Bedford Falls Fire Station
 

edit later

The station felt different in late November.

Quieter, somehow.
Or maybe that was just the way the early dusk pressed against the windows, turning everything inside gold and soft.
Either way, Hattie found herself humming under her breath as she unwrapped another length of garland, the thin scent of pine mixing with the warm, lived-in smell of the firehouse: old coffee, laundry soap, and whatever candle someone smuggled in last week.

She wasn’t sure how she’d been put in charge of decorating the place for Christmas, but the minute she pulled open the bins in the storage closet, she knew she was doomed.

Twinkle lights.
Garland.
Little wreaths with velvet bows.

All of it exactly her weakness.

She climbed onto the low step stool, stretching to attach a strand of garland along the top of the doorway. The stool wobbled slightly under her foot, but she was too focused on getting the ribbon even to pay it much attention.

Declan’s sweatshirt hung loose around her, sleeves falling past her wrists in a way that made her feel steadier, warmer than the furnace in the corner ever could. She had absolutely stolen it the second he left on his call — which, she decided, was fair. He’d left it on the back of her chair anyway.

She pulled the next piece of garland up, stretching onto her toes—

And froze.

Her skin prickled before her brain caught up.

Someone had stepped in behind her.
Close.
Close enough that she could feel a presence even through the soft cotton of his sweatshirt and the quiet hum of the station.

She smiled, even before she turned.

“Hey,” she murmured, still holding the garland above her head.

She didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Declan had a way of filling a room without making a sound — like warmth learning how to take shape.

She glanced over her shoulder anyway.

His gear was half-unzipped, his hair mussed from the call, cheeks still a little flushed from the cold. He looked exhausted and steady all at once, eyes going straight to the sweatshirt on her, then up to the garland, then back to her in a slow, unmistakably soft sweep.

God. She felt that look down to her knees.

“I didn’t get very far,” she admitted, lifting the garland to illustrate her progress. “These things are… oddly complicated.”

Her lips curved, quiet and conspiratorial. “And I might have gotten distracted.”

She let the garland rest against the doorframe and finally turned toward him more fully, pushing her sleeves back up her hands.

“So,” she said lightly, “you’ll never guess what I overheard while you were out.”

A breath. A tiny pause for effect.

“There’s a betting pool now.”

She raised her brows, voice dropping to a whispered scandal.

“About when we’re going to move in together.”

She didn’t look away from him — not yet.

She wanted to see every bit of his reaction.

The moment her soft “Hey” drifted back to him, something in Declan’s chest unknotted. He stepped closer without thinking, drawn to her like warmth after a cold call. The sight of her—on her toes, wrapped in his sweatshirt, garland dangling from her hands—hit him so deep he couldn’t quite breathe right.

His voice softened, instinctive.

“Hey.”

She told him she hadn’t gotten far, that the decorations were complicated, and he let out a quiet breath that was half amusement, half something tender. His gaze flicked from the uneven ribbon to her hands to the sleeves swallowed past her wrists.

He shifted his stance, one hand hovering near the stool to steady it.

“I can see that. You’re doing fine.”

When she admitted she got distracted, his eyes dragged over her again—his sweatshirt hanging loose on her frame, her hair catching warm light, the faint flush across her cheeks. The corner of his mouth lifted, almost involuntary.

“Yeah… I noticed.”

She turned toward him fully, and that alone felt like gravity changing direction. His pulse kicked up, slow but heavy, settling somewhere low in his chest as she pushed the sleeves up, revealing just a hint more of her wrists. He swallowed.

Then she said she’d overheard something.

His brows pulled together, curious.

“Try me.”

And when she breathed out the words—There’s a betting pool now—he froze for a fraction of a second. His gear bag slipped a little off his shoulder. His heartbeat nudged upward, warm and sudden.

His voice came out lower.

“A betting pool?”

Then she hit him with the rest.

About when we’re going to move in together.

For a beat, the room felt smaller. Warmer. Like the garland lights above them had brightened. His eyes lingered on her face, on the way she didn’t look away. Something deep settled into him—quiet, sure, almost frightening in its clarity.

He stepped closer, enough that she could feel the cold still clinging to his turnout gear, enough that he could breathe in the faint pine scent clinging to her hair.

“…Is that right.”

The words were quiet, steady, threaded with something he wasn’t hiding anymore.

Something that said he’d already thought about it too.

The moment the words left him—“Is that right”—he didn’t step back.
If anything, he drifted closer, drawn in by the way she watched him, waiting.

Her eyes searched his, looking for the reaction she hadn’t let herself imagine out loud.
He let her have it—slow, deliberate, impossible to mistake.

His hand came up, brushing a stray pine needle from her hair. His fingertips grazed her temple, lingering a heartbeat longer than he meant them to. His chest rose with a quiet inhalation, steadying himself on the warmth of her.

His voice dropped even lower, gentler, like speaking too loudly might break something delicate between them.

“…And how long do they think it’ll take?”

He tilted his head just slightly, studying her expression—her parted lips, the faint flush beneath her freckles, the way her hands tightened on the garland she’d abandoned.

His thumb brushed her jaw, soft, careful.

For a second Hattie forgot how to breathe.

Declan’s touch wasn’t new.
He touched her often now — warm hands at her waist in the kitchen, fingers tracing lazy circles on her thigh when they watched TV, his palm finding the back of her neck every time he kissed her goodnight.

But something about this felt different.

The firehouse lighting glowed soft around them. The scent of pine and old coffee lingered in the air. She was still standing on a wobbly stool in his oversized sweatshirt, garland hanging forgotten from her fingertips — and he was looking at her like she was the most deliberate thing that had ever happened to him.

His thumb brushed slowly down the side of her jaw, gentle, grounding, impossibly warm.

Her heart climbed into her throat.

How long do they think it’ll take?

The question echoed in her chest long before it reached her ears.
She felt it—somewhere low, soft, secret—like the flutter of a page turning in a book she’d never expected to star in.

Hattie wet her lips without meaning to. His eyes followed the motion. Heat curled beneath her skin.

“I—” she started, voice catching the tiniest bit.

God.
She hated that.
She thought she’d outgrown that girl — the quiet one who whispered answers, who tried to make herself smaller, who never once believed anyone would look at her the way Declan was looking at her now.

But some habits lived in the bones.
And it was still jarring — still dizzying — to think anyone would bother making bets about her life, let alone her life with him.

She swallowed, trying again.

“I think,” she said carefully, “they put late spring on the board as the favorite.”

Declan didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Just watched her, eyes warm and deep and maddeningly unreadable.

Her cheeks flushed, but she pushed past it. She’d learned how to do that now — how to take her own space, even if it came hesitantly.

“There was a whole… conversation,” she added. “Not for my ears, obviously.”
A small, embarrassed smile tugged at her mouth. “But I’m still pretty good at slipping through unnoticed when I need to.”

It was true.
Even after two years working here — even after countless lunches shared, paperwork emergencies survived, late-night shifts waiting for him to return from calls — she knew how to move quietly, gently, like wind around corners.

Part of her still expected to be invisible.

Yet here he was, close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek, close enough that the cold still trapped in his turnout gear brushed her skin in contrast, close enough that the garland trembled in her hand.

She forced her eyes up.
Demanded herself to meet his fully.
And when she did, her voice softened into something real.

“They’re… very invested,” she murmured. “In us. In you. In me. I don’t—I don’t think I’ve ever had that before.”

She let out a small breath that fogged in the space between them, something like a laugh buried inside it.

“It’s strange. And sweet. And a little overwhelming.”

His hand was still on her jaw.
She leaned into it before she even realized she had.

“And,” she added, quieter now, “they’re very confident you’d win any bet involving me.”

Her pulse fluttered.
Her grip tightened on his sleeve.

“And maybe that’s the part I can’t wrap my head around.”

Her gaze held his — wide, searching, unguarded.

She didn’t look away.

Not this time.

Her words landed in him like a slow, controlled burn — heat spreading through his chest, settling deep in the hollow behind his ribs. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t look away. Just kept his hand on her jaw, thumb tracing the faint heat blooming under her skin.

She told him late spring.
She told him they talked about it.
She told him she still slipped through unnoticed sometimes.

His brow drew together — not in confusion, but in something sharp and protective he didn’t bother hiding.

When she finished, when she admitted that people believed he’d “win any bet involving her,” he exhaled once through his nose — something quiet and full, something that gave away far more than he usually let slip.

He dipped his head a fraction closer, his thumb brushing the soft point beneath her ear.

His voice came out low, steady, threaded with the weight of everything he couldn’t yet say outright.

“…Late spring, huh.”

He let his eyes sweep over her face, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing the moment.

“They’re wrong.”

His fingers curled lightly at her waist, guiding her off the last inch of the stool until her feet met solid ground and her breath hitched against him.

“They’re way off.”

Her admission — I’ve never had this before… I can’t wrap my head around it — settled into him like a vow he hadn’t known he’d been carrying.

His forehead nearly brushed hers, the garland lights flickering above them as though leaning in too.

“Hattie.”

His voice softened — not fragile, but honest in a way that felt almost private.

“You don’t see yourself the way the rest of us do.”

His hand slipped from her jaw to the back of her neck, warm and sure.

“And as far as bets go?”

He gave her a small, almost-smile — the kind only she ever got out of him.

“I’d put my money on us a hell of a lot earlier than spring.”

His thumb stroked the edge of her jaw again, gentle, grounding.

“And I’d win.”

For a heartbeat, the station disappeared.

The low murmur of the TV in the day room, the distant clink of dishes in the kitchen, the hum of the heater kicking on — all of it blurred into a soft, indistinct backdrop. All she could really register was his hand at the back of her neck, the other settled at her waist, the solid line of his body in front of hers.

I’d win.

The words settled low and deep, like someone dropping a warm stone into water and letting the ripples move slowly outward. Her fingers had bunched in the front of his jacket without her noticing, knuckles pressing lightly into the cool fabric, anchoring herself there.

He was close. Closer than they usually allowed in the building. Close enough that she could see the faint red at the edge of his knuckles, the soot-smudge on his collar, the tiny scar at his jaw she liked to trace with her thumb when they were on his couch and nobody else was within miles.

Her body knew that version of him.
Her body wanted to lean into that version of him now.

For a second, she almost forgot there was a front desk twenty feet away. That anyone could step out of the hallway. That technically, she was on the clock and he was in uniform and this was still a place with rules and radios and emergency lines.

The thought came late.
Almost an aftershock.

Her heartbeat tripped, not in panic, but in awareness.

We’re at work, her mind supplied faintly.
Her chest answered, and?

She drew in a quiet breath instead of stepping back. The lights from the garland over the doorway haloed him in soft gold and green, glinting off the tiny bits of reflective material still clinging to his gear. The whole thing was ridiculous — too cinematic for a Tuesday evening, too intimate for a firehouse entryway.

Her voice, when it finally emerged, felt small but sure.

“That’s… a very confident answer,” she said, studying the line of his mouth like it might give her more information than the words had. “You know that, right?”

Her tone was gentle, not accusing. If anything, there was a thread of wonder woven through it that she didn’t bother to hide.

His thumb was still moving in slow, absent circles at the nape of her neck, like he’d forgotten to stop. The sensation sent a quiet shiver down her spine. She shifted her weight, and the tiny adjustment brought her just that bit closer, her toes nearly touching his boots.

A laugh — soft, breathy, disbelieving — slipped out before she could stop it.

“Some people need charts and pros and cons lists,” she murmured. “You just… decide.”

She tipped her head the slightest bit, their foreheads almost touching, the world narrowing to that narrow slice of space between them.

“And somehow, you always sound like you’re right.”

That truth scared her more than anything. Not in a bad way — in the sky opening up over your head way. Big. Real. Impossible to pretend she hadn’t noticed.

A flicker of sound came from somewhere down the hall — a locker door, a distant voice — pulling the edges of reality back into focus. The reminder that they weren’t in his kitchen, or her living room, or the cab of his truck in some dark parking lot where time felt optional.

They were in the station.
There were people here.
Phones could ring. Alarms could go off. Someone could round the corner at any second.

She exhaled slowly, a tiny smile tugging at her mouth as she let her hand relax on his jacket instead of clutching it.

“We really shouldn’t be having this…” she gestured faintly between them with her free hand, “…whatever this is, right here in front of the garland.”

Her eyes warmed as she said it, though, making it very clear she wasn’t actually sorry.

“But,” she added, softer now, “I’m not exactly in a hurry to move.”

Her gaze flicked up to his again, steady despite the flush heating her cheeks.

“And for the record,” she said, voice dropping just a touch, “if you did put money on us… I wouldn’t bet against you either.”

The admission felt huge and quiet at the same time, like slipping a key into a lock and choosing to turn it.

A radio crackled from somewhere deeper in the station; a phone rang once at the front desk and then stopped. The world was still happening around them.

