees, voice just gruff enough to sound unaffected—like he wasn’t absolutely undone.

“You want me shirtless and cooking your catch like some kind of backwoods Michelin chef,” he said, slow and even, “you better reel in something worth taking a picture of. Because if it’s another five-inch sunfish, I’m frying it whole and serving it on paper towels.”

He let that hang for a beat. Then added, low and rough:

“But if it’s decent…”

A pause. A look.

“You’ll get your damn show.”

A stretch of silence fell between them again, but it wasn’t empty. It was the good kind. The kind they were fluent in. Crackling fire. Wind in the trees. That hush that only came when two people knew they didn’t have to fill it.

His gaze didn’t leave her.

“Y’know,” he said finally, softer now, “I don’t care who catches what tomorrow.”

He tilted his head, that half-smile playing at his mouth again. Not cocky this time. Just sure.

“I already caught what matters.”

And then, like he hadn’t just dropped something that’d echo around in her chest for the next hour, he leaned back in his chair and reached for his coffee—no grin, no wink, no victory lap.

Just Caleb.

Steady. Unmoving.

And completely, unapologetically hers.

Well. Shit.

There he went again—saying something sweet like it didn’t mean anything. Like he wasn’t just out here wrecking her in the middle of the woods with that slow, low voice and that damn look.

Caleb Maren didn’t flirt.
He declared ownership.
And somehow, it always landed soft.

Lena tried—tried—not to show it.

But her smirk twitched. Just for a second.

Because yeah, she’d teased him into saying it. Wound him up just right, like she always did. But she hadn’t expected that—the way he said it so simply, like it wasn’t a big deal.
Like it was just a fact.
Like she was just… his.

And God help her, she loved him for that.
Even when she pretended not to.
Especially when she pretended not to.

But she wasn’t about to let him have the last word.

So she lifted her mug again, lazily swirling the wine inside like she was a judge at a tasting, not a woman whose heart had just done a full damn somersault.

“Well,” she said, voice light but with a tilt that gave her away, “when I do catch that sunfish tomorrow—and don’t worry, I will—I won’t make you cook it.”

She sipped. Let the pause stretch. Let him think maybe she was going soft.

Then hit him with the follow-up:

“But I am gonna make you pose with it like one of those guys on FishFinder who flex next to a bluegill like they just fought a sea monster. You better give me bicep, Maren. I want a full bend-and-smolder situation.”

She gave him her best deadpan, eyes locked on his. “And yes. It’s going on the fridge.”

A beat.

“Next to the one of you shirtless with the grill tongs. Gotta keep my little collection going.”

Her grin widened, impossibly pleased with herself, and she gave a contented sigh like the whole thing was already set in stone. Because it was.

They both knew how this would play out.
She’d catch the damn fish.
He’d roll his eyes and flex anyway.
And she’d have the picture printed at Walgreens before he could blink.

Because that’s what they did.
Push and pull. Bicker and banter.
Two stubborn people, too smart to back down, too soft on each other to care.

She let her gaze drift from him to the firelight and back again, quiet now, but smiling. Really smiling. The kind she didn’t wear for anyone else.

“You know you’re in trouble, right?” she said eventually, her voice dipping into something softer—something almost reverent. “I’m never letting you go. Not after you say shit like that.”

A pause. Her eyes sparkled.

“And not just because I need someone to hold my worms.”

She raised her mug in a mock-toast and murmured, “To Lena’s Victory Lap.”

Then took another slow sip.

Let him sit with that.

Because sure—he was steady.
But she was inevitable.
And he knew it.

Just like she knew she’d never win the war.
Didn’t have to.

She already had the prize.

He hooked his fingers around her ankle, thumb brushing over the edge of her sock.

“For the record,” he said, eyes on hers, voice low like it was meant for her and the fire alone, “I never planned on going anywhere.”

A pause.

Then, just to keep her from getting too smug about it:

“Even if you do make me pose with a five-inch sunfish like I’m Hercules of the Creek.”

She laughed — that rich, unbothered sound that always hit him somewhere under the ribs — and stretched like she had all the time in the world to gloat. Of course she did. It was Lena. Victory came preloaded.

He watched the way her mouth twitched, eyes sparkling with whatever sharp thing she was about to say — and he cut in before she could land it.

“So, this is payback for the time I made you hold a drill for that Christmas photo, huh?”

The way she grinned told him everything. Yeah. He deserved it.

He shook his head, leaning back against the chair, exhaling through a quiet laugh. “God help me.”

But the truth settled in just behind the humor — warm and steady, like everything else she stirred in him without even trying. He didn’t mind being the punchline if it meant sitting across from her like this. Didn’t mind the teasing, the posing, the smug toasts or even the fridge shrine.

Because she kept them.

The photos. The memories. Him.

And that? That wrecked him more than any wink across a campfire ever could.

His voice softened. “You keep all those pictures?”

She didn’t say anything — not right away. Just gave him a look. The kind that answered without speaking.

He knew the answer anyway.

She kept the good ones. The messy ones. The ones where his hair was doing that ridiculous fluffy thing she swore made him look like a retriever in the snow. She kept the life they built, piece by piece, even when they didn’t talk about it out loud.

Especially then.

He looked away for a beat. Back at the fire.

“Don’t need pictures to remember any of it,” he said quietly. “But I’m glad you keep ‘em anyway.”

And he meant that.

Every photo, every inside joke, every stubborn argument about trail directions or grout colors or who actually remembered to buy more coffee filters — it was all part of this.

Of them.

He reached down, nudged her foot with his again. Not playful this time. Just connection. Just there.

She bumped his back.

He didn’t speak again after that. Didn’t need to.

The fire crackled. Her smile lingered. Their boots stayed pressed together like a line neither of them planned on crossing.

And Caleb sat there — coffee cooling in his hand, love steady in his chest — knowing damn well that even if she had the victory lap…

He had the win.

Because he had her.

She didn’t answer him right away.

Didn’t need to.

Because that look she gave him—the one she wore like silk and secrets—said it all. Said of course she kept the pictures. Even the dumb ones. Especially the dumb ones. That one where he wore her pink scarf as a joke and didn’t realize she’d framed it? Top tier fridge material.

And the one where he fell asleep holding a wrench in the middle of fixing the cabinet? Front and center. Right next to the ones of them grinning on rooftops and dancing in kitchens and standing in muddy boots outside the co-op because he insisted they could “fix the plumbing without calling anyone.”

She kept those. All of them. Because those were the kind that mattered. The life-between-the-lines kind.

But she wasn’t about to get misty about it. That was his job.

So instead, Lena stood. Slow and unhurried, like she’d just won a card game he didn’t realize they were playing. She stretched again, arms overhead, shirt riding up just a little—because she could—and took her time setting her mug down on the stump beside her chair.

Then she looked at him—really looked—and the firelight must’ve caught just right because for a second, he looked impossibly hers.

“C’mere,” she said, voice low.

And when he tilted his head at her, skeptical, curious, definitely thinking she was about to make him do something embarrassing—she leaned in and kissed him.

Not playful. Not teasing.

Just real.

Warm, steady, and full of all the things she never bothered to say out loud because she didn’t have to.

She kissed him like a thank-you. Like a promise. Like she’d keep him, too.

And when she pulled back—lips brushing his for one last beat, her breath still warm on his cheek—she gave him a look that made him go still.

Then, with a smirk so smug it practically needed its own zip code, she murmured, “Don’t forget to douse the fire, Hercules.”

And turned, just like that, sauntering back toward the A-frame with the ease of a woman who knew damn well she’d just left him breathless.

She didn’t look back.

Didn’t have to.

She knew he was watching. And grinning. And probably cursing under his breath about how wrecked he was for her. Again.


---

✦ The Next Morning

The river was cold.

Not unbearable—but enough to wake her all the way up when the breeze skimmed past the back of her neck. The sun hadn’t fully climbed yet, but the sky was brushed in soft peach and pale gold, and the water moved slow and silver beneath the trees.

Lena stood ankle-deep at the edge of the bank, sleeves pushed up, hair tied back in a half-hearted knot that still somehow looked effortless.

She was holding her pole like a queen wielding a scepter—and if you asked her, she looked damn good doing it.

Behind her, Caleb was crouched by the tackle box, muttering something about bait quality and line tension like he wasn’t about to be deeply humiliated when she caught the first fish.

She grinned to herself.

Because sure, he’d made the coffee. And warmed up the truck. And found her gloves when she swore she didn’t need them.

But she was about to reel in a sunfish so fast it’d make his head spin. And when she did? Oh, she was absolutely making him pose.

Flex and all.

Maybe even two pictures. One for the fridge, one for her lock screen.

She cast her line with practiced ease, let it plunk into the water, and didn’t even look back as she said, “Hope you remembered to warm up those biceps, baby. I’m not posing with this thing alone.”

