"I am offended," Hattie murmured, though her eyes were dancing with mirth. She pressed a little closer to his side, careful to keep her fingers away from the sizzling pan. "I have zero intention of stealing the chicken. I am a civilized woman, Declan. I am waiting for the plated presentation."

She stayed exactly where he told her to—right by his side, hovering in his personal space like a moth drawn to a very handsome, very capable flame.

She watched him stir the vegetables, the movement rhythmic and soothing, and she felt a wave of affection hit her so hard it almost knocked the wind out of her. It wasn't just that he cooked—though that was a major bonus—it was the way he did it. It was the pre-warmed truck. It was the way he validated her exhaustion even though his was physical and hers was mental. It was the way he looked at her in sweatpants like she was wearing couture.

He took care of her in a thousand quiet ways every single day, and she loved him for it with a fierceness that sometimes surprised her.

When he turned off the burner under the chicken, signaling they were in the home stretch, Hattie moved.

She stood on her tiptoes, resting a hand on his bicep to steady herself, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek, right where his jaw met his neck.

"Thank you," she whispered against his skin, pouring all of that appreciation into two simple words.

She pulled back before he could get too distracted, flashing him a small smile, and turned to the cupboard. She grabbed two dinner plates—the heavy stoneware ones they used for everyday meals—and carried them back to the stove.

She set them down on the counter next to the pans, ready for him to serve, and paused.
She couldn't resist.

As she stepped away to head toward the fridge, she reached out and gave his butt a firm, appreciative pat.

"Good hustle, team," she teased, tossing a grin over her shoulder as she walked away.
She pulled open the refrigerator door, the cool air washing over her heated face, and peered inside at their options.

"Alright, Declan," she called out, scanning the shelves. "What's your poison tonight? Water? Beer? Or are we celebrating survival with a glass of wine?"

Declan let the moment breathe instead of rushing past it.

The kitchen had settled into that late-evening quiet he loved—the low hum of the vent fan, the faint sizzle fading as the pans cooled, the warm, savory smell of garlic and pepper clinging to the air. He stood solid at the stove, sleeves still rolled, forearms dusted with a fine sheen of steam and oil, like the work had left its signature on him. When she pressed close, he angled his body just enough to shield her from the heat without making a thing of it—habit, instinct, care folded into motion.

“Civilized,” he echoed, amused, glancing down at her with that look that said he knew exactly how feral she could be and adored her anyway. “I’ll remember that when you’re hovering like this.”

He finished plating with the same steady attention he brought to everything—chicken sliced clean, vegetables tucked in just so, a final pinch of salt adjusted by feel rather than measure. When she kissed his cheek, gratitude warm and unguarded, his shoulders eased. He leaned a fraction into it before she pulled back, the smallest tell that her thanks landed.

He slid the plates forward, ceramic whispering against the counter, then reached to wipe his hands on a towel, folding it once, twice, precise. The pat to his backside earned a low laugh that rumbled out of him, not embarrassed, just delighted.

“Team effort,” he said, dry but fond. “You handled logistics. I handled heat.”

At the fridge, when she asked about drinks, he watched her through the open door light—bare feet on tile, hair twisted up, sweatshirt-soft comfort replacing the day’s polish—and something in his chest went quiet and full at the same time.

“Water keeps me honest,” he said, tone easy. “Beer says the shift’s officially over.” He set the towel aside, eyes lifting to hers. “Wine,” he added more softly, “means we’re not in a hurry.”

He carried the plates himself, careful not to jostle them, set them on the table where the light fell warm and forgiving. As she passed, his fingers caught the waistband of her sweatpants—gentle, grounding, not a demand—just enough to keep her close for a heartbeat.

“Sit with me,” he murmured, voice low, steady, the morning’s edge long gone. “Eat. Tell me one thing about your day that doesn’t involve a phone ringing.”

Then he released her, already reaching for glasses, already thinking ahead to the quiet stretch after dinner—no rush, no agenda—just the two of them, fed and settled, the day finally behind them.

"In that case," Hattie murmured, a slow smile spreading across her face as she reached for the bottle of red wine sitting on the rack, "we are definitely not in a hurry."

