Hattie’s eyes narrowed at professionally in a way that had nothing to do with irritation and everything to do with the fact that she adored him so much it almost made her teeth hurt.

He sat there—calm, steady, amused—acting like he could be objective about anything involving her. Acting like he could “take notes” the same way he’d take notes on training drills or ladder placement or whatever ridiculous firefighter thing lived in his brain.

As if she hadn’t watched him lose whole sentences just because she walked into a room in leggings.

Please.

She held his gaze for a beat, letting that fondness bloom openly on her face because she didn’t have to hide it with him. He’d made it safe. He’d made her safe. Enough that she could be soft and bold at the same time.

Hattie gave his hand one last squeeze—warm, deliberate, a quiet I heard you—and then finally let go.

Not because she didn’t want the contact.

Because she wanted to lean back too, to settle into her chair and actually eat like a civilized person instead of hovering in a flirtation spiral.

She scooted back, posture loosening, shoulders relaxing. The warmth of him was still there across the table—his presence, his attention—like it didn’t require touch to exist.

Hattie picked her fork back up and took another bite, slow and unhurried. Then another. She let herself actually taste it, actually be here, instead of bouncing around in her own head.

She lifted her glass and took a sip of wine—just enough to warm her throat—then set it down carefully and looked at him again.

God.

It was obscene how easy it was to adore him.

The way he ate, unhurried. The way he watched her even while he did. The way he held himself like he belonged in his own skin—steady, grounded, quietly sure. The kind of man who didn’t do grand gestures because he didn’t need them. He just… showed up. Over and over. In ways that mattered.

Hattie’s mouth softened around a small smile as she took another bite, eyes still on him.

She could feel the confidence in her body like a slow hum—not loud, not performative. Just real. The kind that only existed because she trusted him. Because she knew exactly how he looked at her. Because she knew he liked her like this—bratty and bright and a little bit trouble.

She swallowed, then tipped her head, letting her grin return.

“You’re not taking notes,” she informed him, sweet as sugar.

Hattie speared another piece of chicken and lifted it to her mouth like she was making a point with every bite.

“You’re going to try to take notes,” she corrected, eyes sparkling, “and then you’re going to get far too distracted with how good I look to form a single coherent thought.”

She took the bite. Chewed slowly. Let him sit with that.

Then she lifted her glass again and took another small sip, her gaze never leaving him over the rim.

“And I know this,” she added, lowering the glass, voice quieter but warm with certainty, “because you’re already doing that thing where you think you’re being subtle.”

Hattie’s smile turned fond—softer at the edges.

“And you’re not,” she said gently, like she was teasing a kid for trying to lie. “Not with me.”

She paused long enough to take another bite, then leaned back in her chair, relaxed, her elbow resting lightly on the table as she watched him like he was her favorite view.

It hit her then—how rare this felt. How good. How safe.

She didn’t act like this with anyone else. She didn’t let herself be this openly playful, this demanding, this confident in her own desirability without a voice in the back of her head warning her not to push too far.

But with Declan… there was no warning bell.

Because he wasn’t fragile. He didn’t punish her for being a lot. He didn’t make her shrink.

He just met her.

Hattie’s expression softened again, a quiet sincerity threading through the flirt.

“I only talk like this because it’s you,” she admitted, almost casually, like she wasn’t handing him something delicate. “I’d rather die than try this on someone who wasn’t… steady.”

Her grin came back immediately, because she couldn’t sit in the tender part too long without getting restless.

“So,” she continued, tapping her fork once against her plate like a gavel, “eat your food. Finish your wine. Get your little imaginary notebook ready.”

She tilted her head, eyes bright and wicked.

“Because when I’m done, I’m going to make you sit there and pretend you’re a professional judge…”

A beat.

“…and then I’m going to ruin your ability to be professional at all.”

Hattie took another bite, slow and satisfied, and watched him over her glass like she already knew how the rest of the night was going to go.

Not because she was controlling it.

Because she trusted him enough to play.

Declan didn’t rush his response.

He never did with her—not when she spoke like that, not when there was weight tucked inside the teasing. He let the silence breathe for a second, let her words land and settle in his chest where they clearly belonged.