A pause.

“And smile this time. I’m not putting another grimace on the fridge.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t need to.

Because the second she said it — biceps and smile this time like she wasn’t singlehandedly orchestrating the downfall of his dignity — Caleb felt the corner of his mouth twitch in that helpless, familiar way.

God, he was doomed.

Not the kind of doom that crept in slow. The kind that knocked the wind out of you with a kiss by the fire and then strutted off without looking back, leaving you to douse the flames and pretend like you weren’t standing there half-wrecked with your heart in your hands.

He was still thinking about that kiss.

Still feeling the phantom of her mouth against his, warm and sure and final in a way that didn’t need words.

She kissed like she meant to undo him. And then she went and called him Hercules like it wasn’t already game over.

Caleb muttered something under his breath — not quite a curse, not quite a prayer — and knelt back down by the tackle box, trying to remember what the hell he was doing before she started talking again.

Hooks. Right.

He opened the lid, rummaging half-heartedly through the compartments, more for show than purpose. Because let’s be honest — there wasn’t a single piece of gear in that box more dangerous than Lena Hartley in fleece-lined boots and a smug grin.

He glanced up again.

She was standing in the shallows like a goddess out of a fishing catalog — sleeves rolled, hair tied back, stance confident and annoyingly graceful. The rod looked like an extension of her. Regal. Ridiculous. Entirely unfair.

And he was going to have to pose next to her catch like a trophy husband with something to prove.

Which… fine.

He’d do it.

Hell, he’d flex. Twice. Three times if she asked.

Not because she made him. But because somewhere along the line — sometime between that first argument about the damn maple tree and last night’s firelit kiss — he’d figured out something important.

Lena didn’t need him to prove anything.

She just wanted him to show up.

And he did. Every time.

Still crouched by the tackle box, he raised his voice just enough to carry:

“Pretty sure that grimace was me realizing you’d printed three copies for the fridge. One in black-and-white like it was a portrait.”

He heard her snort.

Then, quieter, to himself:
“Woman’s got a museum of my humiliation.”

He stood, wiped his hands on his jeans, and grabbed the second pole — the one he pretended not to care about but always used anyway because it had her initials carved into the handle. She’d done it last fall with her garden knife and a wicked grin. He hadn’t sanded it down.

Wouldn’t dare.

He stepped toward the riverbank, voice warm now, eyes on her.

“You catch something before me, I’ll pose however you want,” he said. “You catch two, I’m making breakfast shirtless.”

A pause.

“Three, and I’m not saying no to anything for the rest of the weekend.”

He cast his line beside hers, shoulder brushing hers lightly.

Didn’t look at her.

Didn’t have to.

He already knew she was smiling. That same smug, victorious, impossibly lovely smile that leveled him every time.

God help him.

He was smiling, too.

She didn’t look at him right away.

Didn’t need to.

Not when his voice rolled over the river like that—warm, rough, laced with the kind of promise that made her stomach flip and her cheeks ache from fighting a grin. Not when she could hear the smirk behind every word and feel it settle somewhere low and familiar inside her.

God, he was impossible.

Shirtless breakfast. No veto power for the weekend. Was he trying to lose? Or was this just his version of surrender?

Either way, she was taking him up on every last one of those terms.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the rod as she fought to keep her expression neutral, eyes locked on the water like she wasn’t seconds away from cackling. But the corners of her mouth were already betraying her. She was smiling.

Smiling like a woman in love.

Like a woman who’d already won.

Still, she had to say something—it was a moral obligation.

“Three fish, huh?” she murmured, casting a sideways glance without turning her head. “You sure you wanna risk that, Maren? Because I saw some movement under that log over there, and I’ve got lucky socks on.”

A beat.

“And before you ask—no, you can’t borrow them. We don’t share power items. That’s how empires fall.”

She let the silence stretch just long enough to hear his laugh—the low one that started in his chest and never failed to unravel something in her ribcage—then turned to face him fully.

God, he looked good.

Sun rising behind him. Hair still a little mussed from sleep. That look in his eye like he was thinking a thousand things and none of them innocent. And here he was, holding the rod with her initials carved in, like he didn’t even realize what that said to a girl who kept everything that mattered.

She looked at him for a second longer than necessary.

Then lifted her chin and said, like it was already fate:
“You know I’m catching three. So go ahead and start prepping your apology pancakes now. I like mine fluffy, and I will be needing whipped cream.”

And then—because she couldn’t help herself—she leaned in a little closer, lips just shy of his ear, and whispered:

“Oh, and Caleb?”

A beat.

“When I win… I’m not letting you put on a shirt ‘til Monday.”

She kissed his cheek—light, quick, maddening.

Then turned back to the water like she hadn’t just detonated the last of his composure.

Because yeah, she’d catch the fish.

But truth was… she already caught him.

And that? That was the best damn trophy of them all.

He didn’t answer.

Not because he didn’t have something to say—he had plenty. Half of it inappropriate, the other half dangerously close to sounding like vows.

But she’d leaned in, whispered that line like it didn’t carry a hundred implications, and kissed his cheek like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t going to be replaying the feel of her lips and that smug little smirk for the rest of the weekend—and probably the rest of his damn life.

So yeah. He was quiet.

For a second.

Then he shifted his grip on the rod, stared out at the water like it had personally offended him, and finally let out a long, quiet breath through his nose.

“Okay,” he said, calm. Too calm. “So that’s how we’re playing it.”

No shirt ‘til Monday.

She had no idea the kind of fire she’d just lit. Or maybe she did. Of course she did.

She always did.

He cast his line with practiced ease, letting the lure land clean in the current just upstream from hers, like he’d done it a thousand times—which he had. And while she stood there practically vibrating with self-satisfaction, he adjusted the brim of his ball cap, cleared his throat, and said:

“Lucky socks or not, you should pace yourself.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it. Just reeled in slow, steady. Let the tension build.

“Because I am gonna catch three fish,” he added. “Probably four. And when I do…”

A beat.

He turned his head, met her eyes.

“…I’m still not putting on a shirt.”

His voice was low, deliberate. Like a warning and a promise all in one.

“And not because you said so,” he added, deadpan. “Because I intend to win this morning and still get pancakes out of it.”

Another pause. He reeled in again, smooth and focused, already feeling that familiar rhythm setting in. He could feel it—the quiet of the trees, the bite of the cool air, the slight tug of the line. It was all there. All working in his favor.

“And when I do win,” he said, “you’re gonna have to live with the fact that I out-fished you in your own socks.”

He let the words hang there.

Then added, almost sweetly:

“I’m gonna print that photo in black-and-white, Lena. Full frame. Real dramatic lighting.”

A smirk crept in—slow and dangerous.

“And you better believe I’m putting that on the fridge.”

Then he went quiet again.

Not because he was done.

But because the fish were biting.

And she’d started this.

He was just finishing it.

Oh, he was good.

Too good.

That calm, practiced cast. That hat pulled low like he wasn’t about to look her in the eye and deliver a line worthy of being carved into stone. The absolute audacity of turning her own threat into a victory speech like he hadn’t just walked straight into her trap—smirking, smug, shirtless and all.

And worse?

He was the better fisherman.

Had been since the start. His casts were smoother, his patience longer, his instincts sharper. She could trash-talk him into oblivion, but they both knew—if this were actually about the fish, she never stood a chance.

But it wasn’t. That wasn’t the point.

She didn’t want to win the fish.

She wanted this.

The banter. The slow-burn standoff. The delicious tension of knowing they were both bluffing in opposite directions, and somewhere in the middle of all of it, love sat grinning like it already knew how this would end.

She hummed—low and amused—then reeled in her line and recast like she was still taking it seriously.

Spoiler: she wasn’t.

“Okay, National Geographic,” she said finally, glancing over with narrowed eyes and an infuriatingly soft smile. “But if I see you practicing your brooding model face for that photo, I’m throwing you in the river.”

She watched him twitch at the corner of his mouth. Just barely.

And that almost-smile? Victory.

“I’ll give you the fish,” she added, casual as anything, like she was tossing him the keys to a car he already owned. “Hell, I’ll even cook ‘em for you. But don’t think for a second that evens the scoreboard.”

She paused.

Then turned toward him just enough to let the morning sun catch the slope of her cheek and the defiant glint in her eye.

“Because you might win with the fish…”

A beat. A smirk.

“But I got you out here bragging like a frat boy and trying to impress me in my socks.”

Another pause.

“And that, my love? Is the real win.”

She cast again, let the silence stretch, and grinned to herself as the line flicked out into the water. The woods were still. The light was gold. And Caleb Maren was at her side, muttering curses under his breath while pretending he wasn’t exactly where he wanted to be.