She carried the bottle over to the small wooden table, moving with a relaxed grace that felt miles away from the efficient bustle of the station. Declan had already set the stemmed glasses down, the crystal catching the dim light of the room. She uncorked the bottle—the soft pop echoing satisfyingly in the quiet kitchen—and poured a generous amount for him, then for herself, the ruby liquid swirling against the glass.

She set the bottle down and slid into the chair across from him, tucking one leg up underneath her on the seat. It was bad posture, and her chiropractor would hate it, but she was home, she was comfortable, and she was with him.

She picked up her fork and took her first bite, closing her eyes for a second as the flavor hit her tongue. It was just chicken, rice, and vegetables—the kind of meal a thousand people made every night—but somehow, when Declan made it, it tasted like comfort. It was perfectly seasoned, perfectly cooked, and made with the specific kind of care that he put into everything he touched.

"You know," she said, opening her eyes to look at him with genuine warmth. "It's actually rude how good this is. It's just chicken, Declan. Why does it taste like a hug?"

She took another bite, humming happily, before taking a sip of her wine.

"Okay, one thing not work-related," she mused, setting her glass down. She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the table. "So, around 11:00 AM, while Chief was droning on about the budget in his office and I was pretending to type a memo? I actually spent a solid twenty minutes researching those A-frame cabins up north."

She tilted her head, watching him over the centerpiece.

"I found this one that has a wood-burning stove and zero Wi-Fi signal," she told him, a playful, inviting glint in her eyes. "I bookmarked it. I figured we might need a place to disappear to in a few weeks when the 'civilized' act wears off."

Declan watched her the way he always did when she settled in—like the room had finally clicked into place.

The cork’s soft pop earned a slow curve of his mouth, his eyes tracking the pour with appreciation that had nothing to do with the wine. He waited until she sat, until she tucked that leg under herself like she was claiming the chair, before lifting his own glass.

“Not in a hurry,” he echoed, low and satisfied. “Good call.”

He took a bite when she did, unshowy about it, but the look on his face shifted just a fraction—pride, quiet and earned—when she closed her eyes. He didn’t rush to answer her hug comment. He chewed, swallowed, then met her gaze over the rim of his glass.

“It’s not the chicken,” he said, matter-of-fact, a hint of smug threading through. “It’s timing. And you were hungry.” A beat. “And I pay attention.”

He reached out and nudged her glass an inch closer when she set it down, an unconscious caretaking move he didn’t bother to hide. Then he leaned back in his chair, one arm draped easy over the back, listening—really listening—as she talked about the meeting, the pretending, the cabin.

At “zero Wi-Fi,” his eyebrows lifted. At “bookmarked it,” his smile went slow and dangerous in the best way.

“Twenty minutes,” he repeated, impressed. “That’s a serious search. Means you filtered reviews.” He tipped his glass toward her. “Respect.”

He took another bite, then set his fork down, eyes steady on hers now. “Wood stove I can handle. Quiet I like.” A pause, cocky-soft. “No signal means you can’t be interrupted. Or rescued.”

He leaned forward just enough to close the distance across the table, voice warm. “When the civilized act wears off, I don’t want witnesses. Or schedules.”

Then, gentler, because he knew when to land it: “Send me the link.” A small smirk. “I’ll check the road conditions. And whether the porch is sturdy enough for coffee at sunrise.”

He lifted his glass again, clinked it lightly against hers. “To disappearing,” he said. “And to dinners that feel like home.”

Declan took another sip, eyes never leaving her over the rim of the glass. The wine had softened the edges of the evening, but not the focus—if anything, it sharpened it.

“So,” he said casually, like he wasn’t already mentally packing a bag. “If we disappear for a few days… what’s the plan, Monroe?”

He tilted his head, studying her the way he did when he wanted the real answer, not the playful one.

“You bringing books you’ll pretend to read?” A corner of his mouth kicked up. “Or are we committing fully—long walks, bad sleep schedules, too much coffee, no alarms?”

He reached across the table and hooked a finger around the stem of her glass, giving it a gentle tug that drew her attention back to him if it had wandered.