When she said he wasn’t taking notes, his mouth curved first—slow, knowing. Amused in a way that came from being completely, helplessly caught.

“Yeah,” he said calmly, like he was agreeing with the weather. “That’s because you’re not a drill. You’re a variable.”

He shifted in his chair, long body moving with that lazy confidence that came from years of knowing exactly how much space he occupied. One elbow rested on the table now, his hand loose, relaxed—open.

When she corrected him—*you’re going to try*—his eyes dipped briefly to her mouth, then back up. No apology. No denial.

“I did try,” he admitted. “For about twelve seconds.”

A beat.

“Then you smiled at me like that, and my brain clocked out.”

Her calling him out for thinking he was subtle earned a quiet huff of laughter, the kind that came from his chest, low and warm.

“I’m subtle with everyone else,” he said easily. “You just happen to be my blind spot.”

When she told him *not with me*, his expression changed—not dramatic, just softer. More real. Like she’d named something he wasn’t pretending not to feel anyway.

“Good,” he replied. “I don’t want to be careful with you.”

That landed somewhere steady between them.

When she admitted she only talked like this because it was him—because he was steady—Declan straightened slightly, not out of tension but attention. Like he was being handed something valuable and knew better than to fumble it.

“You don’t have to explain that to me,” he said quietly. “I know what kind of trust that is.”

His voice stayed even, grounded. The firefighter who’d walked into burning houses and come out calm on the other side.

“And I’m not going anywhere just because you’re confident,” he added. “Or demanding. Or trouble.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. Cocky again—but affectionate.

“I like you loud. I like you sure. And I really like that you don’t feel the need to ask permission with me.”

When she told him to eat, finish his wine, get his imaginary notebook ready, Declan picked up his fork on cue—obedient only in the way someone strong chose to be.

He took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. All very deliberate.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said lightly, lifting his glass in mock surrender. “Fueling up.”

Then she threatened to ruin his professionalism, and this time his smile went slower. Darker at the edges. Still gentle. Still safe.

“You’ve already compromised my objectivity,” he said, unbothered. “Anything after dinner is just follow-through.”

He leaned back again, chair creaking softly under his weight, eyes never leaving her face.

“But just so we’re clear,” he added, voice low and steady, “I’m not pretending to be a judge because I need control.”

A beat.

“I’m pretending because you like to see how long I can hold it.”

His gaze warmed immediately after—no challenge, no pressure. Just affection. Just certainty.

“And I’ll let you ruin me,” he finished, soft but sure, “because I trust you to put me back together.”

Then he took another sip of wine, calm as ever.

Waiting.

Exactly where she left him.

Hattie sat in the quiet that followed like it belonged to her.

Because it did.

Because he did.

Declan’s last words landed in her chest and settled there—warm, heavy, reverent in a way that made her stomach flip and her eyes sting if she let herself stare at it too long. The trust. The steadiness. The way he could say something that intimate without making it feel like a demand.

Just an offering.

And Hattie—confident, happy, absolutely glowing in her own skin—felt the simplest, most powerful truth of it:

She got to call this perfect man hers.

Not like ownership.

Like belonging.

Like chosen.

Her mouth tipped into a soft, satisfied smile as she looked at him across the table, heart full in the most obnoxious way. She didn’t have to perform. Didn’t have to protect herself from the tenderness. She could just… enjoy it.

So she did.

She took a few more bites, finishing what was left on her plate because she was full and didn’t want to push it. The last of the rice. A piece of chicken. A few veggies. Slow and unhurried. She sipped her wine again, letting it warm her throat, and kept looking at him over the rim of the glass like she was memorizing something she never wanted to forget.

The way he sat there waiting—patient, calm, not crowding her, not rushing anything. Just present. Just available.

Hattie set her glass down and exhaled, satisfied.

“Okay,” she said quietly, like she was concluding another meeting. “I’m done. I’m officially full.”

She slid her chair back and stood, stretching just enough to loosen her shoulders. Then she picked up her plate and walked it to the trash, scraping the last little bit into it with a few neat taps. Efficient. Domestic. Like this was normal—like this wasn’t her whole heart walking around in a body.

She rinsed the plate quickly under the faucet, water running in a soft rush. She didn’t scrub it spotless—just enough to be respectful—then set it in the sink with a gentle clink.