She didn’t need to catch a damn thing.

She already had everything worth reeling in.

He heard her.
Every word.
Every smug little dig laced in sunshine and syrup and hell-bent on ruining his composure for the second time that morning.

And the worst part?

She was right.
About all of it.

He’d been so caught up in making her laugh, in playing the part of “man who wins things with fish,” that he hadn’t realized she was playing a completely different game.

One she was already winning.
Effortlessly.
In his socks.

Caleb didn’t respond at first. He kept his eyes on the water, jaw tight, lips twitching like he might smile—or groan—or say something he couldn’t take back. Because that was the thing about Lena: she didn’t need to out-catch him.

She just needed to look at him like that.
Smug. Soft. Sure.
Like he was already hers. And always had been.

And he was.

So yeah—he was muttering curses under his breath. But only because she’d landed the biggest hook of the morning, and it hadn’t even touched the water.

He reeled in slow, calm, pretending like he wasn’t deeply, spiritually undone by the sight of her in his hoodie and those damn socks, weaponizing the sun and that grin and the whole “real win” speech like she hadn’t just leveled him without trying.

God, she was lethal.

He cleared his throat, finally casting another smooth line just upstream.

“You’re lucky I like losing to you,” he said, voice low and warm, like the words were built for the space between them. “Otherwise I’d be more offended by the frat boy comment.”

A pause.

He tilted his head just enough to catch her in the corner of his eye. Smirking. Glowing. Entirely unbothered.

“And for the record,” he added, “I wasn’t trying to impress you.”

Another beat. His voice dropped to something deeper, steadier.

“I already have you.”

He cast again, fluid and quiet, like it didn’t cost him a damn thing to say that out loud. Like it was just a fact. Like gravity.

Then—without looking at her—he added, dry as hell:

“Also, you said my socks. Just want that on the record.”

He heard her scoff.

Felt the grin creeping up despite himself.

And yeah, she could claim the scoreboard. The photo rights. The bragging rights. She could have it all.

Because she was right.

He already had everything he wanted.

And if she needed to feel like she’d won the weekend?

He’d give her that too.

Hell, he’d even let her keep the socks.

Lena froze.

Not dramatically. Not fully. Just enough.

Just long enough for her pulse to hitch at the way he said it—I already have you—like it was the easiest truth in the world. Like he didn’t just drop it between casts like he wasn’t still actively making her fall in love with him in real time.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

Because damn him.
He didn’t play fair.

And of course he had to throw in the sock comment after, just to knock her off balance again. Classic Caleb Maren—level her emotionally, then immediately follow it with something smug and ridiculous like he wasn’t still the best damn fisherman in this stretch of Colorado and the reason her knees felt a little watery.

She scoffed. Loudly.

And then, just for effect, she gave a theatrical little pout—lower lip out, brow creased in exaggerated betrayal.

“You know,” she said, tone laced in faux-injury, “you used to try harder to impress me. Back in the day, you’d do this whole flirty woodsman routine. Chop some firewood, haul something unnecessarily heavy, kiss me like I was the last woman on Earth.”

She sniffed like she was heartbroken, even as her eyes gleamed with affection.

“Now I’m lucky if I get a flex and a pancake.”

She turned toward him fully then, rod still in hand, arms crossed like she was giving him the serious girlfriend talk, even though her smile was already tugging its way through.

“I swear, you catch a couple trout and suddenly you think you can stop courting me.”

A pause. A breath. A look.

Then softer, more honest:

“I like being courted, Caleb.”

She shrugged like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter. But it did. She meant it.

Because yes, she had him. Yes, she kept the socks and the pictures and the man. But that didn’t mean she wanted him to stop trying. Not when she loved the way he chased her, teased her, worshipped her without ever saying the word.

Not when she chased him right back.

She stepped closer, shoulder bumping gently into his. Let the tension between them hum and flicker like morning light on the water.

Then, voice dipped into that velvet-smooth Lena register—the one that always got him to look at her, even when he was pretending not to:

“Just sayin’. If you want to keep me in your socks, Maren… you might wanna keep earning it.”

A beat. Her eyes sparkled.

“I’ll even let you flex while you do it.”

And just like that, she cast her line again—smooth and practiced and completely unbothered, as if her heart hadn’t just practically skipped a beat when he said he had her like that.

She grinned to herself.

Because she was his.
But he was hers, too.
And he better remember how lucky that made him.

The cast landed smooth again.

But his focus wasn’t on the water anymore.

It was on her.

That curve in her cheek where the sun hit just right. The twitch at the corner of her mouth when she tried not to smile. The way she pretended to be unbothered when he said something that settled too deep.

She liked being courted.

Of course she did.

Not with grand gestures or five-star dinners. Lena Hartley didn’t need candlelight to feel seen — she needed intention. Thoughtfulness. The kind of love that noticed. That remembered.

And Caleb?

He noticed everything.

So he stepped closer, quiet over gravel and grass, rod still in hand but forgotten.

“You like slow mornings,” he said, voice low as the river beside them. “French press. Me in the kitchen pretending I’m not watching you dance to whatever music you think I can’t hear.”

She stilled. Just slightly.

He kept going.

“You like bookstores with creaky floors. Holding hands in public but not talking about it. Small diners with laminated menus and lemon slices in your water.”

Another step. Closer now. Eyes steady.

“You like back roads and playlists. Kissing at red lights. Looking at houses we’ll never buy.”

He stopped beside her. Right beside her.

His fingers brushed lightly against hers, not taking, just touching.

“You like being known,” he said softly.

A pause.

Then, with that crooked little smile — the one that meant trouble and truth all at once — he added:

“And you like when I say it first.”

He took the rod from her hands without asking, set it down gently on the grass.

Then reached for her — just her hands at first, then her waist — and pulled her in close, slow and certain.

“I’m not done courting you, Lena,” he murmured against her temple. “Not by a long shot.”

A breath.

Then into her ear, warm and certain:

“You wanna stay in my socks? Watch me earn it.”

And with that, he kissed her — not teasing, not rushed. Just real.

Like a man who already knew the way back to her heart.
Because he’d never left.

She hated how fast it happened.

How quick the burn in her chest bloomed the second he started talking — not sweet, not practiced, just true. Like he’d opened up her internal wiring and read it back to her like a poem he’d memorized without trying.

God, she wanted to roll her eyes.

She wanted to sass him. Push him off balance. Say something smug about how he better keep this energy up through the winter or she was stealing all of his socks and holding them hostage.

But she couldn’t. Not yet.

Because his voice — that low, quiet one he only used when he meant something — was still echoing in her head.

"You like being known.”

That was the one that got her.

The one that hit a little too close to the bone, in the best, worst way.

Because he was right.
Of course he was.

She didn’t care about being adored from afar. She didn’t want love letters or big speeches or some sweeping gesture meant to impress. She wanted to be seen. To be remembered. To be quietly chosen by someone who noticed the little things and kept noticing long after the thrill wore off.

And Caleb Maren had just listed off every single one of those little things like he wasn’t even trying.

Like he just knew.

Her throat felt tight.

God, he was hot when he was shirtless and hauling things. She’d never pretend otherwise. But this? This version of him? Steady hands. Quiet words. That warm, sure tone like there was no world in which she wasn’t already his—

That was what really did her in.

That was the part that made her feel like she was standing barefoot in the middle of an open field, struck stupid with the realization that someone finally understood her.

She felt his arms wrap around her. Familiar. Certain. Like a place, not a person.

And yeah, maybe she melted a little.

Just a little.

Her hands slid up the front of his shirt — slow, intentional — as she leaned into his kiss, smiling against his mouth like she hadn’t just been internally leveled.

When they finally pulled apart, she didn’t step back.

She stayed close. Kept her hands right where they were, fingers fisted gently in the fabric, as if letting go might undo something.

Then, quieter than usual, but no less Lena:

“…Okay, well now you’re just showing off.”

A beat.

“And I do like bookstores with creaky floors, you bastard.”

Her eyes sparkled, lips tugging up at the corners — soft, but proud. A little undone. A little dangerous.

She rested her forehead against his for a breath. Maybe two. Then whispered, deadpan:

“You realize you’re completely ruining my ability to pout effectively.”

A pause. Then, teasing again—gentler now, but still her:

“You do that again and I’m gonna start believing I’m not just in this for your biceps.”

She let the silence stretch just long enough for him to grin. Just long enough for her to pretend she had composure.

Then, softer:

“…You really know me.”

And that was it.

That was the real win. Bigger than pancakes. Bigger than fish. Bigger than the whole damn weekend.

She smiled again—smaller this time. Real.

Then tilted her head up and kissed him once more, slower now. No fire. Just warmth. Just him.

And when she pulled back, her voice was barely more than a breath.
“That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t need to.

