"Impatient?" Hattie echoed, the word rolling off her tongue with a lightness that belied the thrumming energy under her skin.

She turned her hand palm-up beneath his, lacing her fingers through his broad, warm ones, anchoring herself against his thigh. The contact was heavy and grounding, a stark contrast to the way her pulse was starting to pick up speed.

"I can be patient," she lied, leaning her head back against the leather headrest, though she didn't take her eyes off his profile. The passing streetlights cut across his face in rhythmic flashes—illumination, shadow, illumination, shadow—highlighting the hard set of his jaw and the focused intensity of his gaze.

"I'm just being... efficient," she teased, borrowing his favorite word. She squeezed his hand, letting her thumb graze the side of his index finger. "Consider this the pre-heat cycle. I wouldn't want you pulling a muscle trying to keep up with me later."

She shifted slightly in her seat, testing the limits of the seatbelt, letting her knee knock gently against the center console. She wasn't going to push it further—not really. She wasn't going to unbuckle or reach for his belt or do anything that would make him pull over on the shoulder of the highway. That wasn't the game.

The game was containment. The game was sitting here, strapped in and safe, while filling the cab with enough tension to choke on.

"Besides," she murmured, her voice dropping to a low, sultry hum that competed with the engine. "You talked a big game this morning, Caldwell. 'Awake protocol.' 'Not docile.' I'm just making sure you're actually awake enough to handle what's coming."

She watched his hands on the wheel—steady, capable, white-knuckling the leather just a fraction harder than necessary.

"Because once we get through that front door," she whispered, "I'm done being cooperative."

Declan let out a slow breath through his nose—not a laugh, not a growl—just that controlled exhale that meant she’d hit exactly where she meant to.

“Efficient,” he repeated, glancing at her this time. Just a second. Just enough. His eyes flicked from her face to where their hands were laced together and back to the road. “That’s one word for it.”

Her fingers threading through his grounded him and unraveled him at the same time. He tightened his grip slightly, not to stop her, just to remind her that he was right there—present, steady, very much aware.

“Pre-heat cycle,” he went on, tone dry, but there was a pull of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “You say that like I didn’t spend all day keepin’ one eye on the clock and the other on you.”

The truck rolled smoothly under his hands as she shifted, the seatbelt tugging her back just enough to make the moment hum instead of explode. He noticed everything—he always did. The knock of her knee. The way her voice dipped. The way the cab felt smaller when she spoke like that.

He flexed his fingers around hers once, deliberate.

“I’m awake,” he said simply. No bravado. No challenge. Just fact. “Been awake since about nine this mornin’, if we’re bein’ honest.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“But I like that you’re testin’ it,” he added, voice lower now, roughened by restraint. “Means you trust me not to lose my head.”

The streetlights kept sliding by, steady and relentless, and he stayed exactly that—focused, contained—right up until her last words landed.

Done being cooperative.

His jaw set. Not hard. Intent.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, eyes forward, hand still covering hers on his thigh. “I figured.”

His thumb brushed once over her knuckles—slow, grounding, unmistakably affectionate.

“Just do me a favor,” he murmured. “Make it through the front door with me.”

A beat.

“After that,” he added, the corner of his mouth finally tipping up, “we’ll see how much cooperation either of us has left.”

"Deal," she whispered, the single word heavy with compliance.

She gave his hand one last, firm squeeze before relaxing her grip, though she didn't pull away. She let her hand rest comfortably in his, palm to palm, a silent treaty for the last mile of the drive.

She could do that. She could wait for the front door. Because the truth was, despite all her talk of efficiency and impatience, she loved the build-up. She loved watching him restrain himself. She loved knowing that the man driving this truck with perfect, lawful precision was the same man who was currently visualizing exactly how he was going to take her apart the second the lock clicked shut.

She sat back in her seat, turning her head to watch the familiar neighborhood streets roll by. The silence in the cab wasn't empty anymore; it was thick, charged with the kind of electricity that made the hair on her arms stand up.

When he turned onto their street, Hattie felt her pulse kick up a notch.

She watched him back into the driveway—because of course he backed in; he was incapable of parking nose-first like a civilian—and waited for the truck to shudder to a halt. The engine cut, plunging them into sudden, ringing silence. The headlights died, leaving them in the shadow of the garage.