But for a few stolen seconds more, Hattie let herself forget the professional distance they were supposed to keep. Let herself exist in this small, warm pocket of Christmas lights and pine-scented air and the man who kept choosing her like it was the easiest decision he’d ever made.

His breath tightened in his chest as he watched her, the soft flush on her cheeks, the way her fingers eased but didn’t fully release his jacket. The warm glow from the garland painted her in a light that made everything inside him go fiercely, quietly still. His hand slipped more securely around her waist, drawing her just a breath closer, as his thumb grazed the edge of her jaw with unthinking care.

His voice dropped, low and steady.

“…Come here.”

He angled his body toward hers, closing the last inch of hesitance between them. His forehead hovered close to hers, close enough that he could feel the faint warmth of her breath against his lips. His hand at her neck deepened just slightly, grounding her, grounding himself.

“…Look at me.”

When her eyes lifted to meet his, something settled in him — something decisive and warm that he couldn’t have hidden if he tried. His heartbeat caught once in his throat, then steadied as though it had made up its mind long before he opened his mouth.

“You know I’m not guessing, right?”

His thumb stroked slowly, absently, over the soft skin beneath her ear. His gaze traced the curve of her mouth, the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to want what was happening.

“I’m sure because I know what I want.”

He shifted closer, boots brushing hers, his presence solid and unshakeable around her. A soft breath left him — not a laugh, not a sigh, just the unconscious exhale of a man settling fully into honesty.

“And I’m not trying to rush you.”

His fingers tightened at her waist, gentle but full of intention.

“But I’m not slowing down, either.”

His eyes softened then — a depth of warmth almost startling in how plainly it lived there.

“…Hattie.”

He said her name like it was something he was choosing, on purpose, with his entire chest.

His forehead brushed hers at last, just the faintest contact, barely-there but impossible to ignore.

“Tell me you feel this too.”

His voice barely above a murmur, steady as a heartbeat.

“Because I’m all in.”

For a second, she just let the words sit there between them.

Because I’m all in.

They didn’t crash over her. They didn’t knock the air out of her lungs or send her scrambling for footing. Instead, they sank in slow and sure, finding all the places a year and a half of friendship and six months of being his had already been quietly making room.

She realized, with a soft, almost dizzy certainty, that nothing about this felt rushed.

They’d had bad coffee at three a.m. together.
They’d shared a hundred half-conversations at her desk and twice as many in parking lots and grocery aisles and his living room.
She’d seen him come back from calls with smoke still clinging to his hair, seen him laugh until he bent at the waist, seen him fall asleep mid-sentence with his head on her thigh.

Her heart, apparently, had made its decision long before he’d said it out loud.

Heat fluttered under her skin, soft and bright. She let herself lean into his touch, just a little more, her nose brushing his as she drew in a careful breath.

“Declan,” she whispered, matching the way he’d said her name, like it was a choice, not an accident.

She didn’t drop her gaze this time.
Didn’t look away or down or anywhere else.

“I do feel it.”

The admission slipped out without stutter or apology. It felt… good. Like saying something that had been true for a while and finally catching up to it.

Her hand left the edge of his jacket and slid higher, fingers flattening over his chest where his heartbeat thudded steady beneath the fabric. The solid warmth of him there steadied her more than any deep breath ever had.

“I’ve been feeling it,” she added, a wry little smile ghosting at the corner of her mouth. “For a while now.”

A faint line eased between his brows. His shoulders softened, just a fraction. His fingers at her waist flexed once, as if absorbing the weight of what she’d just handed him.

She tipped her head, letting their foreheads settle fully together now, the contact small but anchoring. The world narrowed to the circle of his arms, the gentle scratch of stubble at his jaw, the faint clean-smoke scent that always followed him home.

“And for the record,” she murmured, voice low, “I’m not scared of… sooner.”

He stilled, just for a heartbeat.

She could feel the question in the way his hands went quiet. She answered it before he had to ask.

“If you’re thinking earlier than whatever date they’ve got circled…” her lips brushed the words against his, close enough to almost be a kiss, “I am too.”

Saying it didn’t feel like jumping off a cliff.
It felt like stepping onto something already built between them — steady, solid, earned.

“I’m all in,” she said, soft but sure. “With you. With… whatever comes next. Where we sleep, where we put the mugs, whose terrible alarm clock we keep. All of it.”

Heat flickered through her chest at her own boldness, but she didn’t walk it back.

She let her thumb trace a slow, nervous circle over his chest, then pressed her palm flat there again, sealing the words in place.

“So if you want sooner?” she finished, breath fanning against his mouth. “Then I do too.”

For a suspended second, everything held — the garland, the lights, the faint murmur of the station beyond the doorway. His breath caught, warm against her lips, and she felt the answering rush of feeling through him like a quiet, grateful yes.

She didn’t wait for him to close the distance.

Hattie lifted onto her toes and kissed him.

It wasn’t one of their careful, quick, we’re-technically-at-work kisses. It wasn’t wild, either. It was something in between — slow and purposeful, the kind of kiss that said I meant every word and I’m not taking any of it back.

His mouth met hers with a soft, surprised sound, his hand at her neck tightening just enough to pull her that fraction closer. The world sharped and softened all at once — the press of his lips, the faint scrape of his jaw, the warmth that pushed up, up, into her ribs until she had to curl her fingers into his shirt to brace against it.

For a moment, the station really did disappear.
No radios, no phones, no front desk.
Just the two of them in a doorway under cheap garland and bad fluorescent lights, kissing like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

She let it linger longer than she probably should’ve.
Then, reluctantly, she eased back.

Her lips skimmed his once more in a tiny, closing press — a punctuation mark on the promise she’d just made. When she pulled away, her cheeks were warm, her breathing just a touch uneven, but her eyes were clear.

“Okay,” she said softly, almost to herself. “Now we really are going to get carried away in front of the tinsel.”

A small, breathless laugh slipped out of her, breaking the intensity enough for the rest of the world to bleed back in. She slid her hand down from his chest, smoothing the front of his jacket like she was ironing the moment back into something almost-professional.

She took half a step back, not far, just enough to give them both a little air. The absence of his body heat made her immediately miss it, but she straightened her shoulders and nudged his hip with hers.

“Assistant Monroe,” she said in a mock-brisk tone, “has a shocking amount of garland to wrangle before shift change.”

Her eyes betrayed her, though, crinkling at the corners with a private, lingering warmth that didn’t belong to “work Hattie” at all.

She bent to scoop up the trailing end of the garland, shaking it out between them. “And Firefighter Caldwell,” she added, glancing up at him from under her lashes, “has just drastically increased her motivation to finish before we get interrupted.”

She turned toward the doorway, lifting the garland again, his sweatshirt sleeves slipping adorably over her hands. As she stretched up to hook it in place, she tossed, lightly over her shoulder:

“Because apparently we have… things to discuss later. Important logistical matters. Closet space. Drawer assignments. Whose plants are most likely to die.”

Her tone was playful, but the words weren’t a joke.

She felt him move in behind her again, close but not quite touching, and a little smile pulled at her mouth as she adjusted the ribbon into place.

All in.
She’d said it.
He’d said it first.

And somehow, with her feet planted on solid station tile and a plastic wreath in her hands, it felt exactly right.

Her whisper of his name settled into his chest like something warm and gripping. The way she leaned into him, the way her forehead met his, the way her voice didn’t shake this time — it hit him hard, deeper than the ribs, into a place he didn’t touch often.

When she said, “I do feel it,” the air left his lungs in a slow, shaken exhale he didn’t bother hiding. His fingers curled at her waist, pulling her closer with instinct more than decision.

His voice came out low, almost breathless.

“…Yeah?”

She added that she’d been feeling it for a while. The quiet, wry truth of it softened the tension in his shoulders immediately. A warmth bloomed up his spine, relief threaded with something fierce and grateful.

His thumb brushed her jaw.

“Good.”

Her forehead settled against his, and the contact grounded him — steadied the rush of wanting, anchored the tug in his chest that had been growing for months.

When she confessed she wasn’t afraid of sooner, something sharp and bright flickered behind his ribs. His grip at her waist tightened subtly, as if the words had physically pulled him closer.

His voice dropped into something honest, almost reverent.

“Hattie…”

Then she said it — that she was thinking earlier too. That she was all in. That she wanted his mornings, his mugs, his terrible alarm clock.

His breath caught.
His eyes closed for a second.
He let himself feel it.

When he opened them again, the lines in his face had softened into something unmistakably vulnerable.

“…Then we’re on the same page.”

She kissed him then — surprising him, undoing him. His hands tightened automatically, one at her waist, one at the back of her neck. He kissed her back slow at first, then deeper, drawn in by the heat of her mouth and the surety she’d just given him. His chest pressed lightly against hers, the faint tremor in his breath betraying how long he’d wanted that exact moment.

When she finally pulled away, he stared at her like he was still gathering oxygen, lips parted, breath uneven. The warmth of her lingered on him — on his mouth, on his hands, all the way down to the base of his spine.

She said they were about to get carried away in front of the tinsel, and despite the flush in his cheeks and the pounding in his chest, he huffed a soft, low laugh.

“…Yeah. We really are.”

Her mock-brisk tone made his mouth twitch upward, the heat between them grounding into something familiar, playful, theirs.

When she said she had garland to wrangle, he straightened a little, pretending for half a second that he could think clearly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her next line — Firefighter Caldwell has drastically increased her motivation — sent a warm, unfamiliar pulse through him. His chest tightened with a mix of pride and tenderness he didn’t try to hide.

“That so?”

She turned, lifting the garland again, and he followed her without closing the distance, but close enough that her warmth brushed the air between them. He couldn’t stop looking at her — sleeves swallowed her hands, hair glowing in the garland lights, cheeks still flushed from kissing him like she meant it.

Then she tossed her line over her shoulder —
We have things to discuss later. Closet space. Drawer assignments. Plants.

A slow, warm smile pulled at his mouth, deeper than any she’d seen him give at work. Something like awe flickered behind it — that she was saying these things out loud, to him.

His voice came out rough but gentle.

“…Yeah. We’ll figure it all out.”

He shifted a little closer, enough that the back of her sweatshirt brushed his chest when she reached up.

“And for the record?”

He dipped his head toward her ear, voice low and warm.

“I’m ready whenever you are.”

He let his hand rest lightly at her hip — a touch that wasn’t pulling, wasn’t demanding, just there, steady and certain.

“And sooner sounds real good to me.”

He didn’t move away after saying it.
Didn’t step back.
Just stood there behind her, watching her adjust the ribbon, feeling the quiet thrill of knowing she’d chosen him just as wholly as he’d chosen her.

And God, it settled into him in a way nothing else ever had.

His words lingered against the shell of her ear, low and warm, and for one dangerously indulgent second, Hattie almost forgot she was holding a strand of garland and not standing in the middle of his kitchen with nowhere to be.

Her heart thudded once, hard enough to steal her breath, before it evened again into something steadier — a quiet rhythm she only ever seemed to find with him.

His hand at her hip was light, not possessive, but present in a way that made her skin spark under the cotton of his sweatshirt. She didn’t lean away. Didn’t need to. Her body already knew how to calibrate around him — warmth to warmth, space to space, breath to breath.

The moment stretched between them, charged and soft, humming beneath the fluorescent lights and twinkle of plastic pine needles.

And then — because the closeness was starting to make her brain go a little mushy and they were technically still on the job — Hattie cleared her throat gently and exhaled a laugh under her breath.

“Well,” she said, glancing up toward the top of the doorway, “since I apparently have a tall, strong, emotionally available human ladder now…”

She looked at him over her shoulder, brows raised, lips tugging into a small, satisfied grin.

“I’m officially retiring the death trap of a step stool.”

Declan huffed out a laugh behind her, his chest brushing her back in a way that made her toes curl inside her boots.

She turned slightly and pointed the garland at him like it was a task assignment. “Congratulations, firefighter. You’ve been promoted to seasonal installation crew.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused, but she was already holding out the garland with both hands — sleeves still too long, swallowed halfway down her palms, which somehow made her feel both ridiculous and completely invincible.

“You want sooner?” she said, softer now, more to herself than him. “Start here.”

Her smile softened. It wasn’t teasing anymore — not really. Just a quiet moment of joy wrapped in pine needles and bad artificial snow.

She leaned in again, quick this time, brushing a kiss against his jaw — not for show, not for drama, just because she could. Just because she wanted to. Just because it was his jaw and her heart and this place and them.

Then, with all the self-possession of a woman who’d just told the man she loved that she was all in and meant it, Hattie stepped back and clapped her hands lightly together.

“Alright,” she said, mock-formal. “Let’s make this place look like a fire-safe Christmas exploded in here.”

And just like that, she handed him the garland, turned on her heel, and walked toward the supply bin in the corner — grinning to herself the entire way.

Because yeah. She’d meant it.

All of it.
Every word.
Every heartbeat.

She moved away and the loss of her warmth hit him sharper than he expected — a small, empty cold where her back had been pressed to his chest. He stayed there for a beat, eyes on her, pulse still tugging at the inside of his throat like her kiss had rewired something.