Because she was still close — forehead against his, breath brushing his lips, fingers fisted in his shirt like she wasn’t letting go until the earth tilted.

And God, maybe he didn’t want it to.

Her words landed somewhere low in his chest, slow and searing.

That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

He hadn’t known he could want something more than steady.

More than safe.

But her? This?

It was something else entirely. It was standing in front of a wildfire and letting it burn away everything you weren’t. Letting someone see what was left and stay anyway.

And he was staying.

No hesitation.

He let one of his hands slide up the back of her neck, thumb brushing beneath her ear, like maybe if he touched her gently enough, she’d know what he meant without him having to ruin it with words.

But the words were still there.

Raw. Real. Right at the edge of his mouth.

So he kissed her instead — not to distract her, but to show her. All of it. Every broken-down, soft-lit truth he didn’t know how to say.

Because she was the whole damn win.

She was chaos and peace, both. Fire and stillness. Smart-mouthed and sharp-eyed and more known to him than anything else he’d ever tried to hold onto.

He let the kiss deepen, slow and certain.

Not a question.

A vow.

And when they pulled back, just enough to breathe, he still didn’t move. He stayed exactly where she had him. Fingertips curled at her waist. Shirt half-wrinkled in her grip. His voice, low and rough:

“You never had to earn that, Lena.”

A pause.

“I already saw you. Before you ever said a word.”

He meant it.

God, he meant it so much it hurt.

The chipped polish. The opinionated playlists. The perfectly labeled spice jars and the hundred unread drafts in her phone and the way she stayed when things got hard.

She didn’t need to be soft to be loved.

She just needed someone who could love her in the sharpness, too.

He looked at her then — really looked — and smiled in that slow, rare way of his. The one that only came when he felt something that mattered.

Like her.

All of her.

“I knew it was you the second you argued about the maple tree.”

Another pause.

Softer this time, honest in a way that didn’t try to be anything else:

“I was just waiting for you to know it too.”

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t move a single inch as his words settled into her chest like they’d always belonged there.

Because of course he saw her.
Before she said a word. Before she softened. Before she gave him anything but challenge and chaos and raised eyebrows and demands he wasn’t supposed to meet.

And instead of flinching?

He stayed.
He waited.

God, he waited.

Her throat burned. Not from sadness. Just… knowing.

That ache you get when someone hands you everything you never asked for, but always wanted.

And Caleb Maren had always been that person.
Steady. Quiet. Looking at her like she wasn’t too much and never would be.

She let out a breath—shaky, but held with pride.
Then stepped back half an inch just so she could look at him properly. So she could see the exact shape of the man who’d dared to fall for her when she was all edges and noise.

Her eyes glinted. “That maple tree was planted in the wrong spot.”

She pointed at him, finger pressed to his chest now, like it was her version of a vow. “You can pretend it was romantic all you want, but I was right. And you were stubborn. And it was your own fault for thinking I was just going to let that go.”

A beat. Her smile curved. “I was insufferable.”

But her voice softened next, dropped just below the surface of her bravado. “And you… were patient.”

Another beat. Then, because she couldn’t help herself—

“You had zero right to be that hot and emotionally evolved. Like, pick a lane, Maren. It’s exhausting.”

Her voice was warm now, threaded with all the pieces of her he used to only get in glimpses—
The vulnerability.
The affection.
The wonder of someone who still couldn’t quite believe she’d been chosen for something this good, this safe, this right.

“And for the record,” she added, tilting her chin up, teasing again, but gentler now—“if you’d given me what I wanted when I wanted it, I probably wouldn’t have stuck around.”

She shrugged. Casual. Honest. Lena.

“I’m used to getting my way. I’m not used to someone making it mean something when I do.”

Her fingers fisted lightly in his shirt again. Not pulling him closer this time. Just… holding on.

Then she smiled again—soft, sure, and hers.

“Good thing I stayed.”

She leaned up. Brushed her nose against his. Kissed him like it wasn’t a reward or a surrender, but a promise.

“And better thing you waited.”

He didn’t smile.

Not at first.

Not when she called herself insufferable or jabbed her finger into his chest like she was staking claim. Not when she teased or deflected or built a fortress out of wit like she always had.

Because her voice shook.

Just a little. But he caught it. Felt it vibrate in his ribs like a second heartbeat.

And that?

That wrecked him.

He’d known this woman in every version of herself — wild, brash, too bright for the room. He’d seen her proud. He’d seen her furious. He’d seen her shattered and rebuilding and daring the world to underestimate her again.

But this?

This was the rarest kind of moment.

Not loud. Not sharp. Not wrapped in armor.

Just Lena.

Fingertips tight in his shirt. Brave in a way most people never even dared to be — by being soft.

He cupped her face gently, thumb brushing the edge of her cheek, just beneath her eye. Letting the moment stretch between them.

“That maple tree never stood a chance,” he said quietly.

A slow smile followed, small and wrecked and deeply in love.

“Neither did I.”

He leaned in, forehead to hers, the barest hint of a breath between them.

“You made everything mean something. Even the fights. Even the waiting.”

A pause, voice rough now — steady, but full.

“You didn’t stay because I made it easy. You stayed because we made it real.”

He kissed her then — soft, deep, grounding — like he needed her to feel it in her spine. Like maybe if he kissed her slow enough, she’d finally understand what she’d always meant to him.

When he pulled back, his hands didn’t move.

One stayed cradling her jaw. The other slid to the small of her back — anchoring her to him like muscle memory.

“And for the record,” he murmured, a spark of dry humor threading through the ache, “you’re still insufferable.”

A beat.

“And I’ve never loved anything more.”

She could’ve stayed there forever.

Pressed to him like that, caught in the gravity of his voice and the weight of his hands and the damn way he kept breaking her open without ever making her feel broken.

She felt that kiss in her spine.
Felt his words in the hollows she didn’t show anyone else.
And that? That terrified her in the most beautiful way.

Because it was real.
Because he was real.

And he loved her.
Even when she was too proud.
Even when she was insufferable.
Maybe especially then.

She let herself breathe into that moment — just for a second longer than she normally would’ve. Long enough for her heart to knock once, twice, hard against her ribs like it was finally catching up.

Then — before he could get too used to her being this undone — she pulled back just slightly.

Still close. Still touching. But this time with that familiar spark sliding back into her eyes.

“Okay, Maren,” she said softly, brushing her fingers down the front of his shirt like she was smoothing the moment into place. “You kiss like a man trying to distract me from the fact that you’re about to win this fish-off.”

She stepped back fully now, one hand snatching her rod off the grass like a sword reclaimed.

“And for the record,” she added over her shoulder as she moved back toward the bank, “I’ve let you win a lot of things over the years.”

She glanced back — slow, deliberate, mouth curled into a smirk so lethal it should’ve come with a warning label.

“This will not be one of them.”

Her boots crunched lightly over gravel. She found her old spot by the water, planted herself like she was born there, and cast her line with a clean flick of her wrist — the kind that made it look like she hadn’t just been emotionally leveled minutes ago.

“Clock’s ticking, fisherman,” she called without looking back. “You want those pancakes, you better start reeling.”

But her smile lingered — soft around the edges now, even when she tried to hide it.

Because yeah… she might lose.
And yeah, he’d probably catch more fish.
And yeah, okay — maybe the maple tree didn’t stand a chance.

But she stayed.
And he waited.
And now?

They were here.
Together.
Rod in hand. Fire in her chest. Love steady at her back.

Let the best one win.

He watched her walk back to the river like she hadn’t just gutted him with grace and kissed the wound on the way out.

God, she was something else.

Smirking over her shoulder. Tossing back barbs like she didn’t know they made him weak in the knees. Like she didn’t just melt into him with her whole damn heart beating against his.

And now she was back in her stance — firm, unshakable, rod in hand like a sword and posture sharp like she hadn’t just been soft in his arms two seconds ago.

Caleb let out a slow breath through his nose.
Then smiled.

The real kind. The kind that started behind the ribs and took its time showing up on his face.

She thought she could walk away with the last word?

Bless her heart.

He picked up his own rod, stepped into the space beside her like he belonged there — because he did — and cast with that same infuriating precision she pretended not to be impressed by.

“You let me win?” he echoed, tone dry as pine bark. “Lena, the only thing you’ve ever let go of in your life is a stubborn idea you outgrew.”

A beat.

“And that time you tried to keep the stray chicken.”

Another cast. Another clean arc of silence, broken only by the flick of his wrist.

“But you’re right,” he added, glancing over at her. “You don’t let me win.”

He reeled slow, the line glinting in the morning light, steady as ever.

“You just lose beautifully.”

He caught the flash of her glare — half-joking, half-lethal — and grinned.

And then he gave her that look.

The one he only used when she pushed him too far and didn’t realize she’d just handed him the match.