She waited while he unbuckled, the sound loud in the quiet cab. She watched him open his door, sliding out into the cold night air, and listened to the crunch of his boots on the concrete as he walked around the back of the truck.

A small, secret smile touched her lips.

When her door pulled open, letting the winter chill rush in to mix with the heated leather, she was ready. She unclicked her seatbelt, the strap retracting with a sharp zip, and turned toward him.

He was standing there, big and dark and imposing, offering her a hand down.

"Thank you," she murmured softly, taking his hand.

She stepped down carefully, her boots finding purchase on the concrete, and didn't let go of him once she was steady. Instead, she moved closer, seeking his warmth against the biting air. She tucked her hand securely into the crook of his arm, leaning her weight against his side as they turned toward the house.

It was a quiet, domestic walk up the driveway. She didn't tease him. She didn't drag him. She just walked with him, matching his stride, her head resting briefly against the heavy fabric of his sleeve. It felt good just to be near him, stripped of the performative distance of the office.

They reached the front porch, the motion sensor light flicking on to bathe them in a soft, yellow glow.

Hattie stepped back just enough to give him room to work. She watched him pull his keys from his pocket, her hands clasped loosely in front of her coat, looking up at him with wide, adoring eyes. She was patient. She was sweet. She was exactly the girl he wanted her to be.

But as he slid the key into the lock and the tumbler clicked over, she felt the shift in the air. The barrier was gone.

She took a small breath, the cold air filling her lungs, and offered him a soft, innocent smile that didn't hide the darkening of her eyes.

"We made it," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of the door opening. "Home safe."

Declan’s hand closed around hers before the door even finished swinging inward.

“Home,” he echoed quietly—not triumphant, not teasing. Certain.

He stepped in first, just enough to block the cold, then drew her with him over the threshold. The door shut behind them with a solid click, the sound deep and final, and the world outside fell away all at once. The porch light cut out. The house wrapped around them in dim warmth and familiar quiet.

He didn’t rush her.

He never did.

Instead, he slid his jacket off one shoulder and then the other, tossing it onto the hook by the door without breaking eye contact. His keys followed, set deliberately on the tray like punctuation. Everything in him slowed—not because the moment demanded speed, but because it deserved attention.

He looked down at her then, really looked—at the way her eyes were darkened but steady, the way she’d tucked herself into his arm outside without asking, the way she stood here now with all that patience coiled tight under her coat.

“You did good,” he said again, softer this time. Not a command. Not a test. Appreciation.

His hand slid from her arm to her waist, warm and grounding, drawing her closer until the space between them disappeared in a way that felt inevitable. He rested his forehead briefly against hers, breathing her in like he’d been holding that breath since lunch.

“Safe,” he murmured, brushing his thumb once along her side. “Warm. Exactly where you said you’d be.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth—not cocky, not smug. Just… satisfied.

He leaned back enough to look at her face, eyes steady, affectionate, full of intent that didn’t need to announce itself to be understood.

“C’mon,” he said quietly, guiding her deeper into the house with a gentle pressure at her back. “Let’s get you outta that coat.”

Not hurried.
Not restrained.

Just the calm, unmistakable certainty of a man who kept his word—and was very aware that the waiting part was officially over.

Declan guided her a few more steps inside before stopping, the house settling around them with that familiar, lived-in quiet. He reached up and slid her coat off her shoulders slowly, deliberately, like there was nowhere else he needed to be and nothing else competing for his attention. He hung it up properly—because of course he did—then turned back to her, hands finding her waist again, steady and warm.

He studied her face for a beat, the softness there, the patience she’d carried all the way home. His thumb brushed an absent, grounding line at her side, not teasing—just there.

“You hungry?” he asked, voice low and easy, like the question mattered. Like the answer mattered even more.

Not rushed.
Not loaded with expectation.

Just Declan, checking in the way he always did—making sure she was taken care of before anything else.

You hungry?

Hattie searched his face, her eyes narrowing just a fraction as she scanned him for a tell.
Any other day, she wouldn't have hesitated. She would have known that Declan—her protector, her provider, the man who practically tracked her caloric intake like it was a vital stat—was genuinely asking because he wanted to feed her. It was how he loved.

But today? After the shower standoff, the lunch footsie, and the agonizingly polite tension of the drive home?