When she glanced over her shoulder and handed off the garland, he stepped forward, amusement pulling at his mouth as he took it from her hands. Her sleeves slipped down her palms, and he felt something stupidly tender twist through him.

He lifted the garland between them, one brow raised, a quiet grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“…Yeah, I can reach that.”

He shifted closer, the warmth of his chest brushing her shoulder as he checked the height she’d been aiming for. The light caught along the edge of her hair, and something inside him settled with the absolute certainty of a man who’d already made up his mind.

“You really retiring that thing?” he murmured, nodding toward the abandoned step stool. “Good. Was about to throw it out myself.”

Her kiss still burned faintly at his jaw — soft, sure, deliberate. He reached up to anchor the garland in place, arm lifting easily above her reach, muscles stretching beneath his jacket.

A small laugh escaped him, warm and low.

“…Seasonal installation crew, huh?”

He hooked the garland securely, then glanced down at her, eyes softening into something he didn’t bother to hide anymore.

“Guess I can handle that.”

She turned away toward the bin, confidence in each step making something deep in him pull tight with affection. He watched her go, watched the little grin she tried to hide, and felt the same one tug at his own mouth.

“Hattie.”

His voice followed her — steady, sure, threaded with something deeper than teasing.

“You just say the word.”

He let the garland fall into place, hands lingering on it for a moment longer, grounding himself in the simple, certain truth of it.

“And I’m there.”

The bin was deeper than she remembered and colder, too — the bottom lined with half-crushed bows, spools of tangled red ribbon, a few broken candy cane ornaments that had definitely seen better years.

Hattie knelt beside it anyway, fingers shifting through the chaos like it was an archeological dig. Somewhere beneath a pile of glittered pinecones and old battery candles, she found what she was looking for — the string of little felt firefighter boots someone had donated last year as a joke and she'd secretly loved ever since.

She smiled as she pulled it out, the whole ridiculous thing trailing across her lap like a lopsided garland of charm and personality.

Still crouched beside the bin, she let herself pause for a breath.

Her heart was still moving faster than usual, but not in that panicked, fluttering way it used to — not like back when he first started sitting beside her desk for no reason or refilling her coffee when he thought she wasn’t looking. This was different. Steady. Expansive. Like her body was trying to catch up to something good and real and maybe already happening.

She hadn’t planned on saying all that — about mornings and mugs and his terrible alarm clock. She hadn’t even meant to bring up the bet.

But when he looked at her like that? When he touched her like he knew her down to the bones and still wanted every part?

It just… came out.

She glanced up, ready to tell him she found the boots, but froze for a second instead.

He was standing in front of the doorway, arms raised, brow slightly furrowed in concentration as he adjusted the garland to sit just right. His turnout jacket shifted with the motion, stretching across his back and shoulders. The warm white lights caught on the reflective striping in little flashes, like the garland itself was proud to be part of the moment.

Her breath caught.

Because, somehow, this felt just as intimate as everything before it — the quiet confidence in his movements, the care in the way he pressed the hooks into place, the way his mouth curved when he stepped back and checked the spacing.

God, she thought, lips twitching upward. He really is that tall.

She rose from the floor, holding the felt-boot garland draped over her hands, and leaned against the edge of the bin like she had all the time in the world to admire the view.

“Well, damn,” she said lightly, a teasing lilt in her voice. “You actually made that look good.”

He looked over at her, brow arched.

She nodded solemnly, stepping closer.

“I mean, the garland’s fine,” she added, waving a hand. “But the whole tall, capable, slightly smug firefighter aesthetic? That’s really pulling it together.”

His mouth twitched into something halfway between bashful and proud, but before he could say anything—

“Hey—”

A voice cut through the air behind them, low and amused. “Am I interrupting something, or is this an officially sanctioned decorating session?”

Hattie turned to find Darren — one of the engineers from C-shift — standing just inside the doorway with a half-finished mug of coffee and the worst I know something you don’t smirk she’d seen all day.

She straightened instantly, boots clicking together in something vaguely professional. Declan did the same, but slower — the kind of slow that didn’t bother pretending they weren’t already caught.

“No interruption,” Hattie said sweetly, tucking the felt boots behind her back like she was hiding contraband. “Just executing our very detailed holiday morale strategy.”

Darren lifted a brow. “Uh-huh.”

Declan rubbed the back of his neck, but his eyes flicked toward her like he was still standing in the moment before — still hearing her say I’m all in, still carrying the kiss they hadn’t meant to make look so obvious.

“I’ll come back when morale’s slightly less distracted,” Darren said with a mock salute. “Carry on.”

He disappeared with a grin, and Hattie waited until he rounded the corner before exhaling a quiet laugh.

She turned back toward Declan, raising the boots between them.

“See?” she said, trying and failing to hide the grin tugging at her mouth. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

He gave her that look again — warm, grounding, completely hers — and she shook her head, cheeks still flushed, voice dropping to something quiet and real.

“But also,” she added, handing him one end of the garland, “this might be my favorite version of us yet.”

And she meant it.

Lights. Laughter. Work. Home.
All blurred together like this.
All anchored by the weight of him standing beside her.

She rose with the little felt-boot garland in her hands, teasing him with that soft spark in her eyes, and Declan felt something warm unspool in his chest — the kind of warmth that settled deep and refused to budge.

When she said lightly, “Well, damn… you actually made that look good,”
a slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. He dragged his eyes over the garland, then back to her with a look that was unmistakably, stupidly fond.

“Yeah?” he said, voice low, warm with pride he didn’t bother to hide.
“That an official review from the decorator-in-chief?”

She stepped closer, pointing out the aesthetic, and Declan laughed under his breath, quiet and genuine. Her teasing landed somewhere good inside him — someplace that made him want to step forward and kiss her again, consequences be damned.

When she added, “That’s really pulling it together,” his brows lifted, amused, heart pulling tight.

“Oh, is that right?” he murmured, tilting his head like he was considering it.
“Guess I’ll try to live up to the brand.”

He didn’t expect the interruption.
Darren’s voice cut through the room, and Declan straightened instinctively, hand dropping from the garland hook, jaw flexing once at being caught mid-something he absolutely wasn’t supposed to be doing.

When Darren asked if he was interrupting, Declan’s mouth twitched — frustration, humor, affection for the timing, all tangled together — though he kept his expression neutral.

“Just decorating,” he said, tone steady, controlled, betraying nothing of the electricity that had been humming between him and Hattie seconds before.

Darren smirked. Declan shifted his weight, trying not to look as ruined by one kiss and a confession as he felt. His hand slid briefly across his jaw, a gesture that masked the fact that his pulse still hadn’t settled.

When Darren left and Hattie lifted the felt boots and said, “See? This is why we can’t have nice things,”
Declan let out a quiet, genuine laugh — the kind that softened his whole face.

“That’s not on us,” he replied, eyes warm as they stayed locked on hers.
“He walked in at the wrong time. That’s the real problem.”

And then she said it.
This might be my favorite version of us yet.

The words hit him like a steadying hand to the chest. His breath caught — just a little — before releasing in a warm, low exhale. He stepped closer again, instinctively reclaiming the space Darren had broken.

He took the other end of the garland from her fingers, letting his thumb brush hers longer than necessary.

“…Yeah,” he said softly, sincerity threading every syllable.
“Me too.”

He raised the garland, but his eyes stayed on her, softer than any fluorescent lights deserved to see.

“Hattie.”

Her name came out quiet, a little rough around the edges — the way a man sounded when he’d run out of places to hide how he felt.

“I like us like this.”

He swallowed once, throat tight, emotions unbelievably close to the surface for someone who usually kept them locked down tight.

“I like work and laughter and late-night shifts and you in my sweatshirt and… all of it.”

His chest rose and fell, slow and controlled, though his hands trembled faintly with the truth of it.

“And I like knowing you’re right here with me,” he added, voice deeper now, steadier.
“That you want this. Want… us. This way.”

His fingers lifted to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear — slow, deliberate, reverent.

“And if this is just one version?”
His thumb brushed her cheek, warm against her already-flushed skin.
“Then I can’t wait to see the rest.”

He leaned in slightly — not enough to break rules, but enough that she could feel the promise in the space between them.

“Come on,” he murmured, his smile going crooked.
“Let’s finish this place before morale comes back.”

But even as he turned toward the garland again, his hand lingered at her waist — just long enough to tell her he wasn’t going anywhere.

Hattie felt his fingers brush hers as he took the other end of the felt-boot garland, the contact deceptively small — barely more than a pass — but it sent a warm little current up her arm that lingered even after he turned away.

She watched him for a second longer than she meant to.

The easy way he moved.
The care he took with the garland.
The way his fingers had trembled, just briefly, before steadying into something surer.

Her throat tightened — not with nerves, but with the quiet weight of this is happening. Of he means it. Of so do I.

Then he looked back at her and said her name — Hattie — and something about the way it landed, low and raw and just for her, made her chest ache in the best possible way.

I like us like this.
I like knowing you’re right here with me.
That you want this.

She wanted to say something back — not because he needed the reassurance, but because she did. Because moments like this still made her feel like the air around them was a little more alive. A little more real. Like the feelings lived outside her body too, not just in her chest.

But instead, she held his gaze and let her body do the answering.

She stepped closer, not dramatically, just enough that her shoulder brushed his as they faced the wall again.

The boots dangled between them now, and she handed off her side without fanfare, fingers brushing his again, slower this time. She let herself stand there for a second, taking in the new garland he'd hung — straighter than hers would’ve been, somehow — the green woven with ribbon and tiny lights and now sitting above them like it belonged there.

“You know,” she said, tone light again as she tilted her head, inspecting his work, “I might keep you around just for this.”

He gave her a sidelong glance, amused.

She gestured to the garland overhead.

“Efficient, clean lines, strong shoulders. Real asset to the holiday decor division.”

She felt him smirk without even looking. It vibrated just slightly through the air between them.

“I’m serious,” she added, mock-stern now. “The step stool’s jealous. And frankly? So am I. You reached that hook without even trying.”

He laughed under his breath. A low sound, close enough to warm the air at her temple.

She turned her head toward him slightly, catching the slope of his profile, and added, quieter, “This is nice.”

Not big or dramatic.
Just true.

And then she exhaled, shifted her weight, and forced herself to move — not away, just forward — because if she stayed too long in that quiet space between confession and garland, she’d melt right into it and forget she was still in a fire station and not in the middle of something meant to be private.

She bent to grab a tangle of lights from the next bin, giving it a quick tug that resulted in a predictable knot. She didn’t even mind.

Behind her, she could feel his presence — steady and close and not in a rush to go anywhere.

“I’ll handle these,” she said, her voice dipping into that efficient, mildly exasperated cadence that everyone in the station recognized as Hattie-in-her-zone. “And then we can hit the bay windows and the front desk. If morale walks back in again, I’d like at least one room to look festive enough that they think we’ve been productive this whole time.”

She paused, flicked a glance back over her shoulder, and added with a half-smile, “You gonna stay on garland duty, or do I need to promote you to lights?”

He didn’t answer right away — just looked at her in that way he did sometimes, like she’d said more than she meant to, even when she hadn’t.

And honestly?
Maybe she had.

She turned back to the lights, cheeks still warm, heart quieter now but still moving fast beneath her sweatshirt — his sweatshirt — like it had finally found a pace it wanted to keep.

And maybe it had.

As she admired him from across the room, Declan felt the awareness of her attention before he even looked back. His hands slowed on the garland, breath deepening just a little as warmth spread low in his ribs. When her eyes met his, the faint smirk she wore made his pulse tug upward in a way he didn’t bother hiding.

A quiet, amused sound escaped him as she stepped closer.

“…Glad I can contribute.”

He shifted just slightly so her shoulder could brush his again, welcoming the contact like it was second nature. Her nearness steadied something in him — something he hadn’t even realized was unsteady until she was pressed into his space like that.

When she teased him about his supposed usefulness, he let his gaze flick over her profile, softening at the corners.

“Pretty sure you’re overselling me,” he murmured, though the hint of pride in his eyes betrayed him. “But I’ll take the compliment.”

Her mock-jealousy about the stool earned a quiet huff of laughter from him, breath warm as it touched her cheek.

“I’m not losing to a piece of furniture,” he said, voice dropping with playful certainty. “Not today.”

And then she said something quieter — something simple — but he felt the truth of it settle straight into his chest. His movement stilled. His breath did too. For a moment, he just looked at her, really looked, letting the edges of the firehouse blur behind her.

His voice was lower when he answered, stripped of everything except sincerity.

“…Yeah. It is.”

When she bent for the lights and her tone shifted back into work mode, something like affection pulled through him — warm, steady, familiar in a way that made him want to pull her back into his arms and let the whole station wait.

Instead, he stepped in behind her, close enough for her to feel his presence even before his hands joined hers in the mess of tangled lights. His touch brushed hers, slow and deliberate — not an accident this time.