“Better be careful, sweetheart,” he said, voice low, dangerous in all the right ways. “You throw down challenges like that, I might have to sweep the whole damn weekend. Fish, pancakes, back rubs, everything.”

A pause.

Then, with that quiet, devastating calm he saved just for her:

“And I will wear the socks while I do it.”

Another cast. Smooth. Effortless. Maddening.

“Now get to work,” he said, nodding toward the water, eyes glinting with affection and challenge all at once.

“Clock’s ticking, Hartley. Let the best one win.”

But between them?

They already had.

The worst part was, he didn’t even gloat.

Didn’t throw a wink. Didn’t crack a joke. Didn’t so much as flex a pinky finger.

He just reeled it in like it was nothing.

Like the universe owed him a fish and it had finally showed up on time.

And the second that little silver flash broke the surface — that flick of tail, that glint of smug divine comedy — Lena actually groaned out loud.

“Are you serious right now?”

He said nothing.

Not a word. Just kept his shoulders relaxed and his expression completely unreadable, like this wasn’t the exact outcome he’d been secretly praying for since she opened her mouth back at the cabin.

She stared at him.

Then at the fish.

Then back at him.

“You’re unbearable,” she muttered, one hand tightening around her rod. “Like, clinically. I should’ve made you sign a waiver before we got here.”

Still nothing. Just a little flick of movement as he secured the line like a seasoned pro and gently unhooked the damn thing with all the grace of a man who was absolutely going to win this entire ridiculous game and knew it.

She narrowed her eyes.

“You don’t even look pleased with yourself,” she accused. “Which is honestly more annoying.”

A pause.

“I hope that fish bites you.”

He held it up slightly — not high, just enough for her to see the size. Modest. Definitely not a monster. But clean, pretty, shimmering like it knew it was part of a personal vendetta now.

She made a noise in the back of her throat. Somewhere between a scoff and a hiss.

“You’re lucky you’re hot.”

Still no response.

Just that calm, infuriating silence — like he was giving her space to spiral and enjoying every second of it. Which, okay, fair.

But Lena Hartley did not spiral.
She spun strategy.

“You realize this means war, right?” she said finally, reeling in and casting again with a little too much force. “No mercy. No distractions. No kissing until after I’ve won something.”

Then, quieter — but absolutely not without menace:

“Also, I will be naming that fish. And I will be holding a grudge.”

She didn’t look at him again after that. Not immediately. Just kept her eyes on the water, posture sharp and focused, like she could manifest a bite purely through sheer rage and romantic betrayal.

But under it?

Yeah, she was smiling.

Because he didn’t have to say anything.
He’d already said everything that mattered.

And maybe, just maybe…
She liked being beat by him this way.

Just not for long.

Because this battle wasn’t over.
And he might’ve landed the first fish —
But she was still coming for the win.

He bit back a grin.

Barely.

Because the second she groaned — that actual, audible groan — and hissed out “Are you serious right now?” like he’d summoned the fish out of spite and black magic, something in Caleb lit all the way up.

But he didn’t show it.

Couldn’t.

Wouldn’t.

That was the real game now.
Not the fish. Not the flex.
Keeping his damn mouth shut while she spiraled around him in a full-blown, gold-plated meltdown.

And God, she was beautiful when she lost.

She paced with her words. Snapped her casts. Tossed out curses and threats and “I hope that fish bites you” like she wasn’t already soft around the edges, biting her lip to keep from laughing.

Caleb crouched just enough to gently lower the fish back into the water — quiet, respectful — like it hadn’t just become the most controversial aquatic figure in the state of Colorado.

He stood. Dusted his hands off. Turned toward her.

Still no gloating.

Just that maddening calm.

And yeah, he caught it — that last thing she muttered.
You’re lucky you’re hot.

Damn right he was.

He stayed beside her now, just far enough to be safe from backlash, just close enough to let her know he was enjoying this — and still not saying a word.

Because that was how you really win.

Let her toss threats like “no kissing until I win something,”
Let her name the fish in vengeance,
Let her ban flirting and initiate a full romantic ceasefire.

She could declare war all she wanted.

He’d still win.

Quietly. Consistently. Shirtless and smug and completely unbothered.

And later?

He’d kiss her stupid.

But for now?

He just cast again — smooth, clean, confident — then finally leaned just slightly in her direction.

Low voice. No heat. Just cool, collected challenge:

“You wanna name him, go ahead.”

A pause.

“I’d go with Humble Reminder.”

Then he reeled in, completely calm again, like he hadn’t just lobbed a soft grenade into her ego and walked away smiling.

Because this wasn’t over.

And he was absolutely going to catch another.

She blinked at him.

Once.

Twice.

Just enough times for the audacity of Humble Reminder to fully land.

“Oh, you’re enjoying this,” she said slowly, like she was narrating a true crime documentary. “You’re having fun right now.”

He didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t.

Just cast again, all calm control and devastating silence, like the fish came to him willingly out of sheer respect. Like he wasn’t standing there looking like the cover of Rugged Monthly, knowing full well she was losing her mind.

Lena stared at the water. Then at him. Then back at the water.

“God, you’re lucky I’m in love with you,” she muttered under her breath, loud enough for him to hear, soft enough to pretend she didn’t mean it as much as she did.

Because she did.
Oh, she so did.

That was the worst part.

He was beating her. Badly. And he looked hot doing it. And now he was throwing around names like Humble Reminder and she couldn’t even be mad because, well—

She liked him like this.

Smug and steady and quiet about it.

The kind of man who could ruin her day with one eyebrow lift and then fix it again with a thermos of good coffee and a hand at her waist.

Still. She had a reputation to uphold.

“Fine,” she said at last, casting her line again with a little more grace and a lot more stubbornness. “You want a name? I’ll name him.”

A pause. She narrowed her eyes toward the current.

“Sir Smug-a-Lot. Lord of the Lake. First of His Name. Long May He Swim.”

Another beat.

Then, dry as hell: “I hope he tells the others.”

She glanced at Caleb just long enough to see the twitch at the corner of his mouth — the one he thought he was hiding — and she grinned. Just a little.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” she said. “You may be winning the fish war, but I’m still the one you kissed stupid ten minutes ago.”

A pause. She reeled in slow, voice softer now, teasing fading into something closer to fond.

“And for the record… I’d lose a hundred fish battles if it meant you kept kissing me like that.”

She didn't look at him right away. Let the words float there for a second like mist above the water.

Then, because she couldn’t help herself:

“But I am still counting this as a ceasefire, not a surrender.”

And with that, she bumped her shoulder into his lightly, smiled like she hadn’t just accidentally confessed how deeply gone she was, and cast her line again — bold and stubborn and so very Lena.

Because sure, he’d win the fishing.

But she already had him.

And honestly?
That was the better catch.

He felt it.

Not the shoulder bump, not the cast — those came after.

He felt her.

The way she blinked. The way her voice dipped, all sharp sugar and not-quite-steady. The way she said “you’re lucky I’m in love with you” like it was a threat and a truth and a prayer all rolled into one breath she couldn’t take back.

God, he loved her.

Every stubborn, spiraling, sass-laced inch of her.

But he didn’t say it.

Not yet.

Because she wasn’t looking at him when she said it. And Lena Hartley didn’t like to be caught soft — not unless she handed him the knife herself.

So he kept quiet. Kept still. Let her wind herself into another performance of I’m-fine-I’m-fighting-I’m-winning even as her cheeks flushed and her lips couldn’t quite hide the grin.

And then she named the damn fish.

Sir Smug-a-Lot. Lord of the Lake. First of His Name.

He felt the laugh catch in his throat and had to bite the inside of his cheek just to keep it down.

Because that? That was love.

Right there in the ridiculous.

She was half-muttering curses, half-writing fantasy epics, and all-in — all his — and somehow, still trying to act like this wasn’t the best morning they’d ever had.

And then she said it.

“I’d lose a hundred fish battles if it meant you kept kissing me like that.”

His breath hitched.

Quiet. Barely.

But it hit.

And she didn’t even look at him. Just stood there, bold and brave and beautiful, casting like she hadn’t just handed him her whole damn heart and called it a ceasefire.

So he reeled in slowly, gently set his rod down on the grass beside them.

Then stepped behind her — close, solid — and wrapped one arm around her middle. Not tight. Just there. Just hers.

“Ceasefire accepted,” he murmured, low against her ear. “But fair warning…”

He pressed a kiss to the curve of her jaw — slow, reverent, devastating.

“I’m not kissing you like that because I won anything.”

Another beat. Another breath.

“I’m kissing you like that because I already did.”

And then he stayed there — just like that — nose tucked into her hair, arm loose around her waist, letting the river run and the fish swim and the moment stretch.

Because yeah, she’d cast again.