When she turned back, she didn’t go straight to the hallway.

She went to him.

Because she couldn’t not.

Hattie crossed the kitchen, her steps light, and came up behind his chair. Her hand slid onto his shoulder first—warm, familiar—fingers curling into the fabric there like she wanted to feel the proof of him. Like she liked knowing she could touch him whenever she wanted and he’d simply… let her.

She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Not rushed. Not performative.

Soft. Certain. Affectionate in a way that made her feel giddy and safe at the same time.

Her lips lingered for half a beat, just because she could.

Then she pulled back slightly, her fingers still resting on him, thumb giving a small, satisfied stroke at the edge of his jaw.

“I’ll be back,” she murmured, voice warm with promise, eyes bright with that smug little sparkle that always meant trouble was already in motion.

Hattie stepped away, smoothing her hands lightly down the back of his shoulder as she passed—one last touch, like a tether she didn’t need but liked having anyway.

Then she headed down the hall toward their bedroom, already smiling to herself.

Not because she was trying to be sexy.

Because she was.

Because she was happy.

Because she was confident.

Because she was his—and he was hers—and she trusted him so completely that she could turn this into a game without ever worrying the floor would drop out beneath her.

Hattie disappeared into the bedroom with purpose, already scanning in her head—flannel options, softness levels, the one that smelled the most like him.

The first one.

The opening act.

And the moment she found it, she grinned—because she was absolutely going to make him pretend to judge.

And then make it impossible.

Declan stayed seated for a second after she walked away.

Not frozen—just… still. Like his body needed a beat to catch up with what his chest already knew.

He watched her move through the kitchen with that quiet, domestic competence that always undid him more than anything overt ever could. The way she rinsed the plate. The soft clink in the sink. The fact that she didn’t look back because she didn’t need to. She knew exactly where he was. She knew exactly what she did to him.

When her hand came to his shoulder, his breath shifted without permission.

Not sharp. Not needy.

Just deeper.

He leaned subtly into her touch, muscle memory more than intention, and when she kissed his cheek he closed his eyes for half a second—just enough to take it in properly. Like he always did. Like he never rushed these things.

When her thumb brushed his jaw, he turned his head just slightly toward her fingers, voice low when he answered her.

“Take your time,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”

There was a promise in it—but no pressure. Just fact.

As she walked away, hand trailing over his shoulder, Declan exhaled slowly through his nose and finally leaned back in his chair again, gaze drifting toward the hallway she disappeared down.

He picked up his glass, took another sip of wine—not because he needed it, but because he could. Calm. Steady. Grounded in his body the way he always was when he trusted what came next.

A small smile tugged at his mouth.

“Flannel,” he said quietly to himself, already knowing. Already clocking the intention. The opening move.

He shook his head once, amused and fond, and finally stood—tall frame unfolding easily, no rush in him at all. He rinsed his own plate, set it aside, wiped his hands on a towel with deliberate care.

Because this wasn’t a chase.

It was a rhythm.

And when he started down the hall after her, his steps were unhurried, confident—like a man who knew exactly who was waiting for him and exactly how much she trusted him to meet her there.

Declan paused at the bedroom doorway—not because he needed permission, not because he was unsure—but because he knew how this worked with her.

He leaned one shoulder into the frame, tall and easy, arms folding loosely across his chest. The light from the hall caught him just right—broad, steady, familiar. Home.

His eyes tracked her calmly, openly. No rush. No hunger that needed proving. Just attention—full and undivided.

“There it is,” he said quietly, voice low with amusement when he clocked the flannel in her hands. “Knew you’d start gentle.”

He stepped inside then, slow, deliberate, boots soft against the floor as he crossed the room. He stopped a few feet away—not crowding her, never cornering. Just close enough that the air between them felt charged.

“You always do,” he went on, tone fond. “Like you want to see how long I’ll behave if you make it comfortable first.”

A smile tugged at his mouth—warm, knowing.

“For the record,” he added, “I notice all of it. The planning. The confidence. The way you pretend this is casual when you’ve already thought three steps ahead.”

He reached out—not to touch her yet—but to take the flannel from her hands, rubbing the fabric between his fingers like he was testing evidence.