“You’re in charge,” he said quietly, eyes warm as they lingered on her flushed cheeks. “Just tell me what you need.”

She gave him that half-smile over her shoulder — the one that always made his heartbeat thrum higher, tighter. He reached to take the heaviest knot of lights from her grip, fingers sliding over hers in a warm, steady pass.

“Promotion accepted,” he added, settling at her side.
His shoulder brushed hers again — gentler, intentional.
“And for the record? I’ll take whatever job keeps me right here.”

His eyes swept over her — the sleeves too long on his sweatshirt, the soft flush at her throat, the quiet confidence in the way she moved now.

A breath left him, warm, almost reverent.

“Lead the way, Hattie.”

His voice softened further, like these weren’t just decorations they were stringing up — like they were building something larger, steadier, theirs.

“I’m with you.”

Declan had been right, of course.

The "no looking" rule had lasted approximately four minutes—exactly the amount of time it took for them to walk from the parking lot to the station entrance. And the "professional distance" rule? That had crumbled somewhere around 10:00 AM when he’d walked past the front desk to grab a manifesto from the printer, and his hand had brushed the small of her back—blink and you’d miss it—leaving her flustered and typing nonsense into a spreadsheet for five solid minutes.

But now, it was lunchtime. And by some miracle of the scheduling gods (or perhaps just C-Shift’s collective desire to play Mario Kart in the day room), the large industrial kitchen was empty.

They sat at the long wooden table, the one usually crowded with twelve loud, hungry firefighters, occupying just one corner of it like they were in a private booth.

Hattie picked at her salad, but mostly, she watched him.

There was something unfairly attractive about Declan in "work mode." He was wearing his station blues—the navy t-shirt stretching tight across his chest, the heavy cargo pants that made his legs look even thicker, and the boots. Always the boots. He was currently demolishing a sandwich with the same methodical, efficient focus he applied to everything else, seemingly unbothered by the fact that she was staring at him like he was the last drop of water in a desert.

He looked calm. He looked professional. He looked like he hadn't spent the morning sending her subtle, heated looks every time he walked past the glass wall of her office.
She took a slow sip of her water, her eyes tracing the veins in his forearms as he lifted his drink. He was so composed. So steady. It made her want to ruin him all over again.

She shifted in her chair, sliding her legs forward under the table. The toes of her leather boots found the heavy rubber sole of his station boot, and she pressed against it—a secret, grounded touch in the quiet room.

"You're eating that sandwich like you're angry at it," she observed softly, her voice low enough that it wouldn't carry past their little bubble. She rested her chin in her hand, smirking at him. "Or are you just starving because you skipped the most important meal of the day?"

She let the implication hang there—that breakfast wasn't the meal she was talking about.
"I have to say," she continued, tilting her head, her eyes dancing with mischief. "For a man who claimed he'd 'barely survive,' you seem to be functioning at peak efficiency, Caldwell. I'm almost offended."

Declan didn’t look up right away.

He took another bite of the sandwich like he was proving a point—slow, deliberate, maddeningly composed—before finally lifting his eyes to hers. And when he did, there it was. That look. Calm on the surface, heat tucked just beneath it, like a banked fire he had no intention of letting get out of control in the middle of the station.

His boot stayed exactly where it was when she pressed against it.

Didn’t move away.
Didn’t push back.

Just… acknowledged.

He swallowed, wiped his thumb against a napkin, and leaned back in his chair a fraction, posture relaxed but alert in that way that came naturally to him. Like he could flip the switch at any second—but hadn’t yet.

“Angry?” he repeated quietly, one brow lifting. “No. Focused.”

His mouth curved—not a grin, not quite—something slower, more knowing.

“And I eat like this because if I don’t,” he added evenly, “someone starts making comments about my ‘technique.’”

His gaze dropped briefly—just briefly—to where her legs stretched under the table, where her boot stayed pressed to his like a secret neither of them needed to name. When his eyes came back up to her face, they were darker. Amused. Patient.

“As for starving,” he went on, voice lower now, pitched just for her, “I had breakfast.”

A beat.

“Just not the kind you’re implying.”

He took another drink, still maddeningly unbothered, then set the cup down and finally leaned in a little—forearms resting on the table now, bringing him closer without touching her where anyone could see.

“And functioning at peak efficiency?” he added softly. “That’s called compartmentalizing, Monroe. Real important skill.”

His eyes flicked to her mouth. Back to her eyes.

“But don’t get it twisted,” he said, just as calm, just as steady. “I notice everything.”

Another pause. Then, quieter—warm instead of sharp—

“And if you’re offended,” he finished, lips twitching, “you’re welcome to try harder after shift.”

His boot pressed back against hers then. Not a lot. Just enough to answer.

He picked up his sandwich again like nothing had happened.

“Eat your lunch,” he said lightly. “You’ve got that look.”

Compartmentalizing.

God, that was sexy.

Hattie watched him pick up his sandwich again, that big, capable hand holding it with an ease that belied the strength she knew was there. She loved the dichotomy of him—the way he could be this calm, immovable object in the middle of a chaotic fire station, completely locked down and professional, while simultaneously playing footsie with her under the table and admitting, in a voice like crushed velvet, that he was tracking her every move.

He wasn't struggling. He wasn't barely hanging on. He was doing exactly what he said: he was handling it. He was managing the desire just like he managed a fire scene—assess, contain, control. And knowing that he had that level of discipline, yet chose to let it slip just for her when they were alone? That was the real power trip.

She felt the pressure of his boot against hers—a heavy, deliberate return of her touch—and a shiver danced down her spine. It was a promise. It was an anchor. It was him saying, I’m right here with you, even if I’m not showing it.

But he had given her an instruction. Eat your lunch.

And because she knew exactly where this game was heading later—and because submitting to his quiet command sent a lovely little thrill through her—she decided to behave.

"Yes, sir," she murmured, the words soft and sweet, lacking any of her morning sharpness.
She picked up her fork, stabbing a cherry tomato with obedient precision, but she didn't look down at her plate. She kept her eyes on him, her expression shifting into something warm and openly adoring.

"I'm eating," she promised, popping the tomato into her mouth and chewing slowly. She swallowed, then tilted her head, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But you can't blame a girl for staring. I was told I had to 'enjoy the view' earlier, and I take my instructions very seriously."

She took another bite of her salad, effectively proving she could multitask—eating her lunch while simultaneously undressing him with her eyes.

"And don't worry about after shift," she added, a soft, teasing light entering her gaze as she referenced his challenge. "I have plenty of ideas on how to... try harder. You might want to take a nap before we clock out, Caldwell. You’re going to need the energy."

Declan didn’t miss the yes, sir.

Didn’t react to it outwardly either—which, frankly, took effort.

He kept his expression steady as she finally lifted her fork, but the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. A quiet tell. One she knew how to read better than anyone.

“Good,” he said simply, tone calm, approving in that understated way that carried more weight than praise ever needed to. “Because if you pass out at your desk, I’m not carrying you out in front of the whole shift.”

His eyes tracked her as she ate—actually ate—and there was something almost reverent in it. Not ownership. Not control. Just attention. Like the act of her listening mattered more than the power play behind it.

When she mentioned enjoying the view, his gaze dipped again, slow and unapologetic this time, before returning to her face.

“Fair,” he murmured. “Can’t fault you for good situational awareness.”

His boot stayed pressed to hers under the table—solid, grounding, unmistakably there. He didn’t escalate it. Didn’t need to. The message had already landed.

Then she mentioned after shift.

Ideas.

Energy.

Declan exhaled through his nose, something between a laugh and a controlled release of tension, and finally leaned back in his chair again—wide shoulders, easy posture, all of it deliberate.

“You planning on being this distracting all afternoon,” he asked quietly, “or should I prepare myself now?”

His voice dropped just enough to make it private.

“Because if you’re trying to get a rise out of me,” he added, eyes warm, steady, entirely hers, “you’re doing a very effective job.”

A beat.

“But don’t worry,” he said, picking up his sandwich again like the world wasn’t tilted just a degree off its axis. “I pace myself.”

His boot pressed into hers once more—brief, intentional—before easing back.

“And I don’t nap on duty,” he finished, a hint of a smile finally breaking through. “I save my energy for things worth staying awake for.”

He took another bite, eyes never leaving her.

“Eat,” he reminded her softly.

"I think you should always be prepared, Caldwell," she countered smoothly, spearing a cucumber slice with deliberate slowness. "It's safer that way. You never know when I might strike."

She felt a thrill of victory at his admission. Effective job. That was all she wanted to hear. She loved knowing that beneath the layers of Nomex and stoicism, she was the only variable he couldn't quite predict.

She leaned forward just an inch, mirroring his posture, her voice dropping to match his intimate volume.

"And I'm not trying to be distracting," she lied, her eyes wide and innocent, though the smirk playing on her lips gave her away entirely. "I'm just sitting here, eating my vegetables, being a model employee. If you find my existence distracting, that sounds like a personal problem. Maybe you need to work on that compartmentalizing you're so proud of."

She popped the cucumber into her mouth, chewing with exaggerated obedience.
When he mentioned saving his energy for things worth staying awake for, her smile softened, losing its bratty edge for just a heartbeat to reveal the genuine affection underneath.

"Good," she murmured, her gaze dropping to his mouth and then back up to his eyes. "Because I intend to be very worth it."

She took another bite of her salad, adhering to his command, but she kept her eyes locked on his.

"I'll behave for the rest of the shift," she promised, though they both knew it was a conditional surrender. "I'll go back to my desk, I'll answer the phones, and I won't even look at you... much. But only because I want you fully rested for later."

​She nudged his boot one last time—a final, lingering press before she pulled her leg back, breaking the contact. The loss of warmth was immediate, but the way he was looking at her made up for it.

​The playful spark in her eyes dimmed into something softer, warmer—the kind of look that had nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the man sitting across from her. She rested her chin in her hand again, tilting her head as she studied him.

​"You know," she said quietly, her voice stripping away the layers of office banter to leave just the truth. "It really is nice. Getting to steal you for twenty minutes. I missed you this morning, even though you were only on the other side of the glass."

​She reached across the table—not to play footsie, not to tease—but to rest her fingers briefly, gently, on the back of his hand where it lay next to his sandwich.

​"It's hard work pretending I'm not crazy about you until five o'clock," she admitted with a small, crooked smile.

Declan didn’t rush his answer.

He let her words land, let the quiet between them stretch just enough to prove he’d heard every syllable—the warning, the promise, the softer confession tucked underneath the teasing. His gaze stayed on her the whole time, steady and intent, like he was filing it all away.

“Prepared,” he said at last, low and amused, “is kind of my baseline.”

His mouth curved—not a smirk, not cocky exactly, just that calm confidence that came from knowing himself. From knowing her, too.

“And you don’t strike,” he added gently. “You telegraph. You enjoy the anticipation too much.”

When she leaned in and challenged his compartmentalizing, his eyes warmed, a flicker of something appreciative there. He didn’t bristle. Didn’t defend it.

“I’m proud of it,” he agreed. “Doesn’t mean it works on you.”

Her obedience—real or performative—earned a quiet huff of laughter from him, the sound barely there. When her smile softened at his words, his did too, the teasing easing into something sincere.

“You already are,” he said simply when she told him she intended to be worth it. No bravado. Just truth.

As she promised to behave, his brows lifted a fraction.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he said, but there was no bite in it. Just fondness. “Still… I appreciate the effort.”

The nudge of her boot, the way she pulled back—he felt the absence immediately, but he didn’t chase it. He watched her instead, the way her expression changed, the game giving way to something quieter.

When she reached across the table and rested her fingers on his hand, he turned his palm up without thinking, letting his thumb brush once across her knuckles. Not a move. Not a tease. Just contact.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “It’s nice.”

He squeezed her hand—brief, grounding—then left it there as long as he dared.

“I noticed you weren’t there this morning,” he admitted, eyes steady on hers. “Glass or not.”

Her last line made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t bother hiding. He leaned forward a touch, voice lowered to keep it just for her.

“I don’t pretend,” he said. “I just wait.”

Another squeeze of her fingers, then he eased back, giving her the space he knew she’d need to go do her job.

“Go,” he murmured, fond and certain. “Be professional. I’ll do the same.”

A pause, a hint of a smile.

“And at five,” he finished, “you can stop pretending. I’ll be right where you left me.”

The way he said it—I don’t pretend. I just wait—settled in her chest like a heavy, warm stone. It was so simple, so undeniably Declan, that it stripped away the last of her playful bratty armor.

She looked at him for a long moment, her heart doing a slow, traitorous roll in her chest. He was so steady. He was the anchor, and she was the boat pulling at the line, testing the knot, but secretly so grateful that it held.

"Okay," she whispered, the word more breath than sound.

