Declan didn’t rush his answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” he said softly. “It’s nice.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A pause, a hint of a smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I love you, Declan," she whispered.

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

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

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

Declan didn’t turn around right away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4:58...

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

4:59...

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

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

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

5:00.

The second the number flipped, Hattie moved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just looked at her.

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

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

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

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

Let's go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No games now. No waiting.

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

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

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

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

His mouth curved, slower now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A pause. The corner of his mouth lifted again.

“But I’m real glad it’s over.”

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

“Let’s get you home,” he murmured.

You were good.

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

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

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

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

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

Safe. Warm. Hers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She liked mornings like this.

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

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

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

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

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

And then she froze.

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

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

Because she knew that walk.

That hair.

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

Hattie recognized her instantly.

Even after years.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is Declan here?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And attached to it, a small folded note card.

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

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

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

Hattie didn’t move right away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The woman blinked—slow, almost amused.

Then her smile widened just a fraction.

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

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

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

Hattie nodded again, the motion small. Controlled.

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

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

Then her eyes landed on Hattie again.

And this time, the smile changed.

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

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

A pause, like she was considering something.

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

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

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

But it was sharp enough that Hattie knew.

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

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

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

The doors swung shut behind her.

The lobby went quiet again.

Hattie didn’t move.

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

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

She didn’t read it.

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

But she didn’t.

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

So she left it.

She kept working.

Or tried to.

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

Her gaze kept snapping back to the flowers.

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

For him.

Just sitting there, perfectly arranged, perfectly placed.

Like a claim.

Like a reminder.

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

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

She stared at the note again.

Still didn’t read it.

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

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

Hattie’s heart kicked once, hard.

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

And then Declan appeared.

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

Hattie’s throat tightened.

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

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

Hattie forced her expression into something readable. Something normal.

She nodded once toward the vase.

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

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

Declan clocked the flowers the second she nodded toward them.

Not because he was expecting something.

Because Hattie’s voice wasn’t quite right.

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

His eyes dropped to the vase.

Then back to her.

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

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

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

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

Recognition hit him then—clean and sharp.

Madison.

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

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

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

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

Just that.

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

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

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

His gaze softened when it met hers again.

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

Then—gentler, unmistakably him—

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

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

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

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

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

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

On her.

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

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

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

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

Hattie heard something else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Declan asked if she was okay.

Hattie nodded once.

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

It sounded like a lie even to her.

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

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

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

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

Hattie’s throat tightened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something jealous.

Something insecure.

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

She shut down.

Quiet. Minimal. Controlled.

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

Declan saw it happen in real time.

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” he said quietly.

Then he reached for the vase.

Not dramatically. Not angrily. Just decisively.

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

Glass clinked. Petals crushed. Done.

He didn’t look back at it.

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

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

He waited.

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

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

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

A beat.

“I care about what you just felt.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused, letting the words land without pressure.

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

Then—honest to the bone—

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

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

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

His thumb brushed lightly against her knuckles, grounding.

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

He held her gaze now, unwavering.

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