“And you picked the one that smells like me,” he said softly, eyes lifting back to hers. “That’s not subtle either.”

He handed it back, fingers brushing hers just once—intentional, grounding.

“You okay if I keep talking?” he asked, gentle but sure. “Because you’ve got that look like you’re enjoying the quiet, and I don’t want to break it wrong.”

A beat.

Then, quieter—real.

“You don’t have to perform with me,” he said. “You know that, right? You can just… be happy. I won’t take it from you.”

His gaze softened, something protective settling in his posture without turning heavy.

“But,” he added, the cocky edge slipping back in, “if you want to make me pretend to judge you?”

He tipped his head slightly, eyes dark with affection and promise.

“I’m very good at pretending.”

He let his hands drop to his sides, relaxed again, giving her space to choose the next move.

Hattie didn’t interrupt him once.

She just stood there with the flannel in her hands and let him say it—let him name her the way he always did, like he was reading a language off her skin that no one else could even see. Planning. Confidence. Three steps ahead. Like you want to see how long I’ll behave.

Her face stayed composed through it, chin tipped just slightly, eyes steady on him like she was bored.

But inside, she was practically purring.

Because he was right. Because he always was. Because he didn’t say any of it like an accusation—he said it like admiration. Like he liked the way her happiness made her a little wicked.

And the part that mattered most, the part she didn’t let show too easily, was the truth tucked in the middle of his steady voice:

You don’t have to perform with me.

Hattie held onto that like a secret she got to keep. Like a gift he never tired of giving her.

So she let him finish. Let the silence come back in around them.

Then she exhaled through her nose and gave him a look—long-suffering, offended on principle—like he’d ruined something sacred.

“Wow,” she said, flat. “Unbelievable.”

She lifted the flannel slightly, as if presenting Exhibit A.

“I was going to do a grand reveal,” she continued, voice dripping with mock irritation. “I was going to walk out into the kitchen like a supermodel. Maybe do a little spin. Maybe hold the hem like this—” she demonstrated with a tiny flick of fabric, “—and let you pretend you weren’t losing your mind.”

Hattie’s eyes narrowed.

“And you followed me.”

She let the complaint hang there, then added, softer and sweeter—because she couldn’t help it, because it was true:

“Which is exactly what I wanted you to do, so… congratulations. You’re guilty.”

Her mouth tipped into a smile—bratty, delighted, pleased with him in a way that made her chest feel too full.

Then she pointed at the bed like she was assigning a post.

“Your punishment,” she declared, “is that you have to sit right there.”

She waited until he moved—until that tall, steady body obeyed without any need for words—until he was seated and watching her like she’d set the whole room on fire and asked him not to flinch.

Hattie took a slow step back, still holding the flannel, her eyes bright.

“And,” she added, lifting a single finger, “you can’t touch.”

She emphasized it with a tiny wag of her finger, like she was lecturing a man who was clearly too tempted to be trusted.

“Not even a little.”

His hands stayed where they were. His posture stayed easy. But Hattie felt the shift anyway—the attention sharpening, the air changing, the quiet tightening between them like a drawn thread.

Good.

That was the point.

She set the flannel on the edge of the dresser for one beat, then reached for the hem of her tee.

This wasn’t performance. Not really. Not for him.

This was her, happy. Safe. Bold because she could be. Bratty because she knew he wouldn’t punish her for it—he’d just take it.

Hattie lifted her shirt slowly and tugged it up and over her head, tossing it aside with casual confidence. She didn’t rush to cover herself, didn’t flinch from his gaze. She simply existed in it, shoulders relaxed, chin lifted, like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Because with him, it was.

She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her sweats next, sliding them down her hips in an unhurried motion—more deliberate than necessary, because she was a menace and he deserved to suffer a little. She stepped out of them and kicked them aside without looking.

Then she reached for the flannel.

The one that smelled like him.

Hattie slipped her arms into it, pulling it on slow, letting the fabric drag over her skin, letting the sleeves fall into place. She buttoned it lazily—only a couple buttons, just enough to make it look like she was trying, just enough to make it clear she wasn’t.