She turned her attention back to her salad, stabbing the last few leaves of lettuce and the remaining cherry tomato. She ate them not because she was particularly hungry anymore, but because he had told her to eat, and there was a deep, quiet satisfaction in doing exactly what he said. It wasn’t about losing the game; it was about trusting the player. She scraped the last bite from the bowl, chewed, and swallowed, signaling—to him and to herself—that she was done.

She wiped her mouth with her napkin, gathered her trash and her empty travel mug, and stood up. The chair legs scraped softly against the linoleum, the only sound in the room other than the hum of the refrigerator.

But she didn't walk past him. She didn't head for the door just yet.

She moved around the table and stopped directly behind his chair. She felt the heat radiating off his back, that familiar, solid warmth that she had been freezing without earlier in the shower.

She set her things down on the edge of the table for a second and leaned down, bringing her lips right to the shell of his ear, hidden from the doorway by the bulk of his own body.
"You're right," she murmured, her voice a velvety whisper that she knew would go straight to his spine. "I've never been much good at waiting. Patience isn't really my virtue."

She rested her hands lightly on his shoulders, her thumbs brushing against the collar of his navy t-shirt.

"But..." she breathed, letting the admission slip out, honest and vulnerable. "I really, really like doing whatever you tell me to do."

She felt the slight tension in his shoulders—a reaction, a validation—and she smiled against his skin.

"I love you, Declan," she whispered.

She didn't wait for him to say it back; she knew he did. Instead, she pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek, right near his jawline, breathing in the scent of soap and him one last time.

Then, she pulled away. She grabbed her mug and her trash, straightened her spine, and smoothed down the front of her tweed skirt. By the time she turned toward the door, the soft, smitten girlfriend was gone, tucked away for 5:00 PM. In her place was Hattie the Admin—efficient, professional, and ready to run the circus.

She walked out of the kitchen without looking back, her heels clicking rhythmically down the hallway, heading straight for her desk to do exactly as she was told.

Declan didn’t turn around right away.

He felt her before he heard her—the warmth at his back, the familiar pressure of her hands on his shoulders, the way his name sounded when she said it low and close like that. His posture stilled, not tense, just attentive, like everything else in the room had dropped away.

When she whispered that she wasn’t good at waiting, a quiet breath left him through his nose—something like a smile without showing it.

“I know,” he murmured back, voice just as low, pitched to meet hers where it was. “You’ve never pretended to be.”

Her admission—soft, honest, brave—landed heavier. He shifted then, just enough to angle his head toward her without fully turning, his cheek brushing hers as she spoke.

“I don’t tell you what to do,” he said gently, not correcting her, just grounding the truth between them. “You choose it. That’s different.”

When she said she loved him, it wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t need to be. It settled him.

He lifted one hand and covered hers where it rested on his shoulder, thumb pressing once in quiet acknowledgment. When her kiss landed at his jaw, he leaned into it—just a fraction—like he always did, like he’d memorized exactly how much he was allowed before five o’clock.

“I love you too,” he said simply, steady as breath.

He didn’t chase her when she pulled away. He watched her straighten, watched the shift happen—the way she put the soft parts away with practiced care. It never bothered him. He admired it.

As she walked out, heels clicking, he let a small smile finally break—private, contained.

“Go run it,” he called softly after her, not loud enough to carry far. “I’ll be here.”

And then he picked up his sandwich again, calm and composed, the quiet certainty of the afternoon settling back into place—knowing exactly where she was, exactly what time it was, and exactly what waited at five.

The digital clock in the bottom corner of her monitor seemed to be moving through molasses.

4:58...

Hattie typed out one final email to the battalion chief regarding the updated supply requisitions, her fingers flying across the keyboard with practiced efficiency. She hit send, closed Outlook, and minimized the browser windows.

4:59...

The station was buzzing with the chaotic energy of shift change. C-Shift was filtering out, exhausted and loud, while A-Shift was rolling in with their gear bags and fresh coffee, filling the lobby with greetings and the sound of heavy boots on linoleum.

Hattie ignored them all. She sat perfectly still, her hands resting on the edge of her desk, watching that final minute tick away.

She had been good. She had been so good. She had answered phones with a cheerful, professional lilt. She had organized the filing cabinets. She had even walked past the day room three times to deliver mail without slowing down to ogle the man sitting in the recliner, though she had felt his heavy gaze tracking her every step of the way.

5:00.

The second the number flipped, Hattie moved.

She clicked 'Shut Down' with a satisfying snap of her mouse button. The screen went black, the hum of the computer dying down into silence. It was the only signal she needed. The circus was officially closed.

She stood up, her legs stiff from sitting but her energy spiking with a sudden, electric rush of adrenaline. She grabbed her coat from the back of her chair, sliding her arms into the sleeves and buttoning it all the way up to her chin, hiding the cream sweater and the tweed skirt that had been her armor all day. She wrapped her scarf around her neck, tucked her phone into her bag, and picked up her empty travel mug.

She took a breath, centering herself. She smoothed a stray piece of hair behind her ear.
Then, she turned around.

And just like he promised, he was right where she left him.

Declan was leaning against the doorframe of the glass-enclosed office, his arms crossed over his chest, his duffel bag already slung over one broad shoulder. He had changed back into his street clothes—jeans, a thermal henley, and his jacket—and he was watching her with a stillness that cut right through the noise of the lobby.

He didn't say a word. He didn't check his watch. He didn't rush her.

He just looked at her.

His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, and stripped of the professional distance they’d maintained for the last eight hours. There was no "firefighter" left in that gaze—just the man who had played footsie with her under the lunch table, the man who had promised to wait.

The heat hit her instantly, a flush rising from her chest to her cheeks. The game wasn't over; it was just entering the final round.

Hattie hooked her bag over her shoulder and walked around her desk. she stopped right in front of him, close enough to smell the faint, lingering scent of smoke and soap, close enough to see the way his pupils dilated as she approached.

She didn't say anything either. She didn't have to. She just looked up at him, let a slow, dangerous smile curve her lips, and tilted her head toward the exit.

Let's go.

Declan pushed off the doorframe the moment she stepped toward him.

Not rushed. Not hungry-looking. Just deliberate—like he’d been holding still all day on purpose and was finally allowed to move.

Up close, the noise of the lobby dulled. The laughter, the clatter of boots, the shouted goodbyes blurred into background static. All he registered was her—coat buttoned to her chin, scarf tucked neat, eyes bright with that look she only ever wore when the clock stopped owning her.

He looked down at her, slow and unguarded, the way he never did when anyone else might be watching. There was a softness there, threaded tight with intent. Satisfaction. Relief.

“You kept me waiting exactly zero seconds,” he said quietly, the corner of his mouth lifting. Not teasing. Appreciative.

His gaze dipped—just once—to the strap of her bag on her shoulder, the way her hands were empty now, free. Then back to her face.

“Long day?” he asked, already knowing the answer, already reading it in the way her shoulders finally relaxed now that she was standing this close.

He shifted his duffel higher, stepped aside just enough to clear the doorway, and held the glass door open with his shoulder. One hand came up—not grabbing, never rushing—just settling at the small of her back, warm and steady, a wordless this way.

“Come on,” he murmured, head angling toward the exit she’d already chosen. “You’ve done enough for everybody else.”

As they moved together through the lobby, his thumb pressed once—light, grounding—like punctuation.

No games now. No waiting.

Just the quiet certainty of leaving together, exactly when they were supposed to.

Outside, the air hit cool and clean—late afternoon sliding toward evening, that in-between hour where the world felt briefly unsupervised.

Declan let the door swing shut behind them, the station noise sealing itself away with a soft thud. For a beat, he didn’t move. Didn’t pull her anywhere. Just stood there with his hand still at her back, thumb resting easy like it had earned the right to be there.

He looked down at her again—really looked this time. Coat buttoned tight, scarf tucked just so, eyes still bright with that leftover spark from the game they’d played all day without touching.

His mouth curved, slower now.

“You were good,” he said quietly, not in a performative way—more like an observation he’d been holding onto. “All day. I saw it.”

He stepped closer, just enough that the cold didn’t stand a chance between them. His forehead dipped briefly toward hers—not a kiss, not yet—just close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath, the faint smile in his voice.

“And before you say it,” he added, softer, amused, “yes. I noticed every single time you didn’t look.”

His hand slid from her back to lace with hers, fingers fitting like they always did—no searching, no adjustment. Solid. Familiar.

“Car’s this way,” he said, nodding toward the lot, already turning with her instead of leading her. Matching pace. Letting the moment stretch.

They walked a few steps before he spoke again, tone changing—not darker, not heavy—just honest.

“I waited,” he said simply. “Didn’t mind it.”

A pause. The corner of his mouth lifted again.

“But I’m real glad it’s over.”

His thumb brushed once over her knuckles, affectionate, contained, like he was holding himself to a promise he fully intended to break later.

“Let’s get you home,” he murmured.

You were good.

The words settled deep in her chest, warm and heavy, hitting that specific craving she usually tried to keep hidden under layers of snark and independence. Coming from him—low, rough, and stripped of any teasing—it was better than any compliment on her work performance. It was a claim.

She squeezed his hand, a firm, lingering pressure of her fingers against his palm, letting him know exactly how much she liked hearing it.

"I aim to please," she whispered, though the brattiness was gone, replaced by a soft, genuine hum of satisfaction.

They reached his truck, the engine already rumbling low in the quiet lot, exhaust curling in white puffs against the winter air. It was pre-warmed—because of course it was; Declan took care of things before she even knew she needed them—and when he pulled the passenger door open for her, a wave of heated air rolled out to meet them.

She climbed up, the height of the truck requiring a small hop that he stabilized with a hand on her waist. She settled into the leather seat, instantly cocooned in warmth, and waited while he closed the door with a solid, reassuring thud.

Safe. Warm. Hers.

She watched him through the windshield as he walked around the front of the hood. The headlights cut through the gloom, illuminating him in sharp relief—the broad set of his shoulders in his jacket, the easy, long-legged stride, the way he scanned the lot out of habit before rounding the corner. He moved with a kind of heavy grace that always made her mouth go dry. He was just a man walking to a driver's side door, but to Hattie, he was the only thing in the world worth looking at.

The driver's door opened, and the cabin shrank instantly as he climbed in. He brought the scent of the cold night and woodsmoke in with him, filling the space with his sheer presence.

Hattie didn't lunge for him. She didn't unbuckle. She reached for the seatbelt strap, pulling it across her chest and clicking it into place with a sharp snick. Safety first. They had a destination, and she intended to arrive there in one piece.

But just because she was restrained didn't mean she had to be behaved.

She turned in her seat, angling her knees toward the center console as much as the belt would allow. She watched him buckle up, her eyes tracing the movement of his large hands on the steering wheel as he shifted into gear.

"So," she purred, her voice dropping to that intimate, velvet register she saved for the dark. She reached out, sliding her hand onto his thigh—high up, on the denim, just enough to be distracting without being dangerous. She felt the muscle jump beneath her palm.

"We're officially off the clock, Caldwell."

She squeezed his leg lightly, her thumb rubbing a slow circle against the rough fabric of his jeans.

"And you promised you'd be right where I left you," she reminded him, her eyes dark and dancing with the promise of what was waiting five miles down the road. "I hope you remember exactly where that was. Because I have a lot of pent-up 'cooperation' I need to get out of my system."

Hattie’s morning had the usual rhythm to it—paperwork stacked in neat, manageable towers, the lobby quiet except for the faint hum of the station and the occasional crackle of radio traffic from down the hall.

She liked mornings like this.

Not because they were thrilling, but because they were steady. Because there was a kind of order she could build out of forms and schedules and calls logged correctly. A little corner of calm in a job that didn’t promise any.

She sat at her desk just inside the lobby area, facing the front doors, dressed the way she always did when she wanted to feel put-together without trying too hard: dark high-waisted trousers, a soft fitted knit tucked in, cardigan shrugged on against the station’s perpetual chill. Her badge clipped neatly where it belonged. Hair pulled back. Small hoops. Practical shoes. The kind of outfit that said I’m working, but still felt like her.

She had a pen tucked behind her ear, a mug that had gone lukewarm forty minutes ago, and Declan’s name scribbled twice on a sticky note—once for a supply order, once because he’d asked her to remind him about a shift swap later. Like he’d asked, like he trusted she’d remember, like he always did.

She was mid-click through an invoice when the front doors opened.

The bell didn’t chime. It never did. But Hattie still lifted her head automatically, polite instinct already in place.

And then she froze.

Not in a dramatic way. Not in a way anyone would clock from across the room.

Just—something inside her went very still, very fast, like the air got colder for half a second.

Because she knew that walk.

That hair.

That kind of pretty that was practiced into place and never looked accidental. The kind that came with a faint smile that didn’t reach the eyes and an ease that assumed the room would rearrange itself to accommodate her.

Hattie recognized her instantly.

Even after years.

Even with the softened edges of adulthood—the slightly different makeup, the more expensive coat, the wedding ring missing.

She was still the girl Bedford Falls had once decided belonged with Declan.