Yeah, she’d fight for the next one.

But he didn’t need another hook in the water to know he’d already caught the only thing worth keeping.

Her.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t twist out of his arms. Didn’t fire back with another joke. Just let herself lean into the warmth of him — back against his chest, his nose tucked into her hair, his arm low and easy around her waist like it had always belonged there.

God, she was such a goner.

She closed her eyes for a second — just one — and let herself have it. That slow, quiet kind of peace she only ever got in moments like this. The kind she never asked for out loud, but somehow always got with him.

And then he had to go and say it.

I’m kissing you like that because I already did.

Ugh. That voice. That tone. That gentle, steady knowing that stripped her down to her ribs and made her want to throw a rock at him and also marry him on the spot.

She made a noise in her throat — half-flustered, half-flirting — and tilted her head just enough to nudge her temple against his jaw.

“…Okay,” she said softly, “you might be allowed to kiss me like that again later.”

A pause. Her lips twitched.

“But only if you help me cheat.”

She felt him exhale a quiet laugh, the kind that rumbled in his chest and echoed in her spine, and she rolled her eyes like she hadn’t just melted all over again.

“I’m serious,” she added, turning slightly in his arms so she could glance up at him. “Work your sexy woodsman voodoo or whatever it is. Scare a trout toward my line. Seduce one with your silent alpha energy. I don’t care. I just need one fish so I can lie with confidence later.”

She pouted then — full tilt, unapologetic — bottom lip just barely pushed out, eyes wide and shameless.

“You wouldn’t let me go back to Evergreen empty-handed, would you?” she asked, voice honeyed and manipulative in the most charming way. “Everyone’s expecting a strong, independent woman of the woods. Not a sad, fishless girlfriend who got out-fished and out-flexed before breakfast.”

A beat.

“I mean, yes, you’re stupid hot and I love you. But your success is beginning to feel a little hostile.”

But even as the words spilled — all drama and banter and spark — her hands were soft where they rested over his, her body still tucked close like she wasn’t in a hurry to escape him, ever.

Because she wasn’t.

This was her favorite version of them.
River mornings and shared warmth and him standing behind her like he knew she’d need backup, even when she said she didn’t.

She let herself glance toward the water again, then up at him, quieter now.

“Help me catch one?” she murmured. “Just one. So I can say I tried.”

Then, with that glint in her eye returning:

“And so I can demand a victory kiss in good conscience.”

He was already gone.

Not just because of the way she leaned into him like it was second nature — like her back fit his chest by design — or the way her voice dipped when she said “I love you” like it slipped out on accident and tasted like honey on the way down.

No.

He was gone the second she turned those eyes up at him — wide, unrepentant, full of fake pout and very real affection — and asked him to use “silent alpha energy” to seduce a fish on her behalf.

God help him, he’d catch her an entire trout ballet if she asked.

He let his hands settle gently over hers, the weight of them grounded, familiar.

“You want a fix?” he murmured, voice low and indulgent, brushing his nose against her temple. “Alright.”

He reached out with one hand, slow and deliberate, and guided her grip just slightly along the rod. Not because she needed help — she’d cast just fine. But because it gave him an excuse to stay there. To be part of it. To put them on the same team.

“You’re gonna let the line drift slow right past that downed branch,” he said, pointing with his chin. “There’s a bend in the current just behind it. Always a good pocket.”

She nodded, eyes forward, suddenly intent like this was an actual heist.

He grinned.

“And then,” he added, dropping his voice even lower, “you’re gonna act like you believe you’re better at this than me.”

She started to scoff — reflex — but he caught her smirk in time and leaned closer, lips brushing just behind her ear.

“Because that’s the real bait, sweetheart. Confidence.”

She melted a little — he felt it — right there in his arms, right there in the smirk she couldn’t quite fight.

And he didn’t gloat.

Just helped her cast.

Let the line drift.

Let the river carry it, slow and sure, exactly where it needed to be.

Then they waited.

Just long enough for the moment to stretch between them like breath.

And when the first twitch hit the rod — soft, sudden, undeniable — he smiled against her hair and murmured:

“There you go.”

A pause.

“Now reel slow. Gentle. Let him think he’s winning.”

He guided her hands once more, quiet and sure.

And when the fish finally broke the surface — not huge, but real, shimmering in the light like it knew it had been summoned by sheer will and flirtation — Caleb didn’t say a word.

He let her feel it first.

Her triumph.

Her smile.

Her victory.

And then — only then — he leaned down and kissed her.

Slow. Full. Earned.

The kind of kiss that didn’t need gloating. The kind that said You did it.
And I helped. And I’d do it again. And again.

Because yeah, she’d caught the fish.

But him?

He’d caught her.
And he was never letting go.

She didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

Not when his hands moved over hers like that. Not when his voice dropped low and soft and reverent, like the river heard him before she did. Not when the warmth of him wrapped around her and made her feel, somehow, more herself.

He was guiding her, sure. But it didn’t feel like surrender.
It felt like trust.
Like sharing.
Like letting someone love you exactly the way you needed — not with declarations or grand gestures, but with patient hands and whispered confidence and the kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled.

And when that line tugged?

When that fish — small but determined — danced against the current and she felt the give in the rod like a secret passed between them?

Lena smiled.

Wide. Disbelieving. Whole.

He didn’t say a word.

Just kissed her.
And God, what a kiss.
No teasing. No smirk. Just certainty. Like he’d been waiting his whole life to celebrate her quiet wins.

And for once — just once — she let the moment be quiet.

No quip. No commentary. Just her heart, open and steady, beating in time with his.

But only for a beat.

Then she cleared her throat, straightened her shoulders, and gently handed off the rod like a queen passing her scepter to the royal fish handler.

“Alright, woodsman,” she said, her voice back to its usual lilt — but softer now, sun-warmed and undeniably fond. “Do your thing. Unhook him.”

She glanced over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “But wait—actually—hold him up real quick first.”

A beat.

“Yeah, like that. A little higher. Chin up. Give me proud fisherman vibes.”

She pulled her phone from her jacket pocket like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

“Perfect,” she murmured, angling the camera like a director on set. “You look rugged and triumphant. The fish looks surprised. This is art.”

Snap.

Snap.

She nodded with deep satisfaction. “Okay. You may now release Sir Tiny Victory back into the wild.”

And then she tucked her phone away, turned back toward the river, and tilted her face up to kiss his cheek with the kind of slow, adoring gratitude she never gave freely unless she meant it.

“Thanks for the assist, fisherman.”

Then, under her breath, just for him:

“I’m gonna lie and say I caught three.”

He didn’t laugh.

Not really.

It was more of a huff — soft, low, fond — the kind that rumbled in his chest and barely made it to the surface. Because of course she was already spinning it. Already naming the fish, staging the photo, editing the narrative in real time like it wasn’t written all over her face that the moment had gutted her a little.

Just like it gutted him.

He watched her grin at her phone like she hadn’t just tucked a kiss against his cheek that landed way too close to his heart, then turn back toward the river like it didn’t cost her something to say thank you that way.

God, he loved her.

Not in the loud, sweeping kind of way — though he’d do that too, if she ever asked — but in this way.
Right here kind of way.
River water and borrowed socks and letting her lie about fish counts kind of way.

She said thank you like it was a secret.
Said three like it was a pact.

So he leaned in — steady, quiet — and brushed his lips to the edge of her jaw.

“Three it is,” he murmured, low and sure.

Then he stepped past her, crouched to release the fish — careful, gentle — letting it slip back into the water with the kind of reverence reserved for things that had just witnessed something sacred.

When he stood, he didn’t go far.

Just reeled in his line, leaned back against a flat rock, and looked at her.

Really looked.

All sunlit hair and defiance and cheeks still pink from victory. Eyes soft now, even though she was trying to pretend they weren’t.

“You know,” he said finally, voice even but a little too honest, “I’ve watched you do a lot of brave things.”

He let that sit. Let her look at him.

“But this morning might be my favorite.”

A pause.

Then he added, quieter:

“You let me help.”

Not because she couldn’t do it alone. She could. God, he knew that.

But because she chose not to.

And that?

That was the win.

Better than the kiss.
Better than the fish.
Hell — even better than the photo that was absolutely going on the fridge under the magnet shaped like a bear in hiking boots.

He watched her blink — once, then twice — and felt that familiar warmth curl low in his chest.

Then he reached for her hand.

Laced his fingers through hers like they’d always belonged there.

“C’mon,” he said, thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Let’s go make your three-fish victory pancakes.”

A beat. A smirk.

“I’ll even wear the socks.”

Lena didn’t say anything right away.

Didn’t toss back a joke. Didn’t argue about the socks. Didn’t even push for a recount on the fish.

She just looked at him — really looked — and let herself feel every word he’d just said settle deep in her chest.