When she turned back toward the bed, she leaned her hip against the dresser like she owned the room. Like she owned the moment.

Like she owned him.

Her eyes found his and held. Her smile was wicked and warm all at once.

“Well?” she asked, voice sweet, daring. “Judge.”

Then she pushed off the dresser and did a slow little turn—exactly what she’d threatened earlier, a small runway spin that was more playful than polished. She made it teasing on purpose: the swish of the flannel hem, the way she glanced back over her shoulder like she knew what she was doing to him.

She stopped facing him again, hands at her sides, posture relaxed.

And then she lifted her brows, smug.

“Go on,” Hattie said, soft and satisfied. “Tell me how I did.”

She took a tiny step closer to the bed—close enough to make the no-touch rule feel like a rule—and angled her head, eyes shining with happiness she wasn’t trying to hide.

“Be professional,” she added, like a threat.

Her smile widened.

“I want notes.”

Declan stayed seated.

He didn’t lean forward. Didn’t spread his knees. Didn’t do a single thing that would make it easier on himself—because this mattered to her. Because the rule mattered. Because he liked that she trusted him to hold the line.

But his eyes?

Absolutely did not behave.

They tracked her openly, shamelessly, slow from the top of her head to the hem of the flannel and back again. No rush. No attempt to pretend he wasn’t affected. Just attention—full, focused, reverent in a way that made it clear this wasn’t a game he was tolerating.

When she called him Judge, his mouth twitched.

He dragged one hand over his jaw, thoughtful, like he was actually considering something serious.

“All right,” he said calmly. “Professional.”

He straightened just a little, planting his feet, forearms resting on his thighs now—hands very visibly still. Obedient. Deliberate.

“First impression,” he continued, voice steady but warm, “you’re absolutely abusing the dress code.”

A beat.

“And I respect it.”

His gaze lifted to her face, softened there—always did—before dropping again with quiet appreciation.

“Flannel choice,” he went on, nodding once. “Excellent. Strategic. Smells like me, fits you like you stole it—which you did—and somehow manages to look better on you than it ever has on me.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying her like a man who knew what he was seeing and liked that he wasn’t allowed to reach for it.

“Buttoning is lazy. Intentional. Leaves just enough room for imagination.” A pause. “Unfair, but effective.”

When she stepped closer—close enough to make the rule ache—his jaw flexed. He didn’t move. Didn’t break.

“Confidence,” he said quietly, eyes lifting to meet hers now, locking in. “Ten out of ten. No hesitation. No checking to see if I’m still with you.”

A small smile curved his mouth—fond, proud.

“That’s my favorite part,” he admitted. “You don’t ask if I like it. You already know I do.”

He leaned back a fraction, exhaling slowly, grounding himself again before he finished.

“As a judge,” he said, measured, “I’d say you understood the assignment perfectly.”

Then the cocky edge slipped back in—low, amused, undeniably him.

“As your boyfriend?” His eyes warmed, voice dropping just enough to feel like a promise. “I think you’re enjoying how hard this is for me.”

A beat.

“And you’re right.”

He lifted his hands briefly—palms open, proof of compliance—then let them rest again, still.

“No touching,” he said, repeating her rule with a quiet smile. “Still behaving.”

His gaze stayed on her, steady and unflinching.

“But if you want more notes,” he added softly, “you’re going to have to stay right there a little longer.”

A pause.

“Because I’m not done looking.”

Declan stayed exactly where she put him.

Back straight. Feet planted. Hands resting loose on his thighs like they were weighted there on purpose. Every inch of restraint was deliberate—not forced, not strained. Chosen.

He let the silence stretch again, because he knew she liked it. Knew she liked the way he didn’t rush to fill space, didn’t scramble just because she was daring him to.

His eyes lifted to hers, steady and intent.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said quietly—not accusatory, not amused. Just observant. “I can tell by the way you’re standing like you’ve already won.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth.

“And for the record,” he added, voice low and calm, “you’re right. I am losing.”

He shifted back just enough to get comfortable, like he planned to be here awhile. Like this was something he could sit inside instead of fight.

“As a judge,” he continued, playing along because he liked that she asked him to, “I’d note that you didn’t rush the turn. You let me see you from every angle like you weren’t worried about what I’d think.”