“And be honest,” he added, voice lower now, affectionate but sure. “Is this a recharge trip… or a ‘lock-the-door-and-forget-what-day-it-is’ trip?”

His thumb brushed the base of her glass, slow and absentminded, the way his hand always moved when he was already picturing her there with him—firelight, quiet, no uniforms, no clocks.

“Either way,” he said, softer, grounded. “I’m in.”

A beat. Then the faintest smirk.

“But if there’s no Wi-Fi,” he continued, “you’re in charge of playlists. I’m not spending three days listening to whatever spooky forest sounds you think are ‘vibes.’”

"To dinners that feel like home," Hattie murmured, the clink of their glasses soft and resonant in the quiet kitchen.

She took a slow sip of the wine, letting the rich, dry red linger on her tongue before swallowing. The warmth of the alcohol bloomed in her chest, mixing with the warmth of the room and the steady, grounding heat of Declan’s gaze.

"You say 'no rescue' like it's a threat," she teased, setting her glass down and picking up her fork again. She speared a piece of chicken, eyeing him with a playful glint. "When in reality, that is the strongest selling point of the entire listing. If the fire marshal can't reach us, he can't ask you to pick up an overtime shift."

She took a bite, savoring the food. He was right—it wasn't just the chicken. It was the fact that he knew she liked the vegetables slightly charred, and he knew she needed rice after a long day, and he sat there looking like that while he watched her eat.

When he asked about the plan—books versus "bad sleep schedules"—she chewed slowly, letting him wait just a beat.

"First of all," she said, swallowing and dabbing the corner of her mouth with her napkin. "I always bring books. It's a security blanket. If I don't have at least three paperbacks in my bag, I break out in hives."

She leaned forward, mirroring his posture, resting her chin in her hand as she traced the rim of her wine glass.

"But... let's be real," she admitted, her voice dropping to a husky, honest purr. "I think we both know I'm not going to get much reading done. If I have you in a cabin with a wood stove and no cell service? That is strictly a 'forget what day it is' situation. I plan on wearing nothing but your flannel shirts and socks for seventy-two hours straight."

She smiled at him—a slow, smitten expression that was all softness and promise.
"And excuse you," she added, feigning indignation at his playlist comment. "My 'spooky forest sounds' are actually highly curated indie folk, and they are essential for the A-frame aesthetic. You just don't appreciate art, Caldwell."

She nudged his foot with hers under the table, a gentle, affectionate press.

"But fine. Since you're driving, and since you're checking the road conditions—which is very sexy of you, by the way—I will allow you to have some input on the music. I'll make a compromise playlist. 'Forest Vibes Meets Country Roads.' How does that sound?"

Declan lifted his glass with hers, the corner of his mouth softening in a way that only ever happened at home, when the day was done and it was just them.

“To dinners that don’t feel rushed,” he said quietly, meaning more than the food, meaning this—her across from him, relaxed, real.

He watched her the way he always did when she was comfortable: the small, unconscious tells, the way her shoulders finally dropped, the way she leaned forward when she was invested. It made something steady and satisfied settle in his chest.

“No rescue is not a threat,” he agreed, deadpan, then allowed a slow, pleased grin. “It’s a fantasy. You’re right. If no one can find us, no one can ask me for a favor.”

He took a bite of his food, chewed, nodded once like he was filing the information away. Cabin. No signal. Her in his flannels. That image landed and stayed.

“Three paperbacks,” he said. “Minimum. You’ll read… what, a chapter and a half before you forget they exist?”

His gaze warmed when hers did, when her voice dropped and she said forget what day it is like it was an invitation and a promise rolled into one.

“Seventy-two hours,” he repeated, low, amused. “That’s ambitious, Monroe.”

He shifted back in his chair, comfortable, clearly enjoying himself now. “But I like the planning. Wood stove means I’m chopping the firewood. You’ll pretend you’re helping. I’ll let you. We’ll drink too much coffee in the mornings and probably too much wine at night.”

He glanced down when she nudged his foot, nudged back—gentle, grounding.