You let me help.

God.

He said it like it was the win. Like it meant something. And the stupid thing was… it did.

Because he saw it. The part of her that still flinched sometimes when someone tried to carry the weight for her. The part that had been taught, again and again, that love was only safe if she stayed in control.

But Caleb?

He never tried to take anything from her.
He just stood there — solid, waiting, arms open — until she handed it over herself.

And this morning, she had.

So yeah, maybe she let herself lean into his side a little longer than usual. Maybe her fingers lingered against his palm with more tenderness than sass. Maybe her voice, when it came, was low and laced in something warm and shameless.

“Well,” she murmured, tilting her head just enough to bump her shoulder into his, “you’re lucky I’m too hungry to ruin the moment with a dramatic monologue.”

She turned toward the trail, still holding his hand, and grinned.

“But don’t get used to me being this soft, Maren. I’m only like this after emotional fishing victories and when the man I love is legally required to make me pancakes.”

He laughed — that real, warm one that started in his chest — and she felt it through his grip as they started walking back toward the cabin.

When they reached the gear, she paused and made a half-hearted reach for one of the tackle boxes.

“I could carry something, you know.”

He didn’t even blink.

Just gave her that look — amused, patient, utterly unfazed — like yeah, and I could let you.

She huffed.

“Spoil me, why don’t you.”

He just smirked.
And gathered everything. Rods, boxes, bait, the net. Carried it all like it weighed nothing, like taking care of her was the easiest thing in the world.

And Lena?

She let him.

Because as much as she loved the game, as much as she’d fight him on literally everything else — she loved this more.

Loved the way he didn’t make her prove she could do it all.
Loved that he just did things, without asking, without expecting.
Loved that he liked taking care of her just as much as she liked letting him.

By the time they made it back to the A-frame cabin, the morning sun was cresting over the ridge, casting everything in that soft golden glow she secretly lived for. The little porch was waiting. The grill was already set up. Her stomach was growling.

She dropped onto one of the Adirondack chairs with dramatic flair and kicked her feet up, watching as he set down their gear in a tidy pile and started prepping like it was nothing.

“You’re just lucky we’re doing this outside,” she said, squinting at him with faux-seriousness. “Because if we were alone inside, I would’ve made you cook these in just the socks.”

A beat.

She smirked.

“Don’t act like you wouldn’t have done it.”

She caught the way his back stiffened slightly — the way he didn’t turn around but his shoulders absolutely gave him away.

And she smiled, satisfied.

Because even if she hadn’t caught the most fish…

She’d caught him.

And that, as far as Lena Hartley was concerned, made her undefeated.

He didn’t turn around right away.

Didn’t give her the satisfaction.

Just stood there, hand on the grill, jaw tightening ever so slightly as her voice wrapped around him like it always did — velvet with an edge, sunshine laced in smug.

Just the socks, she’d said.

And the image — vivid, uninvited, definitely not safe for daylight — lit through his brain like kindling.

God help him.

He let out a slow breath, composed himself like a man not about to drop the spatula and make good on her threat right there on the porch.

Then — calm, casual — he glanced over his shoulder, raised an eyebrow, and said,

“Would’ve worn only the socks, if you’d asked nicely.”

A beat.

He turned fully, grill tongs now in hand, posture lazy but eyes glinting.

“Still might.”

He watched her blink, watched her try not to grin, watched her fail miserably. And it hit him again — how much she loved this. Not just the teasing. Not just the fire.

This.
The morning. The quiet. The us of it all.

She was sunk into that chair like it belonged to her, sun in her hair, smug satisfaction painted across her whole face like she hadn’t just melted into his arms an hour ago.

And him?

He was wrecked.

Still.

Always.

He set the tongs down, crossed the porch to her, and leaned over the arm of the chair — hands braced on either side of her like a man who knew exactly how close he could get without breaking the moment.

His voice dropped — low, warm, full of something softer than his usual calm.

“You’re not soft,” he murmured, brushing his nose lightly against her temple. “You’re just smart enough to let someone show up.”

He kissed her once — light, reverent — right above the cheekbone.

“Doesn’t make you spoiled.”

A pause. A breath.

“Makes you loved.”

He lingered there for a second longer, then pulled back, catching the look on her face — halfway between annoyed and undone.

Perfect.

He turned back toward the grill, already smirking.

“Now stop distracting me,” he said. “You’ve got syrup to pour. And I’ve got pancakes to ruin your self-control.”

A beat.

Then, without turning:

“And I am still wearing the socks.”

She made a strangled sound behind him.
He grinned.

Undefeated?

Maybe.

But damn if he didn’t feel like he’d won everything.

She didn’t respond right away.

Which was rare.

But only because her throat had gone a little tight, and her heart was still catching up to what he’d just said — soft and sure and low against her skin like a vow she hadn’t realized she needed until it was already there.

Doesn’t make you spoiled. Makes you loved.

God.

She wanted to roll her eyes.
Wanted to throw something at him.
Wanted to kiss him so hard the grill caught fire.

Instead, she inhaled slow, blinked once, and said — calm, even, and very Lena:

“You said that like those things are mutually exclusive.”

A pause. She stretched, arms overhead, voice just smug enough to draw blood.

“I am spoiled. And I am loved. That’s the whole appeal.”

He didn’t turn, but she could see the curve of his smile from here — the way his jaw twitched, like he was trying not to let her see it. Like she hadn’t already felt it in the kiss he pressed to her cheek.

She sighed — dramatically — and settled deeper into the chair.

“Honestly,” she added, “you should be grateful I let you spoil me. I’m very good at it.”

Then she squinted at the grill.

“And is that—wait—tongs? Caleb.”

Her voice shifted — faux scandal, like a princess witnessing a fashion emergency.

“Bold utensil choice for a pancake, don’t you think? What, did the spatula wrong you in a past life?”

She leaned forward now, elbows on knees, chin in hand, tone low and sultry as she watched him work.

“I mean… you’re fully clothed, using tongs, and trying to make pancakes in front of possible onlookers. That’s a lot of self-control for a man who just said he’d wear only socks if I asked nicely.”

He glanced back, briefly, eyes gleaming.
Didn’t say a word.

Didn’t have to.

She smirked. Let the silence stretch like taffy, then added, casually:

“Just saying… if you mess up even one of those pancakes, I’m going to assume it’s because the tongs betrayed you. And I will be telling the entire campground.”

Still nothing.
Just the sound of batter sizzling and one very smug man flipping like he was auditioning for a cooking competition called Wilderness Husband of the Year.

Lena leaned back again, content.

Because yeah — he was still wearing the socks.
And yeah — he was definitely going to win this round.
And yeah — she was spoiled.

But more than that?

She was loved.
Soft, loud, spoiled, dramatic, impossible — and still completely, deliberately, loved.

And that?

That was the real luxury.

He didn’t look up.

Didn’t need to.

Just kept his focus on the grill like it was the most important thing in the world — like he wasn’t being heckled by a barefoot goddess wrapped in sarcasm and smugness and the only kind of love that had ever felt like it might actually last.

But God, she made it hard to concentrate.

Tongs.

Of course she clocked the tongs.

He exhaled a quiet breath through his nose — the kind that sounded suspiciously like a laugh if you knew him well enough.

And she did.

“Spoiled and loved,” he muttered under his breath, more to the pancakes than to her. “Dangerous combo.”

He flipped the next one with exaggerated precision — slow, showy, a little too graceful to be accidental — and glanced at her just long enough to let the smirk show.

“You know,” he said, calm as ever, “I actually brought the spatula. Then I thought… ‘what would Lena do if I made these the easy way?’”

A beat.

“She’d gloat less. And where’s the fun in that?”

He turned back to the grill, still smiling to himself, then added without missing a beat:

“And for the record? I didn’t say I’d wear only socks if you asked nicely.”

He tapped the edge of the tongs against the griddle.

“I said I’d cook shirtless if we were inside.”

Another pause — just long enough to let that land — then a dry glance over his shoulder:

“You want to test that theory now, or wait ‘til we’re back at the house with fewer squirrels as witnesses?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Didn’t need one.

Just poured the next pancake, then reached for the plate warming on the side ledge and slid two perfectly golden stacks onto it.

“And you better hope these don’t burn,” he added, walking them over to her like it was nothing — like he wasn’t handing her the last piece of his patience wrapped in melted butter and sugar.

“Because if they do, I’ll blame you.”

He handed her the plate.

Met her eyes.

And said it quiet, low, honest:

“Can’t look at you like that and expect steady flips.”

Then he turned and walked back to the grill.

Tongs still in hand. Socks still on.

Completely and utterly hers.

She took the plate with both hands like it was a holy offering — golden, steaming, sinfully perfect — and gave him a look that could melt glaciers.