His gaze softened when it met her face again.

“That tells me you feel safe,” he said. “And that matters more than how good you look.”

A beat—then the cocky warmth slid back in, easy and familiar.

“Still,” he went on, “you definitely broke my concentration with the shoulder seam on that flannel. Sits just right. Makes it very hard to remember I’m supposed to be objective.”

He inhaled slowly, visibly grounding himself, eyes never leaving her.

“But I’m holding,” he said simply. “Because you asked me to.”

His voice dropped, quieter now—steady as a promise.

“And because I like showing you I can.”

He glanced pointedly at the space between them—close, charged, untouched.

“You can come closer if you want,” he added calmly. “Rules still stand.”

Then his eyes lifted back to hers, warm and unwavering.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “You don’t need to hurry.”

Hattie could’ve melted on the spot.

Not because he was being good—though he was. God, he was. Hands still. Posture steady. Obedience worn like choice instead of restraint.

But because of the way he listened.

The way he took her seriously even when she was being ridiculous. The way he met her play without ever making it feel silly. The way his eyes kept moving over her like she was something worth studying—worth memorizing—like he could spend the rest of his life looking and still not run out of awe.

It made her feel… adored.

And powerful.

And impossibly safe.

Hattie’s smile turned soft at the edges as she stood there in his flannel, heart full enough to be annoying about it. She let the silence stretch a second longer—because she liked watching him hold it, liked knowing he would—then she shifted her weight and gave him a look like she was absolutely going to make this worse.

“You’re so serious about this,” she murmured, amused, and then—because she couldn’t help herself—she did a small pose like she was on a runway. One hand at her hip, chin tipped, shoulder angled just right so the flannel collar sat open in a way that would’ve been innocent on anyone else.

Not on her.

Not right now.

She held it for half a beat, then changed it—turning slightly, letting the hem swing, crossing one leg in front of the other with a little sway that said I’m not even trying when she very much was.

Her eyes flicked to his face, watching him watch her, and that smug spark returned.

“Okay,” she said lightly, like she was conceding something. “I am enjoying this.”

Another pose—small, playful—she lifted her arms and stretched like she was waking up, letting the flannel ride just enough to tease the shape of her waist before it fell back into place.

Hattie’s grin widened.

“I’m enjoying how hard I’m making this on you,” she admitted, voice warm with satisfaction. “A lot.”

She let that hang, savoring the fact that she could say things like that without flinching. Without wondering if she’d pushed too far. Because it was Declan.

Because Declan didn’t get scared of her intensity. He didn’t punish her for wanting. He didn’t make her feel like she had to shrink down into something easier.

He just… held steady.

Hattie’s expression softened for a second—something gentler flickering through the mischief.

“And yeah,” she said more quietly, eyes staying on his. “I feel safe.”

It wasn’t said like a confession she regretted. It was said like a truth she deserved.

“With you,” she continued, voice low and sure, “I don’t have to brace for the floor to drop out from under me. I don’t have to wonder if the line will move.”

She swallowed, the warmth in her chest tightening a fraction.

“That’s… a big part of why I let things get rougher sometimes,” she added, matter-of-fact but honest. “Because I know it’s still you. I know you’re still listening. I know you’d stop the second I asked.”

Her smile returned—brighter, lighter—because she didn’t want to sit in sincerity too long. Not when she could use it like fuel instead.

“So,” she said, sweet again, playful again, “don’t ruin it by getting all emotional. You’re supposed to be judging.”

She took a slow step forward.

Then another.

Not fast. Not urgent. Just close enough that the rule turned into something you could feel.

Hattie stopped right in front of him, close to his knees, and leaned in just a little, like she was offering him a “better look” the way he’d asked for it.

“Is this close enough, Judge?” she asked, voice honey-smooth.

She tipped her head, letting her hair fall over one shoulder. Letting the flannel collar open just a fraction more. Letting him see exactly what she wanted him to see.

Her hands stayed to herself—no touching, because she liked the rule too. She liked the line. She liked how it made the air between them crackle.

Hattie bent slightly at the waist, bringing her face closer to his—close enough to make his restraint a physical thing in the room—and smiled like she’d already won again.