She had to wonder. Was this a trap? Was he standing there, looking devastatingly calm and considerate, just to see if she would snap? Was he waiting for her to groan, shove him against the wall, and declare that the only thing she wanted to eat was him, just so he could smirk and notch another victory in the "Hattie Broke First" column?

It was entirely possible. He was competitive, and he was patient, which was a dangerous combination.

Part of her wanted to do it. Part of her wanted to abandon all pretense of domestic normalcy and tackle him right here on the entryway rug.

But she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. If he could play the long game, so could she.

"Actually," she said, her voice steady, deciding to call his bluff with pure, unadulterated sweetness. "I am hungry. Starving, actually."

She reached up, her hands smoothing over the front of his shirt, feeling the solid warmth of his chest beneath the cotton.

"And I’m fairly certain you are, too," she added, tilting her head to give him a knowing, affectionate look. "I saw that sad sandwich you inhaled at lunch. That barely counts as fuel for a man your size."

She stepped back, just half a pace, creating a little breathing room between them. It was a strategic retreat, a signal that she was choosing the stove over the bedroom—for now.

"I can make us something," she offered, her tone shifting into that gentle, caring register that she knew soothed him after a long shift. "Nothing complicated. You can help if you want, or..." She softened her gaze, brushing a thumb over his wrist. "You can just go sit down. Decompress. I don't mind flying solo in the kitchen if you need a minute."

She turned toward the hallway that led to their bedroom, pausing to glance back at him over her shoulder.

"But first," she said, gesturing vaguely to her professional attire. "I have to get out of this skirt. I need sweatpants immediately."

Declan watched her the whole time she spoke, expression unreadable in that way that usually meant he was listening very carefully. Not weighing a move. Not laying a trap. Just taking her in—the sweetness, the restraint, the way she chose him and the house and dinner even when every nerve between them was humming.

A corner of his mouth tipped up when she said starving. Not smug. Amused. Fond.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, honest. “I am.”

Her hands on his chest grounded him more than she probably realized. He covered one of them with his own, thumb pressing once into her palm like punctuation.

“And for the record,” he added, low and steady, “there’s no bluff to call. I asked because I meant it. You eat. I eat. That’s the whole plan.”

He glanced down at her skirt when she gestured to it, then back up to her face, eyes warm with approval.

“Sweatpants is the right call,” he said. “Doctor’s orders.”

When she turned toward the hallway, he didn’t grab her. Didn’t rush her. He caught her wrist gently instead—just enough to stop her for a second—and leaned in to press a brief, soft kiss to her temple. Nothing heated. Just his version of I see you.

“I’ll start something simple,” he murmured. “You change. I’ll put on some music. We’ll make food like normal people.”

A beat. His thumb brushed her wrist again, affectionate and grounding.

“And if you decide you don’t feel like flying solo,” he added, eyes flicking up to meet hers, “I’ll be right in the kitchen. Not going anywhere.”

Then he let her go, already turning toward the kitchen with that calm, capable energy she trusted more than anything—rolling up his sleeves, setting the night back into something warm, steady, and theirs.

Declan moved through the kitchen with that quiet, deliberate rhythm that came from years of doing things the same way every time—no wasted motion, no clatter, just steady competence.

He set his keys in the bowl by the door, shrugged out of his jacket, and hung it on the hook without looking. Sleeves rolled up next. Always sleeves first.

He opened the fridge and took inventory like it was second nature. Chicken, vegetables, leftover rice from yesterday. Good enough. More than good enough. He pulled things out and lined them up on the counter, spacing them neatly, already building the meal in his head.

The radio came on low—nothing distracting, just a familiar station, something with a steady beat. He let it hum in the background while he grabbed a cutting board and a knife, testing the weight of it in his hand before setting to work.

Chop.
Slide.
Chop.

The sound was grounding. The kind of thing that let his shoulders drop a notch after a long day.

He glanced once down the hallway, not calling after her, not rushing her. Just checking. Making sure she was taking her time like she said she would. Like she deserved to.

Back at the counter, he started seasoning—salt between his fingers, a measured shake, nothing dramatic. Oil in the pan, heat coming up slow. He waited for it properly, because rushing heat was how things burned and he didn’t rush things he cared about.

A faint smile tugged at his mouth as he worked.

She’d chosen dinner. Chosen normal. Chosen home.

That mattered.

When the pan finally responded the way he wanted—heat just right—he added the chicken, the sizzle sharp but controlled. He stepped back half a pace, watching it like he watched everything else: attentive, patient, ready to adjust if needed.