“And flannels,” he added, eyes back on hers. “I’ll pack extras. You always steal mine and then claim they’re ‘more comfortable because they smell like me.’”

At her playlist compromise, he laughed quietly, genuine.

“Forest Vibes Meets Country Roads,” he said. “I can live with that. As long as I get at least one song I can sing badly while driving.”

He reached across the table, not in a rush, covering her hand where it rested near her glass. His thumb brushed her knuckles once, slow and familiar.

“And for the record,” he said, voice warm, sure. “Getting away with you? No alarms, no uniforms, no expectations except showing up for each other?”

A beat.

“That’s not me ‘allowing’ a trip,” he added, a little cocky now, smiling at her like she was the best plan he’d ever made. “That’s me looking forward to it.”

He lifted his glass again.

“So,” he said. “When are we disappearing?”

"You singing badly is non-negotiable," Hattie countered, flipping her hand over beneath his so she could interlace their fingers again. "It’s part of the road trip charm. If I don’t hear you belting out at least one chorus of something embarrassing while tapping on the steering wheel, I’m going to assume you’ve been replaced by a doppelgänger."

She looked at him across the table—the warmth in his eyes, the relaxed set of his shoulders, the way he was already mentally packing extra flannel and coffee for a trip she had only half-seriously pitched him ten minutes ago.

A soft flutter started in her chest.

It was supposed to be just a daydream. A way to kill twenty minutes between filing invoices and answering the non-emergency line. She had looked at the pictures of the A-frame, sighed over the wood stove, and thought, That would be nice, before closing the tab and going back to reality.

But Declan? Declan didn't do "just nice." He took her idle whims and turned them into plans. He took her "I wish" and turned it into "We will."

"Honestly?" she admitted, her thumb brushing the side of his hand. "I haven't gotten that far. I was mostly just scrolling to avoid looking at the budget spreadsheet again. It was just a... silly little brain break."

She paused, biting her lip slightly, her gaze softening as she took in the man sitting across from her.

"But now that you're talking about chopping wood and morning coffee..." She shook her head, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I think we need to make it happen. For real."

She squeezed his hand, anchoring herself to him.

"We can look at the calendar later," she decided, dismissing the logistics for the moment. "Figure out when the shifts align and when the roads aren't totally washed out. I'm sure we can find a weekend in the next month or so where the circus can run without us."

She picked up her fork again, taking another bite of the meal he’d made her, feeling content in a way that went bone-deep.

"For now," she said softly, "I'm pretty happy just being here. Even if the Wi-Fi works and I'm not wearing your flannel... yet."

Declan’s fingers tightened around hers just a fraction when she laced them together, like the contact grounded something that had already decided where it wanted to land.

“Noted,” he said, a low huff of a laugh under his breath. “I’ll make sure it’s something truly embarrassing. Real commitment to the bit.”

He watched her as she talked—really watched her. The way her confidence softened into honesty. The way she downplayed something that mattered to her because she didn’t want to ask too much, even though he knew better. He always did.

“A silly little brain break,” he echoed gently, shaking his head. “That’s usually how the good stuff starts with you.”

He shifted forward slightly in his chair, elbows resting on the table now, still holding her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I don’t hear ‘silly,’” he went on, voice steady, warm. “I hear you wanting quiet. Space. Time where nobody needs anything from you except me making coffee the right way.”

At her mention of calendars and shifts and washed-out roads, his mouth curved—not rushed, not dismissive, just sure.

“We’ll find it,” he said. “We always do. A weekend. A stretch of days. Doesn’t matter when, as long as it’s ours.”

He glanced down at their hands, then back up at her, eyes softening when she said she was happy just being here.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”

He squeezed her hand once, thumb brushing over her knuckles in that familiar, absent way.

“And for the record,” he added, a little teasing warmth creeping back in, “the Wi-Fi working doesn’t mean I can’t make you wear my flannel. That part isn’t location-dependent.”

He lifted his glass again, not clinking this time—just holding it there for a second, like a pause he didn’t want to rush past.

“So we’ll eat,” he said. “Finish dinner. Maybe open another bottle. Sit here until we forget what time it is.”

A beat.