The one everyone had called his “future wife” like it was a foregone conclusion. The one who had left town, gotten married, had a whole life somewhere else.

And now she was walking into the station like she’d never stopped being entitled to it.

Hattie’s fingers stayed on her mouse. Her face stayed neutral. She’d learned that trick a long time ago—how to keep her expression smooth even when something in her chest clenched.

“Hi,” Hattie said, professional. Bright enough to be polite. “Can I help you?”

The woman’s gaze flicked to her, a quick skim—hair, sweater, badge, desk. Her eyes didn’t sharpen with recognition. Not visibly. Not the way they used to, when recognition meant a smirk and a whisper and a laugh passed between friends like a weapon.

Instead, she smiled in a way that made Hattie feel twelve again. The kind of smile that said I don’t need to know your name to know I’m above you.

“Is Declan here?” she asked.

Just like that. No last name. No hesitation. Like she had every right to use his first name in this building.

Hattie felt it in her stomach—an immediate, stupid twist. A reflex. Anger, maybe. Or unease. Or the old, ugly echo of of course it’s her, of course it would be her.

She glanced toward the hallway out of habit, even though she already knew.

“He’s out on a call,” Hattie said evenly. “Do you want to leave a message?”

The woman made a soft little sound—sympathetic, almost. Her gaze drifted past Hattie toward the back of the station as if she could see through the walls.

“Oh,” she said, like that was mildly inconvenient. “That’s okay. I don’t need to take up much time.”

She shifted the vase of flowers in her arms, revealing it properly.

A clear glass vase. Fresh water. A careful arrangement—too perfect to be accidental. White blooms with something green and glossy tucked between. It looked expensive. It looked like someone had walked into a shop and asked for “impressive.”

And attached to it, a small folded note card.

Hattie’s eyes locked on the card before she could stop herself.

The woman stepped closer, setting the vase gently on the edge of Hattie’s desk like it belonged there. Like Hattie was simply a surface to use.

“Would you mind giving these to him?” she asked, voice light. Friendly. As if this was normal. As if she wasn’t dropping a grenade into the middle of Hattie’s morning.

Hattie didn’t move right away.

She heard herself say, “Of course,” because professionalism was a reflex and she didn’t want her hands to shake.

She reached out and steadied the vase, fingers curling around the glass. Cold and slick.

The woman’s nails were perfect. Of course they were.

“He’ll know they’re from me,” she added, still smiling. “But there’s a note attached anyway.”

Hattie nodded once, throat tight in a way she refused to show.

“What name should I put it under?” she asked, because she wasn’t giving her the satisfaction of being unchallenged. Because she wanted, for one tiny second, to force her to say it out loud.

The woman blinked—slow, almost amused.

Then her smile widened just a fraction.

“Just tell him it’s from Madison Hart,” she said, like it was still obvious. Like it should still carry weight.

Hattie’s stomach dropped anyway, even though she’d already known it.

The sound of it felt like the past walking straight into the present and dragging muddy footprints over everything clean.

Hattie nodded again, the motion small. Controlled.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll make sure he gets them.”

The woman lingered for a half beat longer than necessary, her gaze roaming over Hattie’s desk—forms stacked neatly, a pen cup, the small station calendar with shift blocks highlighted.

Then her eyes landed on Hattie again.

And this time, the smile changed.

It softened at the edges, but in a way that didn’t read kind. It read… precise.

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s nice to see Bedford Falls hasn’t changed much.”

A pause, like she was considering something.

Then, casually—too casually—she added, “Some people always did know how to… keep themselves in the background here.”

Hattie felt the words hit like a fingertip pressed to an old bruise.

Nothing overt. Nothing anyone could quote back as proof of cruelty.

But it was sharp enough that Hattie knew.

She knew exactly who had once said things like that in the hallway at school. Exactly who had laughed when Hattie tried to speak and someone cut her off. Exactly who had treated her like she was invisible until she needed a target.

Madison’s gaze stayed on her for one more beat, satisfied.

Then she turned and walked out of the station like she’d just dropped off a casserole.

The doors swung shut behind her.

The lobby went quiet again.

Hattie didn’t move.

She stared at the vase on her desk like it might bite.

Her fingers were still around the glass, knuckles pale. She could feel her pulse in her fingertips. She could feel the weight of the note like it had its own gravity.

She didn’t read it.

She could have. She could have unfolded that card and confirmed every suspicion, every fear, every awful little possibility her brain was already offering up like a buffet.

But she didn’t.

Because reading it would make it real in a way she didn’t want to touch yet. Because she didn’t want that woman to win by making her spiral. Because she trusted Declan—and she also trusted her own capacity to self-destruct if she gave herself the wrong kind of information at the wrong time.

So she left it.

She kept working.

Or tried to.

The mouse moved. The screen scrolled. The numbers blurred. She clicked the same box twice and didn’t even register it.

Her gaze kept snapping back to the flowers.

White petals. Green leaves. Water catching the overhead light.

For him.

Just sitting there, perfectly arranged, perfectly placed.

Like a claim.

Like a reminder.

Like an old life trying to walk back into his hands.

Hattie’s stomach twisted again. Not jealousy exactly—something more complicated. Something older. A mix of humiliation and anger and the quiet fear of being compared to a version of him she’d never had.

She stared at the note again.

Still didn’t read it.

Time dragged the way it always did when she was waiting for something she didn’t want to face.

Then the radio crackled—voices louder, boots in the hall, the familiar shift in atmosphere when the crew returned.

Hattie’s heart kicked once, hard.

She looked up as the station doors opened again, this time with the normal bustle of movement and sound. Someone laughed down the hall. A coat got tossed somewhere. The world resumed.

And then Declan appeared.

He came down the hallway toward the lobby like he always did when he saw her at her desk—unhurried, drawn to her without thinking about it. Like his body had its own compass. Like coming to her was the first thing he did when he got back.

Hattie’s throat tightened.

He was in turnout pants, t-shirt slightly damp, hair a little mussed from the helmet. He looked tired in that familiar way—worked hard, still steady.

He stepped closer, attention already on her, that usual warmth in his face—like he was about to greet her the way he always did, like nothing had shifted in the world while he was gone.

Hattie forced her expression into something readable. Something normal.

She nodded once toward the vase.

“Those are for you,” she said, voice carefully light.

And she watched him—watched his eyes flick to the flowers—while the note sat untouched on her desk like a held breath.

Declan clocked the flowers the second she nodded toward them.

Not because he was expecting something.

Because Hattie’s voice wasn’t quite right.

It was subtle—so subtle most people wouldn’t catch it. Still light. Still controlled. Still professional. But he knew her cadence the way he knew the sound of the station alarms. He knew the difference between fine and holding it together.

His eyes dropped to the vase.

Then back to her.

And something in his expression changed immediately—not confusion, not curiosity. Awareness.

He stepped closer to the desk without thinking, boots slowing, his body angling toward her instead of the flowers like that was instinct. Like she was the thing that mattered here.

“For me?” he asked, voice low and calm, but his gaze was already back on her face, searching. Checking in. Making sure she was still with him.

He followed her line of sight again, taking the arrangement in properly this time. The care. The expense. The note.

Recognition hit him then—clean and sharp.

Madison.

It didn’t land like nostalgia. It landed like an interruption.

His jaw tightened once—not in anger exactly, but in something protective clicking into place. His eyes flicked back to Hattie immediately, not wanting her to sit in the space between that name and whatever her brain might be filling in.

“Did she say anything to you?” he asked quietly.

Not What does the note say?
Not Why is she here?

Just that.

Because the flowers didn’t matter yet. Because the note could wait. Because Hattie’s expression—the way she was holding herself just a fraction too still—mattered more.

He reached out then, slow and deliberate, not touching her at first—just resting his hand on the edge of the desk near hers. An anchor. A choice.

“She shouldn’t have done this,” he added calmly, voice steady with certainty. “Not like that. Not here.”

His gaze softened when it met hers again.

“You okay?” he asked, quieter now. Not performative. Not loud. Just real concern, offered without urgency or pressure.

Then—gentler, unmistakably him—

“Talk to me,” Declan said. “I’m right here.”

He didn’t pick up the flowers.
Didn’t touch the note.
Didn’t give the past even a second more attention than it deserved.

He stayed focused on Hattie—grounded, present, unshaken.

Like whatever had just walked into the station didn’t stand a chance of changing where he stood.

Hattie felt it the moment Declan’s attention narrowed on her.

Not on the vase. Not on the card. Not on the name attached to it.

On her.

It should’ve been comforting. It usually was. His instinct to check on her, to anchor first and ask questions second—she loved that about him. She loved the way he noticed her the way other people didn’t. The way he treated her like the most important thing in any room.

But Madison Hart standing in the lobby—Madison Hart with her perfectly arranged flowers and that smile that could cut—had done something to Hattie’s nervous system. It had yanked her back into a version of herself she hated.

Small. Quiet. A girl who kept her head down and tried not to be seen because being seen meant becoming a target.

So when Declan asked, Did she say anything to you?

Hattie heard something else.

Not Did she insult you? Did she make you uncomfortable?—the obvious, protective meaning.

Her brain, already halfway spiraling, translated it into: Did she tell you anything? About me? About then? About things I don’t want dragged back up?

Like Madison carried secrets. Like Madison had a claim to a past that might matter more than Hattie wanted it to.

And when Declan said, She shouldn’t have done this. Not like that. Not here…

The logical part of Hattie tried to catch it—tried to hold it in place as the boundary it was. As him saying: This is inappropriate. This is not welcome.

But the emotional part, hot and bruised and suddenly young, heard it like: Not in front of you.

As if the flowers could be fine in a different context. As if Madison sending them wasn’t the problem—the problem was where Hattie had to see it.

It was irrational. She knew it was. She knew Declan. She knew the shape of his loyalty, the way it lived in his actions, the way he came back to her every single time like it was reflex. He had never made her feel replaceable. Never made her compete. Never even hinted that he missed what came before.

And still, her chest tightened like someone had cinched a belt around her ribs.

She stared at the vase, at the white blooms arranged so perfectly they looked like a performance. At the note.

Declan asked if she was okay.

Hattie nodded once.

“Yeah,” she said, too quickly. “I’m fine.”

It sounded like a lie even to her.

Her fingers moved the mouse. Clicked a box. The screen changed. None of it registered. Her eyes kept snagging on the flowers, like they were a bright stain on her desk.

Declan was still there—hand near hers, not touching, offering. He was waiting, steady as ever, giving her space to choose what to say.

And Hattie hated herself for not being able to just take it. To just lean into him and let the comfort do what it always did.

But Madison’s voice—pleasant and sharp—kept echoing in her head. The subtle dig that could be denied if confronted. The reminder that she remembered exactly who Hattie had been.

Hattie’s throat tightened.

“She… didn’t really say anything,” she managed after a beat, keeping her gaze fixed on the edge of her monitor instead of his face. “Asked if you were here. Said you were out on a call.”

Her voice stayed even, like she was reading off a report. Like she wasn’t feeling a whole mess of things she didn’t want to admit.

“She dropped those off,” Hattie continued, nodding once toward the vase. “And said you’d know they were from her.”

She didn’t say Madison’s name again. She couldn’t stand the way it sat in her mouth.

She swallowed and forced her shoulders to stay loose, even though they wanted to curl inward.

“And… she left,” Hattie finished, small and final.

Her eyes flicked to Declan for half a second—just long enough to confirm he was still watching her, still here—and then she looked away again before she could see whatever expression he wore. Before she could see the tenderness that would make her crack.

Because she could feel the misunderstanding brewing like a storm, and she didn’t trust herself not to say something stupid.

Something jealous.

Something insecure.

So she did the only thing that felt safe in the moment.

She shut down.

Quiet. Minimal. Controlled.

Letting the flowers sit there between them like a dare, while she tried—hard—to pull herself back out of the past Madison had dragged to the surface.

Declan saw it happen in real time.

The nod that came too fast.
The I’m fine that didn’t land right.
The way her eyes stayed anywhere but on him.

That wasn’t Hattie being okay.
That was Hattie pulling the shutters down because something hurt and she didn’t trust it yet.

He didn’t interrupt her while she spoke. Didn’t correct her tone. Didn’t rush to explain. He stayed exactly where he was, listening the way he always did—shoulders squared toward her, attention steady, body angled like nothing else in the room mattered.

But when she finished—when she swallowed and shut herself down—something in him made a decision.

He straightened, finally withdrawing his hand from the edge of her desk.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

Then he reached for the vase.

Not dramatically. Not angrily. Just decisively.

He picked it up, water sloshing softly against the glass, walked the three steps to the trash can near the break area, and dropped the entire thing in—flowers, note, vase and all.

Glass clinked. Petals crushed. Done.

He didn’t look back at it.

He came right back to her desk and leaned down so they were closer to eye level, bracing one hand on the counter—not crowding her, but closing the distance enough that she couldn’t disappear without choosing to.

“Hattie,” he said gently, voice low and grounded. “Look at me.”

He waited.