And then she beamed.

The kind of smile that only came out when he was doing exactly this — doting without trying to, standing over a camp grill in stupidly flattering socks and a heathered henley, cooking her breakfast like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she was someone worth showing up for. Again and again and again.

Because she was.

Spoiled and loved.

And deeply, deeply dangerous with a fork in her hand.

“Steady flips, huh?” she echoed, syrup already pooling across the pancakes like morning gold. “You poor thing. Imagine trying to function while I sit here — hair tousled, skin glowing, legs crossed like a villain, just being.”

She forked a bite dramatically. Ate it like it was a seduction.

“Oh no,” she sighed, hand to her chest, eyes wide and fake-innocent. “Is that my fault?”

Another bite. Another moan. Because yes — she was going to play this up.

“I mean, it must be the view, right? Couldn’t possibly be the tongs. The absolute chaos of using tongs on pancakes, like a man with something to prove. What’s next, Maren? Chopsticks for bacon?”

She licked a bit of syrup from her thumb, casually, and called out:

“Blink twice if you need me to rescue you from your own masculinity.”

No answer.

Just the sound of batter sizzling and one quiet huff of a laugh from the grill — her favorite sound in the world.

She leaned back, sun-warm and smug, watching him from beneath her lashes.

“Fully clothed,” she muttered to herself. “Flipping with tongs. Flirting like it’s a hostage negotiation.”

Then, louder:

“This is why I steal all your socks, you know. It’s for balance.”

A beat.

She smiled to herself, eyes fixed on him, voice softer now:

“God help me, you’re so hot when you act like you don’t care that I’ve ruined your life.”

And she meant it. Every teasing, golden, love-drunk word.

Because she was spoiled. And she was loved.

And he?
He was hers.

Socks, tongs, and all.

He didn’t respond right away.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t even break rhythm.

Just finished the flip — clean, precise, infuriatingly smug — then turned off the flame and set the tongs down like he was handling sacred steel.

And then?

Then he walked toward her.

Slow. Certain. Deadpan.

The way he always did when he’d already won and didn’t feel the need to gloat about it.

He crouched beside her chair — boots quiet in the grass, forearms resting on his knees, eyes locked on hers like she was the only thing in the world worth focusing on.

Then — low, warm, unhurried — he said:

“First of all… that fork moan was a war crime.”

A beat.

“Second… I’ve survived house paint, hornets, and one extremely feral goat because you said we didn’t need a gate yet.”

He let that settle. Let her remember the chaos.

“But this? Syrup-stained villain monologuing? That might finally break me.”

Still — no smile.

Not yet.

Just eyes that didn’t blink and a voice that dropped half an octave.

“And for the record,” he added, nodding toward her plate, “I knew exactly what I was doing with those tongs.”

A pause.

Then he leaned in, thumb grazing a smear of syrup at the corner of her mouth — slow, deliberate — before brushing it away with a quiet murmur:

“Don’t waste the good stuff.”

Finally — finally — the smile came.

Not cocky. Not performative.

Just soft. Certain. Completely hers.

“And I let you steal the socks,” he said, standing again, slow and tall and very much the problem.

“It’s strategic.”

He turned back toward the cooler, voice lazy now — but loud enough for her to hear as he cracked open two lemonades:

“Harder to run away from me barefoot, sweetheart.”

And that was it.

Just Caleb Maren. Cooking with tongs. Loving like a storm.

And making it damn near impossible to remember what life looked like before him.

She didn’t flinch either.

Didn’t blush. Didn’t stammer. Didn’t give him the damn satisfaction.

Just raised an eyebrow over her fork like a queen regarding a particularly mouthy subject and took another syrup-drenched bite — slow, indulgent, unbothered.

“First of all,” she said, mimicking his tone with a flick of her wrist, “that fork moan saved your pancakes from being rated a hard six. I was doing you a favor.”

A beat. She licked syrup from her bottom lip and smiled, sharp and amused.

“Second? I distinctly recall you being the one who said, and I quote, ‘baby goats aren’t that wild.’”

She tilted her head, giving him a look that should’ve been illegal in three states. “And third… if syrup-stained villain monologues are your downfall, you better start planning your funeral, babe. Because I am the drama.”

He didn’t respond — just sipped his lemonade and watched her with that maddening calm like he was already filing this under reasons why he loved her.

So she kept going.

Because of course she did.

She reclined a little further in the chair — legs stretched, ankles crossed, gold hoops glinting in the morning light like she woke up moisturized and ready to ruin lives.

“Also,” she added, voice honeyed and dangerous, “I didn’t steal the socks. I rescued them. From being paired with your tragic collection of cargo shorts.”

That earned her a half-smile. Lazy. Knowing. The kind that made her want to kiss him or kick him or both.

She took another sip of lemonade, eyes still on him, then let the moment stretch just long enough to become something else — something softer.

More dangerous.

“I’m not running, Maren,” she said finally, voice low but firm. “If I was gonna do that, I would’ve done it a long time ago.”

Then she set her plate down, leaned forward, and hooked her finger in his belt loop — tugged just enough to remind him exactly who the hell he was dealing with.

“I only run,” she whispered, “when I want you to chase me.”

And God help her, he always did.

He didn’t breathe for a second.

Not when she said it.
Not when she tugged him forward like gravity had nothing on her.
Not when she licked syrup off her lip like it was part of some divine ritual designed to undo him.

Just stared at her.

Tethered.

Ruined.

Completely, irrevocably hers.

Then — finally — he exhaled, slow and low, the kind of sound that came from somewhere deeper than lungs.

And he didn’t flinch either.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease. Didn’t play it off like he wasn’t two seconds from forgetting the damn pancakes entirely.

Instead, he leaned down.

One hand braced on the arm of her chair, the other skimming her jaw like it was second nature — which it was, at this point. Every inch of her, memorized.

“You want me to chase you,” he said, voice like warm smoke, “you better be sure you want to get caught.”

He let it hang there — right between her inhale and his heartbeat — before brushing his lips against her temple. Just once. Barely there.

Then he stepped back.

Didn’t run. Didn’t swagger.

Just grabbed the last pancake off the griddle with those same ridiculous tongs, slid it onto her plate with maddening care, and added — without looking at her:

“Cargo shorts are great for field work, and you know it.”

A pause.

Then he turned, eyes flicking to hers like a match catching air.

“And for the record… I’ll chase you every time. Even when I’ve already caught you.”

Then he finally sat — cross-legged in the grass, a little too smug for someone who knew damn well he’d never win a verbal sparring match with her. But it didn’t matter.

Because she wasn’t running.

She let him have the last word.

Just for a minute.

Watched him sit in the grass like some smug mountain man prophet with syrup still on his knuckles and not a clue how wrecked he looked in the morning light.

And maybe it should’ve been illegal — that whole “you better be sure you want to get caught” thing — delivered in a voice like bourbon and backslides, with hands that touched her like she was a prayer he’d never stop saying.

But instead of answering, she just popped the last bite of pancake into her mouth, slow and smug, and gave him a long, deliberate once-over.

"Field work," she muttered around the fork. "Baby, the only thing those cargo shorts are good for is lowering your hotness rating in emergencies. You’re lucky I like a fixer-upper."

And God, the way his mouth twitched like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh or tackle her?

Delicious.

They finished breakfast like that — with her heckling his utensil choices, him pretending not to sneak glances at her legs as she propped her feet on the railing, and both of them acting like the rest of the world didn’t exist outside that cabin porch.

Eventually, she helped him pack up the dishes while pretending she was fragile and incapable of lifting anything heavier than a plate. He rolled his eyes. She blew him a kiss.

Then they hit the trail.

The hike was a dream — filtered light through aspens, Caleb in front doing the heavy lifting (like always), her behind him narrating imaginary wildlife documentaries and rating the scenic overlooks like a judge on a travel reality show.

At one point, she declared that the view of his ass in hiking pants was the best vista of the day. He didn’t argue.

By the time they made it back to the trailhead, sweat-slicked and laughing and too in sync for their own good, she was already plotting her next move.

So when they passed the little rustic spa hut near the ranger station — the one offering overpriced “wilderness recovery” massages — she only slowed for effect.

“Hm,” she said, like she was genuinely considering it. “We could get couples massages…”

Caleb raised a brow. “Could.”

She turned toward him, playful and plotting, already backing up toward the path that led to their A-frame cabin.

“…Or we could skip the waitlist,” she said, lifting her tank top just enough to flash a sliver of hipbone, “and give each other a full-body wilderness recovery special. No audience. No towels. No time limit.”

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t have to.

Because the second his gaze darkened and his jaw twitched — the second he started moving like gravity had flipped — she grinned and turned, letting him chase her the whole damn way back.

And this time?

She definitely wanted to be caught.