“And then someday soon,” he finished, eyes steady on hers, “we disappear.”

Declan leaned back in his chair a little, still holding her hand, his thumb tracing a slow, thoughtful line along her knuckle like he was mapping out the next thought before he said it.

“You know what I keep thinking about?” he said, tone easy but intent. “How quiet it gets when we’re away from everything. Not empty quiet. The good kind. The kind where you can hear the stove ticking after you turn it off. Wind in the trees. You humming without realizing you’re doing it.”

He tilted his head, studying her like she was already standing in that cabin doorway in socks and one of his shirts.

“I think you’d sleep better up there,” he added. “Not crash sleep. Real sleep. The kind where you wake up slow and don’t apologize for it.”

A corner of his mouth lifted, just a touch cocky.

“And I’d make breakfast that actually takes time. None of this ‘fuel and go’ nonsense. Pancakes. Eggs the way you like them. Coffee strong enough to wake the dead.”

He glanced down at her plate, then back at her eyes.

“And you’d pretend you weren’t impressed,” he said. “But you’d eat three pancakes anyway.”

He squeezed her hand again, grounding, warm.

“We could hike if you want,” he continued. “Or not hike at all. Sit on the porch. Read for twenty minutes before you get distracted. I don’t need an itinerary.”

Then, softer—more honest than teasing—

“I just want a few days where you don’t have to be on. Where nobody’s pulling at you from every direction.”

He lifted his glass, finally clinking it gently against hers this time.

“So yeah,” he said quietly, a small smile settling in. “We’ll disappear. And when we come back, the circus will still be there. It always is.”

His eyes stayed on hers, steady and affectionate.

“But tonight?” he added. “Tonight I’m exactly where I want to be. With you. Good food. No alarms. No radios.”

A pause, then a glint of humor.

“And if you want to start practicing the flannel situation early,” he said, “I’m not gonna stop you.”

Hattie’s chest did that stupid little thing it always did when he said something simple and meant it all the way through.

Not because it was poetic. Not because it was dramatic.

Because it was him.

Because he didn’t talk about taking care of her like it was a chore he’d earned points for. He talked about it like it was the most natural instinct in his body—like she was something precious and obvious, like the way you reach for a blanket when someone shivers without thinking twice.

And she loved him for it in a way that made her feel almost embarrassed by how deep it ran.

She looked at him across the table, fingers still laced with his, and let the warmth of his thumb brushing her knuckle settle into her bones. His voice had been steady through all of it—plans, quiet, pancakes, her sleeping better—like he’d already decided she deserved rest without ever needing to negotiate for it.

Hattie swallowed.

“You know I hate that you know me,” she said softly, the words bright with affection even as she tried to make them sound like a complaint. Her eyes narrowed a fraction, playful, because if she got too sincere she’d start doing that annoying blinking thing. “It’s rude.”

She glanced down at their hands, then back up, her mouth curving.

“And it’s also…” She tilted her head, conceding the point like it pained her. “Really hot.”

She let the beat hang—because she could—and used it to take another bite, unhurried. Rice, chicken, veggies. Real food. The kind that made her feel cared for in a way she didn’t always let herself admit she craved.

The kind that made her want to be soft.

But soft didn’t mean quiet.

Soft, with Declan, meant bratty.

Hattie chewed, eyes on him over the rim of her glass, watching him like she was filing away everything he’d just said for later. The porch. The quiet. The real sleep. The disappearing.

“It’ll be good,” she said finally, matter-of-fact in a way that made it sound settled. Not a wish. A conclusion. “Whenever it happens. It’ll be good for both of us.”

She squeezed his fingers once, a small pulse of agreement. Then her expression shifted—mischief sliding into place like a crown.

“And speaking of your flannel agenda,” she added, voice lightening, “I think we need to be responsible about this.”

Her eyes flicked pointedly to his shirt. Then back to his face.

“Because you can’t just throw random flannel options at me and expect excellence,” she said, dead serious. “This is a science.”

She took another bite like she wasn’t actively planning trouble.

Then she leaned in a fraction, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret.