“Take your notes,” she whispered, eyes shining. “Get a really good look.”

Then she straightened, slow and deliberate, and did one more tiny turn right there in front of him—small enough to be cruel, playful enough to be a dare.

When she faced him again, she lifted her brows.

“Well?” she asked, smug and bright. “Still behaving?”

Declan didn’t move.

Not when she stepped closer.
Not when she leaned in.
Not when the air between them tightened into something you could almost hear.

But his breath changed—slow, controlled, deeper through his nose like he was grounding himself on purpose. Like he knew exactly what this cost him and was choosing it anyway.

His eyes lifted to hers when she asked if he was still behaving, and this time there was no teasing in his expression. No laziness. Just focus—steady and unflinching and unmistakably present.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

One word. Solid. Certain.

Then, because she asked for notes—because she trusted him to keep listening—he let his gaze move again. Slow. Thorough. Appreciative without being possessive. He took her in the way a man does when he isn’t trying to take anything at all.

“You’re pushing the boundary,” he said evenly, voice low and warm. “Not crossing it. That’s intentional.”

A beat.

“And you’re watching me the whole time to make sure I’m still here.”

His jaw flexed once, the smallest tell that this wasn’t easy—but still controlled.

“I am,” he added. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”

When she talked about safety—about knowing he’d stop, knowing he was listening—something settled heavy and sure in his chest. Pride, maybe. Responsibility. Love that didn’t need dramatics to exist.

“I would,” he said simply. “Immediately.”

No hesitation. No bravado.

“You don’t have to brace with me,” he continued, voice steady as a hand on her back. “And you don’t have to earn my attention by making things rough.”

Then—softening, just a little—

“But I understand why you play at the edge,” he said. “Because you trust I won’t let you fall.”

Her being this close—her voice low, her confidence bright—made his restraint feel almost visible. But he held it. Because that was the point. Because she liked knowing he could.

“As a judge,” he went on, returning to the game because she asked him to, “I’d say proximity increases difficulty.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth.

“Significantly.”

He stayed seated, hands still, eyes locked on hers now—not her body, not the flannel. Her.

“But as the man who loves you?” he said quietly. “I see someone who’s happy. Someone who’s testing the ground because she knows it’s solid.”

He inhaled slowly, then let it out.

“So yes,” he finished, calm and sure, “I’m still behaving.”

A pause.

“But you should know”—his voice dropped just a touch, warm with promise—
“I’m only doing it because you asked me to.”

His gaze softened, affectionate and steady.

“And because I like showing you that you’re safe… even when you’re being a menace.”

Hattie held his gaze and felt that single word—Yes—hit her like a pulse.

Not because it was a victory.

Because it was a choice.

Because he was sitting there with all that strength and all that want and all that patience, and he was still listening. Still holding the line. Still proving—again and again—that her rules mattered because she mattered.

It made her heart feel stupidly full.

And it made her body feel… very aware.

Hattie let a slow smile spread across her mouth, soft at first, then sharpening into something smug and pleased. She didn’t look away. She didn’t have to. She loved him as a person—she loved the man he was when nobody was watching, the steadiness, the tenderness, the way he took care of her like it was instinct.

But she also loved him like this.

The heat of him under control. The restraint. The way it gathered inside him like a storm he was holding back with his own hands.

Because when it finally broke—when she finally let him stop behaving—it didn’t come out gentle or half-measured.

It came out full force.

And she liked that. She liked the intensity. She liked the edge.

Not because she needed to prove anything.

Not because she was trying to earn his attention by letting things get rough.

Hattie didn’t need to barter for his focus. She had it. She’d always had it.

She just… genuinely liked it.

Her body could take it. More than take it. Her pain threshold was high, and in sex it climbed even higher—like something in her brain flipped and turned pressure into pleasure, heat into relief. It wasn’t bravery. It wasn’t sacrifice.

It was preference.

Hattie exhaled softly, almost a laugh, and let her fingertips skim the edge of his knee—barely there, not breaking the rule, just a tiny touch of presence before she withdrew again.

She tilted her head, eyes bright, voice warm.

“I know,” she said quietly, when he told her she didn’t have to earn anything. Her smile softened for a beat. “And I’m not.”