Not because he needed permission—but because he respected her enough to give her the choice.

When she didn’t immediately turn, he softened further.

“I don’t care what she said,” he told her honestly. “I don’t care what she brought. I don’t care what she thinks she remembers.”

A beat.

“I care about what you just felt.”

His gaze searched her face now—not for jealousy, not for answers—but for hurt.

“And I don’t like that you’re carrying it alone,” he added, quieter.

He shifted closer, lowering himself into the chair beside her desk so he wasn’t looming, so he was right there with her instead of over her.

“That woman doesn’t get space in my life,” Declan said plainly. “She doesn’t get context. She doesn’t get nostalgia. She sure as hell doesn’t get to walk into my station and drop something on my desk like she still belongs anywhere near me.”

His jaw tightened—not with anger toward Madison, but with protectiveness toward Hattie.

“But you,” he continued, voice steady and sincere, “you’re standing here trying to convince yourself you’re fine when you’re clearly not.”

He paused, letting the words land without pressure.

“I’m not upset with you,” he said softly. “I’m worried about you.”

Then—honest to the bone—

“I don’t want you quiet with me,” Declan told her. “Not when something hurts. Not when you feel small. Not when someone drags up a version of you that doesn’t belong anymore.”

He reached out finally, slow and careful, resting his hand over hers on the desk—warm, solid, unmistakably real.

“Please,” he said, voice dropping. Not commanding. Not defensive. Just open.
“Talk to me.”

His thumb brushed lightly against her knuckles, grounding.

“You don’t have to protect me from your feelings,” he added. “I can handle them.”

He held her gaze now, unwavering.

“And you don’t have to compete with a past I already threw away.”

Hattie stared at the trash can like her brain couldn’t quite accept what her eyes had just watched happen.

The sound of glass clinking—petals crushed—still rang in the back of her skull like a punctuation mark she hadn’t seen coming.

It wasn’t dramatic. That was the thing.

Declan hadn’t made a show of it. He hadn’t raised his voice or stormed or looked around to see who noticed. He’d just… handled it. The way he handled everything that mattered. Like it was simple. Like it was obvious.

Like Madison Hart didn’t get to leave anything behind in their space.

Hattie’s throat tightened anyway, but it wasn’t the sharp, embarrassed kind from earlier. It was different now. Softer. Hotter behind her eyes. The kind that came when you realized someone had you so completely they could read what you hadn’t said and answer it anyway.

She heard her name—gentle, low—and felt the distance close as he leaned in. Even the way he did that was careful, like he was making sure she didn’t feel cornered. Like he was offering closeness, not forcing it.

Look at me.

Hattie’s lashes fluttered once. Twice. Her gaze had been stuck on the edge of her monitor, on the neat lines of her desk, on anything that felt controllable.

But Declan was right there. Steady. Present. The only thing in the room that actually mattered.

So she looked.

And the second she met his eyes, something inside her gave way—not in a collapse, not in a spiral. Just in the quiet surrender of being seen.

He wasn’t angry.

He wasn’t jealous.

He wasn’t shaken.

He was worried.

Worried in that grounding way that always made Hattie feel both held and gently called out. Like he refused to let her disappear on him, not because he needed her to perform okayness, but because he wanted her with him.

When he said he didn’t care what Madison said or brought, Hattie believed him. Not because it sounded nice, but because he’d already proven it in the simplest, cleanest way possible.

And when he said he cared about what she just felt—

Hattie’s mouth parted like she might speak immediately.

Nothing came out.

Because it wasn’t jealousy that had swallowed her earlier. Not really. It had been that awful, disorienting snap-back into an old skin—into a version of herself she hadn’t worn in years. The one who got shoved aside by girls like Madison. The one who learned to survive by making herself smaller.

She hated that she still had that in her.

She hated that Madison could walk in and find it with one sentence.

Declan moved to the chair beside her desk, lowering himself so he wasn’t looming, so he was right there level with her. And when his hand covered hers on the desk—warm, solid—Hattie felt the last of her resistance unravel.

It was such a simple touch.

But it reminded her what was real.

I can handle them.

Her feelings.

Her mess.

Her bruises.

Hattie swallowed hard, her thumb shifting under his palm in a tiny motion that was half a flinch, half a reach.

“I know,” she managed finally, voice quiet. Not brittle. Just small from disuse. “I know you can.”

She drew a slow breath through her nose, trying to steady the ridiculous wetness building behind her eyes.

“I’m not—” Hattie started, then stopped, because she wasn’t going to lie to him. Not after what he’d just done. Not after the way he was looking at her like honesty was the only thing he wanted.

She tried again.

“I’m not competing with her,” she said, more firmly this time. The words came out as a truth she needed to hear out loud. “I know I’m not. I know you’re not… looking for something.”

Her gaze flicked, just for a second, toward the trash can.

Then back to him.

“It just…” Hattie’s throat tightened again, and she huffed a quiet breath like she was annoyed at herself. “It hit me so fast. Seeing her. Hearing her voice. That smile.”

Her fingers curled under his hand, holding on now.

“It made me feel sixteen again,” she admitted, and the confession landed heavy and honest between them. “Like I was back in school and she was…” She didn’t even have to finish it. Declan already knew. He’d known the moment her shoulders went still.

Hattie’s mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“She didn’t even have to say anything big,” she added, quieter. “It was just—one of those little comments. The kind you can’t prove. The kind that sounds normal if you repeat it later, but you know exactly what it means when it’s said to you.”

She blinked hard once, refusing to let the tears fall. Not because she was ashamed—just because she didn’t want Madison Hart to get that kind of power.

Hattie shifted in her chair, turning a little more toward Declan, letting herself face him fully instead of hiding behind her desk.

“I hate that it worked,” she whispered, jaw tight with frustration. “I hate that she can still… reach that version of me.”

A beat.

Then, softer. Realer.

“And I hate that my first instinct was to shut down instead of just—” she made a small motion with her free hand, like she was gesturing at the obvious. You. “—instead of just letting you be here.”

Her eyes searched his face, as if she needed to confirm he wasn’t disappointed in her for it.

“I’m sorry,” Hattie said, immediately regretting the apology because he’d told her not to protect him from her feelings and she’d gone and tried to make herself smaller again anyway.

She tightened her fingers around his.

“I’m here,” she corrected, like a promise to herself as much as to him. “I’m talking. I’m… trying.”

Her voice dipped, barely above the hum of the station.

“It didn’t make me doubt you,” she said, holding his gaze. “It just made me feel… embarrassed. Like I was suddenly back in a place where she got to decide I was small.”

Hattie’s breath shuddered, and then she exhaled slowly.

“But she doesn’t,” she whispered, and there was something stubborn in it now. Something like Hattie coming back to herself. “She doesn’t get to decide that anymore.”

Her thumb brushed lightly under Declan’s palm.

“And she definitely doesn’t get to leave flowers on my desk.”

Declan didn’t interrupt her once.

He stayed exactly where he was—close, grounded, listening with the kind of attention that wasn’t about waiting for his turn to speak. His thumb stayed warm over her hand, steady, anchoring, like he was reminding her without words: I’m still here. You didn’t lose me.

When she said sixteen again, something in his chest tightened—not anger, not jealousy, but a deep, protective ache. Not for the past. For her, having carried that version of herself longer than she ever should’ve had to.

“Hattie,” he said softly, saying her name like it was a reassurance all by itself.

He leaned just a little closer, not crowding, not forcing—just enough that she didn’t feel alone with the memory.

“You don’t need to apologize,” he told her gently. “Not for this. Not for shutting down. Not for needing a second to find your footing.”

His eyes stayed on hers, open and honest and unshaken.

“That wasn’t weakness,” he continued. “That was your nervous system recognizing an old threat and trying to protect you the way it learned to.”

A beat.

“And it makes sense,” he added. “You didn’t imagine it. People like her… they get very good at hurting without leaving fingerprints.”

When she said she hated that it worked—that Madison could still reach that old version of her—Declan shook his head slowly, a quiet refusal of the premise.

“She didn’t reach you,” he said, firm but kind. “She brushed up against a scar that was already there.”

His thumb moved then, slow and deliberate, brushing a small circle over her knuckles—grounding, affectionate.

“And scars don’t mean you’re still wounded,” he said. “They mean you healed once. They mean you survived.”

When she said she doesn’t get to decide that anymore, something unmistakably proud flickered across his face. Not loud. Not showy. Just solid.

“No,” he agreed quietly. “She doesn’t.”

He squeezed her hand—not tight, just present.

“And she doesn’t get to rewrite who you are now,” he went on. “She doesn’t get to pretend you’re background noise in your own life.”

His gaze softened, affectionate in a way that was unmistakably personal.

“You’re not small,” Declan said. “You never were. You were just surrounded by people who needed you to be so they could feel bigger.”

He let that sit for a moment, then added, quieter—more intimate—

“And you don’t have to go back there. Not ever. Not with me.”

When she corrected herself—I’m here. I’m talking. I’m trying.—his mouth curved into the faintest smile. Not amused. Relieved.

“I know,” he said. “And you’re doing great.”

Then, gently teasing, because she needed it too—

“You don’t have to be perfect at it,” he added. “You just have to let me sit with you while you sort it out.”

When she said it didn’t make her doubt him—just made her feel embarrassed—his expression turned even softer, like he wished he could take that feeling off her entirely.

“There’s nothing embarrassing about being human,” he said. “Or about old wounds flaring up when someone pokes them on purpose.”

A pause.

“And for the record,” he added, voice low and warm, “anybody who thinks they can walk into a room you’re in and make you feel small again is deeply mistaken.”

His eyes flicked—just briefly—to the trash can. Then back to her.

“And no,” he said, a hint of quiet humor threading through the affection now, “she definitely doesn’t get to leave flowers on your desk.”

He shifted closer in the chair, shoulder brushing hers now—intentional, grounding.

“You’re allowed to take up space,” Declan said. “You’re allowed to feel things. And you’re allowed to lean on me when the past gets loud.”

His voice softened even more.

“That’s not a burden,” he told her. “That’s part of being with you.”

He gave her hand one more gentle squeeze.

“I’ve got you,” Declan said simply. “Today. Then. Now. All of it.”

And he meant it—not as reassurance spoken in the moment, but as a fact he lived by.

Hattie felt her body react before her brain did—the tiniest, involuntary loosening, like her shoulders had been braced for impact and only now realized the hit wasn’t coming.

Because Declan wasn’t coming at her with impatience or problem-solving or that stiff kind of reassurance people offered when they wanted you to hurry up and be okay again.

He was just… with her.

Close. Steady. Listening like it mattered because it was her.

When he said her name—soft, careful—something in her chest pinched. Not painful, exactly. Just full. Like she didn’t have enough room inside herself for how much she loved him in that moment.

You don’t need to apologize.

Hattie swallowed, and for the first time since Madison walked in, she felt her eyes burn for a reason that wasn’t shame.

He was right. Every word of it.

The nervous system part. The scars. The fingerprints. The stupid, lingering survival instincts that were still trying to protect the version of her that didn’t have anyone protecting her back then.

She hated that she needed it said out loud to believe it.

But she did.

And he was saying it anyway.

When he told her she was never small—just surrounded by people who needed her to be—Hattie’s breath caught in her throat. Her free hand lifted before she thought about it, fingers pressing lightly against her own sternum like she was trying to keep that sentence from sliding right through her.

Because it hit somewhere old.

A place she didn’t talk about much. A place she’d convinced herself didn’t matter anymore because she’d grown up and gotten out and built a life.

But Declan looked at her like all of it mattered. Like he saw the full timeline of her and didn’t flinch at any part of it.

She blinked hard once, then let out a small, shaky breath that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t so close to tears.

“God,” Hattie murmured, voice quiet. “You’re… really good at this.”

It was half accusation, half awe.

Her thumb shifted beneath his, tracing the edge of his hand like she needed to keep contact with something real.

When he said she didn’t have to go back there—not ever, not with him—Hattie felt something settle. Something that had been vibrating under her skin since Madison walked out.

A kind of certainty.

Not the dramatic kind. The lived-in kind. The kind that came from a man who didn’t just say things—he did them. Like dropping the flowers in the trash had been as natural as breathing.

Hattie looked at him for a long second.

Then she nodded—slow this time. Deliberate.

“I know,” she whispered, repeating it back like she was teaching it to herself. “I know I don’t.”

Her mouth pulled into the faintest smile, soft at the corners.

“It just…” she exhaled, and her shoulders rose and fell like she was shaking off something she didn’t want clinging to her. “It made me feel stupid. For a second. Like my brain forgot where I am now.”

She glanced toward the trash can again, then back to Declan. The sight of it—gone, handled, done—made warmth rush through her in a way that almost embarrassed her, because it shouldn’t have meant so much.

But it did.

Because nobody had ever done that for sixteen-year-old Hattie.

Nobody had ever taken the thing that made her feel small and thrown it away like it was nothing.

Hattie’s voice softened.