“Alright,” he murmured to no one in particular, more habit than anything. “We’re on.”

He reached for a second pan, started the vegetables, timing it so everything would land together. No rush. No pressure. Just the quiet satisfaction of making something warm for the person he loved.

And every so often—between flips and stirs—his eyes drifted toward the hallway again, waiting for the soft sound of her footsteps, already knowing exactly how it would feel when she reappeared in sweatpants, relaxed, fed, and home where she belonged.

"Normal is overrated, Caldwell," she called back over her shoulder, a teasing lilt in her voice as she walked down the hall. "But I suppose I can make an exception if there's food involved."

She pushed into the bedroom, the sanctuary of their shared space immediately lowering her blood pressure another notch. She didn't waste time. She stripped off the "Admin armor"—the tweed skirt, the tights, the chic turtleneck—and tossed them into the hamper. In their place, she pulled on her favorite gray fleece-lined sweatpants, the ones that felt like wearing a cloud, and a simple white fitted t-shirt that hugged her frame without being restrictive.

Next came the hair. She gathered the waves she’d spent twenty minutes perfecting this morning and twisted them up into a high, messy bun, securing it with a silk scrunchie.

She moved into the en suite, turning the tap to warm. She grabbed her cleanser and washed the day off her face—the mascara, the blush, the professional polish—scrubbing until her skin felt fresh and clean. She patted her face dry with a fluffy towel, looking at her reflection. No makeup. No styling. Just Hattie.

She turned to leave the room, but stopped short at the sight of the bed. The duvet was a tangled mess, the pillows askew—a chaotic testament to how distracted she had been by the shower standoff this morning. She couldn't leave it like that. Quickly, efficiently, she pulled the sheets taut, smoothed the duvet, and fluffed the pillows, restoring order to the room in under thirty seconds.

Better.

She padded back down the hallway, her bare feet silent on the hardwood, following the savory scent of garlic and searing meat.

Declan was exactly where she knew he’d be—standing at the stove, looking broad and capable and unfairly good at domesticity. Hattie walked right up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, interlacing her fingers over his stomach. She pressed her cheek against his back, feeling the solid heat of him through his shirt, and placed a soft, lingering kiss right between his shoulder blades.

"Mmm, that smells incredible," she murmured, standing on her tiptoes to peek over his arm at the sizzling pans. "Chicken and veggies? You know the way to my heart."

She squeezed him tight, soaking in the comfort of him, before loosening her grip just enough to look up at the side of his face.

"I can take over if you want," she offered softly, her voice warm and helpful. "If you want to go get changed and put on something comfortable, I've got this. Or I can chop something? I'm at your service, Chef."

Declan didn’t startle when she wrapped around him. He never did. If anything, his body adjusted automatically—stance widening just a touch, shoulders relaxing as if this was the position he’d been waiting for all along.

“Normal’s fine,” he said calmly, voice low and even, eyes still on the pan as he gave it a careful stir. “Overrated keeps us fed.”

Her kiss between his shoulder blades drew a quiet breath out of him, something slow and steady, like he’d been carrying the day around in his chest and she’d just set it down for him. One hand stayed on the spatula; the other came back to rest over her interlaced fingers at his waist, thumb pressing there in a familiar, grounding way.

“Chicken, veggies, rice,” he confirmed. “Nothing fancy. Just… solid.”

He tipped his head slightly so he could glance down at her from the corner of his eye—bare feet, soft clothes, hair up, face clean and unmistakably hers. The sight did something small and permanent to his expression, the kind of softness he didn’t bother hiding at home.

“You look better already,” he said simply, like it was an observation, not a compliment he was fishing for credit on.

At her offer, he shook his head once, easy.

“I’ve got it,” he said. “Almost done.” Then, after a beat, he added, “But if you want a job…”

He nudged the cutting board toward her with his hip, precise even in the small movement.

“Can you rinse the rice? Second drawer down—strainer’s on the left.” A pause. “And keep me company.”

He finally turned enough to look at her properly, hand sliding from her waist to her lower back, thumb brushing the hem of her t-shirt in a way that was affectionate, not distracting.

“And no,” he added, faint amusement threading his voice, “you’re not taking over. You just got home.”