Then the brat in her returned, pleased and bold.

“I just…” She let her gaze drag over him—slow, appreciative, not shy about it. “I like you like this.”

She leaned in a fraction, close enough that the no-touch rule felt loud in the room.

“I like your self-control,” she murmured, sweet as sin. “I like watching it build.”

Her brows lifted, playful, like she was sharing a harmless opinion instead of lighting a match.

“And besides,” she added, with a casual shrug that didn’t match the heat in her eyes, “we can save the vanilla stuff for when we’re older and our bodies don’t work as well.”

A beat.

She smiled wider.

“Right now, I’m in my prime. And I plan to enjoy it.”

Hattie stepped back half a step—not retreating, just giving herself room to tug lightly at the flannel hem and let it fall back into place. A tiny, deliberate tease. A reminder that this was still her game.

Then she looked at him again—straight on, warm and wicked and happy.

“So,” she said, voice light, like this was a perfectly reasonable question, “do you need a better look at this one still…”

She paused, letting the second option hang in the air like a dare.

“…or are you ready to take it off me yet?”

Hattie’s smile turned positively smug.

“Because if you want to wait a little longer,” she continued, nodding toward the dresser as if she had a whole lineup planned—because she did, “I already know which one I’m modeling next.”

She leaned in just slightly, lowering her voice.

“And you’re going to hate it.”

Her eyes sparkled.

“Not because it’s ugly. Because it’s going to make behaving even harder.”

Then she straightened again, hands behind her back like she was innocent, like she hadn’t just thrown gasoline on a fire and asked him to stay seated.

Hattie held his gaze, confident and affectionate all at once—safe enough to play at the edge because she knew he would catch her every time.

“So, Judge,” she murmured, smile slow, “what’s the ruling?”

Declan didn’t answer right away.

He looked at her—really looked at her—with an expression that wasn’t heat first, but something deeper and steadier underneath it. Like admiration came before want. Like the want mattered because of the admiration, not instead of it.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and even, but threaded through with unmistakable affection.

“I know,” he said softly, in response to her I’m not earning it. Not defensive. Not correcting. Just acknowledging her truth. “I can see that.”

His gaze lingered on her face longer than anywhere else, like he needed her to understand that part most.

“And I love that about you,” he continued. “That you don’t push because you’re unsure. You push because you’re curious. Because you’re alive in it.”

He shifted slightly on the bed—not breaking the rule, not leaning forward—just adjusting, grounding himself again. Big hands still open. Still empty.

When she told him she liked him like this—controlled, contained—his mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I figured.”

There was no embarrassment in it. No apology. Just truth.

“You’ve always liked knowing where the edge is,” he went on, eyes warm, attentive. “And you like knowing I can stand right at it without tipping over.”

A beat.

“And you like knowing,” he added gently, “that when I do move, it’s because you asked me to.”

Her teasing about being in her prime earned a low, breathy laugh from his chest—soft, fond, amused in the way of a man who adored the woman in front of him.

“You’re not wrong,” he said. “And I’m not rushing you through any of it.”

When she asked if he needed a better look—or if he was ready to take it off—his eyes darkened just a fraction, not with hunger alone but with deliberation. Thoughtfulness. Choice.

He inhaled slowly, visibly steadying himself again, then lifted his gaze back to hers.

“As the judge,” he said, calm and measured, playing the role because she loved it, “I’d say you’re clearly trying to influence the outcome.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth.

“And it’s working.”

But he stayed seated. Stayed still. Because that mattered.

“As the man who loves you,” he continued more quietly, “I’m in no hurry to skip past the part where you feel powerful. Confident. Seen.”

His eyes softened, something almost reverent settling there.

“You shine when you’re like this,” he said. “Not because of what you’re wearing—or not wearing—but because you trust me enough to play.”

He let the silence stretch for a beat, then answered her question at last.

“So here’s the ruling,” Declan said, voice low and sure.

“I’m still behaving.”

A pause.

“But I’m not waiting because I need more convincing.”

His gaze held hers, steady and affectionate.

“I’m waiting because I want you to decide when the rules change.”

A faint smile—warm, devoted, unmistakably his.

“And when you do,” he added softly, “I’ll be right here. Listening.”