“Thank you,” she said simply.

Not for the flowers. Not for the line he held. Not even for the words.

For the fact he’d chosen her so quickly it hadn’t even been a choice.

She swallowed again, then—because she couldn’t help it—she lifted their joined hands slightly and pressed a quick kiss to his knuckles. A small, instinctive act of affection that felt like reclaiming her own steadiness.

Then she let her forehead tip toward his shoulder for a brief second—just a brush, just a moment.

“I don’t want to be quiet with you,” she admitted, voice low. “I just… sometimes my body does it before I can stop it.”

She drew back enough to look at him again. Her eyes were clear now—still tender, but not lost.

“And I’m not going to let her make me feel like I have to—” Hattie gestured vaguely, like she was erasing something in the air. “—shrink. Not here. Not in your station. Not in my life.”

A beat.

Her expression sharpened, not cruel—just sure. Hattie coming back online.

“But I will say,” she added, voice dry, “the audacity of dropping a vase on my desk like I’m her personal assistant? That part? I might actually commit a misdemeanor over.”

The humor wasn’t a deflection so much as a pressure release. A way to prove she could breathe again.

She squeezed his hand, firm and present.

“And if she comes back,” Hattie continued, tone calmer but edged with resolve, “I’m not doing the polite frozen thing. I’m not giving her that.”

Her brows lifted slightly.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to manage it, either,” she said, honest. “I’m not asking you to fix it. I just… I want to be on the same page.”

She paused, then let the real truth surface—quiet and unpretty.

“It scared me how fast it took me back,” she confessed. “Not because of her—because of what it reminded me I used to believe about myself.”

Her fingers tightened around his.

“But you’re right,” she said softly. “That’s not who I am anymore.”

Another beat, and then her mouth curved—small, genuine.

“And… I like you seeing me,” Hattie admitted, quieter. “Even when it’s messy. Especially then.”

Her thumb brushed once more over his knuckles—grounding herself the way he’d grounded her.

“I’m okay,” she said again, but this time it wasn’t a lie. “Now I am.”

And she held his gaze like a choice. Like she wasn’t letting the past yank her away from the present ever again.

Declan listened all the way through.

He didn’t cut in when her voice wavered, didn’t rush to reassure when her eyes burned, didn’t steal the moment by trying to fix it faster than it needed to be fixed. He stayed exactly where he was—hand warm over hers, shoulder close enough to lean into—letting her say it in her own order.

When she kissed his knuckles, something quiet shifted in his expression. Not surprise. Recognition. Like that small, instinctive tenderness landed right where it was meant to.

“Hey,” he said softly when she finished, voice low and steady, the way it always was when he meant it. “Thank you for telling me.”

Not it’s okay.
Not don’t worry about it.

Thank you.

He turned his hand slightly so their fingers threaded more securely, grounding them together instead of just touching.

“You’re not stupid,” Declan said gently. “And you didn’t forget who you are.”

He leaned in a fraction, forehead nearly touching hers now, close enough that the rest of the station faded out.

“You recognized an old pattern,” he continued. “And your body reacted before your brain caught up. That’s not weakness—that’s history.”

A beat.

“And the fact that you noticed it?” His thumb brushed once, slow and reassuring, over her hand. “That’s growth.”

When she thanked him—really thanked him—his jaw tightened just a little, not with discomfort, but with something like resolve.

“You don’t owe me thanks for choosing you,” he said quietly. “That part’s not effort. That’s just… how I am with you.”

He let that sit, then added, warmer now:

“And for the record? Sixteen-year-old you deserved someone to throw the damn vase away too.”

The humor crept in gently when she joked about committing a misdemeanor, a corner of his mouth lifting.

“I would’ve backed you up,” he said dryly. “As a witness. Possibly as an accessory.”

But when she talked about not shrinking—about not freezing again—his attention sharpened, receptive and serious.

“I’m glad you said that,” he told her. “Because I don’t want to manage you. I want to stand next to you.”

He nodded once, deliberate.

“We’re on the same page,” Declan said. “If she comes back, you don’t owe her politeness. And you don’t owe me silence.”

When she admitted what scared her—the speed of the pull back into old beliefs—his gaze softened even more.

“That makes sense,” he said. “Those beliefs didn’t disappear overnight. They just stopped being true.”

He leaned in then, resting his forehead lightly against hers for a second—no rush, no pressure—just contact.

“And you’re right,” he murmured. “That’s not who you are anymore.”

When she said she liked him seeing her—even messy—he didn’t hesitate.

“I like being trusted with that,” Declan said. “I like knowing all of you. Not just the parts that feel put together.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her properly, eyes steady, affectionate, unshaken.

“You don’t have to be okay fast with me,” he added. “You don’t have to be strong first. You can just be honest.”

His thumb brushed her knuckles one last time, grounding.

“And I believe you,” he said quietly. “You are okay. And if it flares up again someday? I’ll be here for that too.”

No drama.
No big promise.

Just truth.

He stayed close, holding her gaze like a choice too—one he wasn’t letting go of.

Hattie felt the last of the tightness in her chest loosen—slowly, like a knot she’d been picking at finally giving up.

Declan didn’t make her sprint back to normal. He didn’t try to fix her feelings like they were a problem to solve. He just… held her there. With his hand over hers, with his forehead to hers, with his voice steady enough to lean on.

And God, she loved him for it.

Loved him in that bone-deep way that wasn’t soft or fragile—it was certain. Like a truth she didn’t have to argue herself into.

The old shame was still there in the background, but it wasn’t running the show anymore. Not with him looking at her like that. Not with him reminding her, without even trying, that she didn’t have to disappear to be safe.

Hattie blinked once, then let out a small breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh—quiet, a little disbelieving, a little warmed through.

“Okay,” she said, like she was testing the word. Like she was trying it on again to see if it fit.

It did.

She tipped her head slightly, eyes flicking down to their hands and then back up to his face. The station noise had returned—distant, normal, background—but she stayed right here with him, still caught in that pocket of closeness he’d made for her.

“You know,” she murmured, and there it was—the faint edge of her again. Not sharp. Not defensive. Just… Hattie. “Throwing an entire vase away was… aggressively boyfriend of you.”

Her mouth curved. A real smile this time, small but unmistakably backlit with mischief.

Like the part of her that liked to poke at him had finally found oxygen.

She squeezed his hand under his palm, a little squeeze that said I’m okay enough to be annoying again.

“And I’m not saying I’m keeping score,” she continued, tone light, but her eyes gave her away—adoring, amused, safe. “But if we’re being honest, that was kind of hot.”

The words landed with just enough bratty confidence to feel like a reclaiming.

Like she was choosing her footing on purpose.

Hattie leaned in a fraction, still close, not kissing him—just letting him feel her presence in that deliberate way she had when she was trying to remind both of them who she was.

“Also,” she added, brows lifting slightly, “thank you for the note about sixteen-year-old me.”

Her expression softened for half a beat—something tender flickering through the humor.

Then the warmth came back, brighter.

“Because I’m pretty sure sixteen-year-old me is currently standing behind my shoulder like…,” she made a tiny gesture with her free hand, as if miming a teen girl clutching a binder, “did that man just commit emotional arson on my behalf?”

Hattie’s smile widened, the bratty charm sliding back into place like a familiar jacket.

She tilted her head and glanced, pointedly, toward the trash can. The wreckage was still there, out of sight but not out of mind.

“So,” she said, voice sweet in a way that was absolutely not innocent, “if Madison Hart comes back, what’s the station policy? Do we have a special bin for delusions or…?”

Her eyes returned to Declan’s, shining now—confidence rebuilding itself in real time, because she could feel him next to her, not ahead of her. Not managing. Just with.

She drew in a breath, then let it out through her nose, steadying.

“But seriously,” she said, quieter, still playful but more grounded, “thank you for not letting me go quiet in there.”

She squeezed his hand again, then gently pulled her other hand free—finally trusting that she wasn’t going to fall apart the second she wasn’t holding onto him.

Her shoulders rolled back a fraction. Not stiff. Not forced. Just… returning.

“I’m good,” she said, and this time it sounded true. “Not ‘fine.’ Good.”

Her eyes flicked briefly down the hallway, like she was recalibrating back into the station, back into the day.

Then she looked back at him, that familiar, slightly bossy sparkle starting to surface.

“Now,” she added, a touch of command sliding into her tone—playful, affectionate, all Hattie, “since you just threw away a perfectly good vase like some kind of morally upright Viking—”

She leaned in closer again, like she was about to share classified information.

“—you’re going to walk with me to the supply closet. Because I need a new pen box, and I would like your large, intimidating presence beside me while I reassert my dominance over the lobby.”

Her mouth curved into a grin.

“And if anyone asks,” she said, eyes flicking to his, daring, warm, “you’re my accessory.”

Declan’s mouth curved before he even answered—slow, fond, unmistakably relieved.

He watched her come back to herself in real time: the shoulders settling, the spark returning, the way her humor slid back into place like it had never really left—just been waiting for permission to breathe again.

“Okay,” he echoed softly, like he was agreeing to something sacred. “Yeah. That fits.”

When she called the vase thing aggressively boyfriend, he huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head once.

“I panicked,” he admitted easily. “Saw a problem. Removed the problem. Very advanced emotional skillset.”

Her squeeze landed exactly where she meant it to, and when she called it hot, his brows lifted just a fraction—amused, pleased, absolutely not pretending it didn’t land.

“Good,” he said, tone warm. “Because I’d hate to waste perfectly executed emotional arson.”

At the mention of sixteen-year-old her—standing behind her shoulder—his expression softened again, eyes gentling in a way that said he was picturing it too.

“She’s welcome here,” he said quietly. “But she doesn’t have to do the talking anymore.”

Then she glanced at the trash can, asked about station policy, and Declan’s smile turned downright wicked.

“Oh, there’s a protocol,” he said calmly. “Unverified delusions get disposed of immediately. Preferably without witnesses.”

A beat.

“And repeat offenders,” he added, dry as hell, “get escorted out by someone very large and deeply unimpressed.”

When she thanked him again—really thanked him—for not letting her go quiet, he sobered just enough to meet it honestly.

“I won’t let you disappear on me,” Declan said. “Not when you’re hurting. Not when you’re healing. Not ever.”

He noticed the moment she let go—not because he was watching for it, but because he trusted it meant she was steady again. That she wasn’t leaving the moment—just standing on her own feet now.

When she said she was good, not fine, he nodded once, satisfied.

“Yeah,” he said. “I can see that.”

Then she gave him the assignment.

The supply closet.
The intimidation.
The accessory comment.

Declan snorted, already rising to his feet, towering easily beside her without trying.

“Your accessory?” he repeated, mock-offended. “I prefer ‘visual deterrent.’”

He stepped in close—not crowding, just present—and gestured toward the hallway with a small tilt of his head.

“Lead the way,” he said. “I’ll loom respectfully.”

As they started walking, he leaned down just enough to murmur near her ear, voice low and amused:

“And for the record? I look great reasserting lobby dominance.”

Then, louder—purely for effect—he added,

“Anybody gives you trouble,” he said mildly, “I’m available to stand there silently until they rethink their life choices.”

He glanced down at her, eyes warm, playful, completely hers.

“Accessory reporting for duty.”

Declan matched her pace easily as they walked, long stride naturally slowing to stay right beside her. He didn’t rush ahead, didn’t hang back—just there, shoulder close enough to brush hers when the hallway narrowed.

He glanced down at her, the corner of his mouth tipped with quiet amusement.

“You know,” he said softly, affectionate in a way that didn’t need volume, “I’m very proud of how you handled that.”

Not dramatic. Not a speech. Just a fact, offered like a warm hand at her back.

He reached out and rested his palm lightly between her shoulder blades as they walked—guiding, grounding, not steering her anywhere she wasn’t already going.

“You didn’t shrink,” he continued. “You paused. Then you chose yourself. That’s different.”

When they reached the supply closet, he held the door for her without comment, stepping aside so she could go first. His hand lingered at her lower back for a beat longer than necessary, thumb brushing once—an anchor more than a touch.

Inside, the fluorescent light hummed. Shelves of labeled bins. Normal. Mundane. Safe.

He leaned against the doorframe while she scanned for the pen box, arms folding loosely, posture relaxed but present.

“I’ve got you,” he said quietly, like a reminder she could pocket for later. “Even on boring errands. Especially on boring errands.”

She found what she needed, and when she turned back toward him, he smiled—soft, unmistakably fond.

“There it is,” he murmured. “That look. You’re back.”

He stepped in just enough to close the distance, brushing his knuckles against her wrist—gentle, affectionate.

“And just so we’re clear,” he added, voice warm with a hint of teasing, “I’ll happily be your accessory anytime. Lobby dominance, supply runs, emotional arson cleanups—whatever’s on the schedule.”

His gaze held hers, steady and sure.

“Come on,” Declan said, thumb giving one last reassuring sweep. “Let’s get you set up. I’ll walk you back.”