“So,” Hattie continued, sweet as honey, “once I’m done with my food… I am happily willing to put on a fashion show for you.”

She paused just long enough to enjoy the way the words landed.

“You can sit there,” she said, gesturing with her fork like she was assigning him a role, “and we can decide which flannels you’re bringing… for me.”

Her smile turned slow and innocent.

“And if you’re very good,” she added, eyes sparkling, “I’ll even do little turns.”

Hattie sat back in her chair, satisfied with herself, and resumed eating like she hadn’t just escalated the evening into something that would absolutely ensure nobody was getting “real sleep” anytime soon.

Another bite. Another small, deliberate chew. A glance up through her lashes.

“I’ll need a judging rubric,” she went on, as if this was professional work. “Like… comfort. Softness. How dramatic you look when you take it off and hand it to me like it’s a sacred offering.”

She took a sip of her drink, then added, completely casually:

“And you’re not allowed to rush me. Fashion takes time.”

Hattie’s fingers tightened around his again, a gentle tether, and her voice softened just a fraction—just enough truth to thread through the teasing.

“I like that you think about me like that,” she said quietly. “Like your first instinct is always… ‘how do I make this easier for her.’”

Her mouth twitched, fighting a smile.

“Even when you pretend you’re just being practical.”

Then—because she couldn’t sit in sincerity for too long without getting restless—she tipped her head and let her grin return, bratty and bright.

“Anyway,” she concluded, lifting her fork like a gavel, “finish your dinner. Because after this, you’re getting a private runway show in your own kitchen.”

A pause.

“And you’re welcome.”

Declan didn’t interrupt her once.

He stayed right there, fingers laced with hers, listening the way he always did when she started like this—half teasing, half confessing, all heart—like every word mattered because it came from her.

When she said, You know I hate that you know me, his mouth twitched first, then softened into a smile that had nothing smug about it.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You do hate it.”
A beat.
“And you love it just as much.”

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, grounding, steady.

“And for the record,” he added, low and warm, “I don’t think it’s rude. I think it’s efficient.”

Her really hot earned her a slow exhale through his nose, the kind that meant she’d landed the hit exactly where she meant to.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You keep saying things like that and I’m gonna start thinking you enjoy being understood.”

When she talked about the trip—It’ll be good—he nodded once, decisive, like she’d just confirmed something he’d already filed away as fact.

“It will,” he agreed. “And we won’t overthink it. We’ll just go.”

Then came the flannel.

Declan leaned back in his chair a little, eyes tracking hers as she gestured, declared science, escalated with alarming confidence. By the time she said This is a science, he was openly amused.

“Oh, I know,” he said dryly. “I’ve seen you apply ‘science’ to throw pillows.”

Her fashion show pitch got a quiet huff of laughter out of him, and he lifted his glass for a sip like he was bracing himself.

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “I sit. I observe. I judge softness and drama.”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting.

“And I’m not allowed to rush you.”

Her little turns made his eyebrows lift just a fraction.

“Dangerous offer, Monroe,” he said mildly. “You’re assuming I’m capable of remaining objective.”

When she mentioned the judging rubric—how dramatic you look when you take it off and hand it to me like it’s a sacred offering—he shook his head, smiling now, helpless about it.

“That one’s unfair,” he said. “I already look dramatic when I take my jacket off. That’s just genetics.”

But then her voice shifted. Softer. Truer.

I like that you think about me like that.

Declan didn’t joke over that part. He didn’t deflect.

His thumb slowed where it brushed her knuckle.

“It’s not pretending,” he said simply. “It’s instinct. You make things lighter just by being you. I just… try to return the favor.”

A pause, then—quiet certainty:

“You deserve to have things be easy sometimes.”

Her grin came back, bright and bratty, and when she ordered him to finish his dinner, he laughed under his breath and picked up his fork.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, pointedly casual. “Finishing dinner.”

He took a bite, eyes never leaving hers.

“And for the record,” he added, voice low and amused, “I accept your gratitude.”

Another bite. Slow. Deliberate.

“But just so we’re clear,” he finished, leaning back slightly in his chair, “I’m absolutely going to take notes.”

A beat.

“Professionally.”