Declan kept moving with that quiet, practiced rhythm—pan off the heat, burner turned down, a quick glance at the timer on the oven like it had personally wronged him if it ran long.

He felt her before he looked again. The way she stayed close. The way she always did what he asked without making a show of it.

“That’s it,” he said when he heard the water start, the soft clatter of the strainer. “Just till it runs clear.”

"I always feel better when the pantyhose are off," she quipped softly, though the smile she gave him was tender. "But I'm glad you approve of the 'scrubbed clean' look. It's much lower maintenance."

She begrudgingly untangled herself from his back—though she trailed her hand along his waist for as long as she could before stepping away—and moved to the drawer he’d indicated.

She found the fine-mesh strainer exactly where he said it would be (because Declan’s kitchen organization was military-grade) and measured out the rice. She moved to the sink, turning on the cold tap and letting the water rush over the grains.

"And regarding your logic," she called out over the sound of the running water, a playful edge to her voice. "You say 'you just got home' like you haven't been on the exact same shift, Caldwell."

She swirled the rice with her fingers, the cold water a sharp contrast to the warmth of the kitchen.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," she continued, "but I'm pretty sure my day involved lifting files and coffee mugs. Yours involved... what? Throwing ladders? Hauling hose lines? Breaking down doors?" She shook her head, amused, watching the cloudy starch swirl down the drain. "But sure, I'm the one who needs to rest. Your chivalry is showing, and it's very cute, but technically incorrect."

She watched him out of the corner of her eye while she worked. There was something undeniably soothing about watching Declan cook. He didn't rush. He didn't make a mess. He moved with an economy of motion that was fascinating to watch—flipping vegetables, checking heat, adjusting seasonings with those large, capable hands that had been holding hers so possessively in the truck just twenty minutes ago.

When the water finally ran clear, she shook the excess moisture from the strainer and carried it over to him.

"Rice is prepped, Chef," she announced, setting it down on the counter beside him.
Instead of retreating to a safe distance, she stepped right into his personal space again. She leaned her hip against the counter, facing him, so she could watch him work up close.

"You know," she said quietly, her voice dropping to that warm, intimate register again. "I really do love it when you cook. You make it look so effortless."

She reached out, unable to help herself, and lightly traced one of the veins on his forearm where his sleeve was rolled up.

"And the rolled-up sleeves are a very nice touch," she teased gently. "Safety first, obviously. But the aesthetic benefits aren't lost on me."

Declan let out a low huff of a laugh at that, shaking his head as he tipped the rice into the pot and set it on the burner. He nudged the heat down with his knuckle, then glanced at her over his shoulder—eyes warm, mouth soft, all the sharp edges from earlier filed down to something gentler.

“Yeah,” he said, amused. “I’ll concede the pantyhose point. Those things are a crime.”

He stirred once, slow and deliberate, then set the spoon aside. When he turned fully toward her, it wasn’t rushed. He leaned his hip into the counter across from her, closing the space just enough to acknowledge what she was doing without stopping it.

“And I don’t ‘approve,’” he added, voice quieter now, fond. “I just like you like this. Comfortable. Home.”

Her running commentary didn’t escape him either. He listened while she rinsed the rice, let her finish making her case like she needed to win it out loud. When she mentioned ladders and hose lines, his mouth twitched again.

“You’re not wrong,” he said easily. “But you also don’t stop all day. Different kind of tired.” His gaze flicked briefly to her hands, then back to her face. “Doesn’t make it less real.”

When she handed him the strainer, he took it from her without breaking eye contact, fingers brushing hers—intentionally this time.

“Thanks,” he murmured, sincere.

Then she stepped closer. Of course she did.

He stayed still when she leaned against the counter, when her fingers traced his forearm. His breath shifted—not sharp, not restrained like earlier—just slower, heavier, like he was letting himself feel it now that they were home.

“You know,” he said quietly, turning his arm just enough that her fingers followed the movement, “I roll the sleeves up so I don’t get oil on my shirt.”

A beat.

“But I’m not mad you noticed.”

He reached out then, knuckles brushing her waist—easy, familiar, nothing sharp about it anymore—and let his hand rest there, grounding both of them.

“You hovering is allowed,” he added, a small smile finally breaking through. “Just don’t steal the chicken before I plate it.”

His thumb gave a gentle press at her side, affectionate, unmistakably hers.

“Dinner’s almost done,” he said. “Stay right there.”