Declan let out a quiet laugh at her suspicion, the kind that lived low in his chest, warm and unbothered. He shook his head once, slow and amused, eyes never leaving her face.

“No secret baking partners,” he promised. “You’re the first one who’s ever made me take this seriously.”

He watched her measure the sugar, noticed how her confidence had grown just in the span of a few minutes—shoulders less tight, movements more sure. It did something to him, seeing her relax into it. Like he was watching her step into a space she’d already earned but was only just letting herself occupy.

When she nudged his shoulder, he leaned into it on purpose, playful, like he wanted the contact as much as she did.

“Dangerously competent?” he echoed, smirking. “Careful. You keep talkin’ like that and I’ll start requestin’ an apron.”

Her breath caught when he touched her hair, and he noticed. Of course he noticed. He always noticed the little things—her pause, the way her lashes dipped, the way she softened when he touched her gently instead of playfully.

He didn’t rush the kiss to her forehead. Let it linger, just long enough to say something he didn’t put into words.

I see you.
I’m here.
This matters.

When she brushed flour off his shirt, he glanced down at the spot like it was a badge of honor.

“Guess I’m officially in it now,” he said. “Kitchen warrior.”

He took the spatula from her, but didn’t start right away. Just looked at her, really looked. The cardigan sleeves slipping down her wrists. The faint dusting of flour on her fingers. The way she kept pretending she wasn’t affected by him when she very clearly was.

“You wanna trade?” he asked, eyes soft. “I’ll cream, you whisk?”

Then his mouth curved, gentle and teasing.

“Or,” he added, stepping just a little closer, “I can keep lookin’ at you like this and we’ll forget the recipe entirely.”

He finally turned back to the bowl, sliding the butter in with deliberate care, sugar following. He worked slow, steady, giving her space to step in beside him, his shoulder a constant presence at her side.

“You’re doin’ good,” he said quietly, not about the baking. About her. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, you know. But I like that you want to build stuff together.”

He stirred, then paused, handing her the whisk with a small smile.

“Team effort,” he said. “Always.”

And the way he looked at her—soft, certain, full of that quiet devotion—made it clear he wasn’t just talking about brownies.

Declan took the whisk from her for just a second—only long enough to set it aside so it wouldn’t clatter—then turned back to her with that soft, inevitable smile she always pulled out of him.

Before she could overthink it, before she could deflect with a joke or busy her hands again, he leaned in.

It wasn’t dramatic.
Didn’t stop the day.
Didn’t demand attention.

Just a quick kiss—warm and sure—right to her lips.

The kind that said I’m right here more than look at me.

He pulled back just as easily, forehead brushing hers, his thumb catching lightly at her wrist like he wasn’t quite done touching her yet.

“Couldn’t help it,” he murmured, low and fond. “You were standin’ too close.”

His eyes flicked to the counter, then back to her, amused and tender all at once.

“Alright,” he added, nudging the bowl back between them, voice soft with a smile. “Back to business before we forget the sugar exists.”

But his hand stayed warm at her side as he stepped back into place—present, steady, and completely content to be exactly where he was.

“Kitchen warrior,” she repeated under her breath, grinning like he’d just awarded himself the highest possible title in their domestic kingdom. “I’ll have to embroider that on your apron. Maybe with a little sword through a spatula.”

She was still laughing as she took the whisk from his hand, the handle warm from his grip. Her fingers brushed his knuckles on the exchange, and even that tiny touch made her stomach flutter like it hadn’t been doing that for months now.

Except it still did. Always with him.

He gave her a soft compliment — about her, not the recipe — and her heart skipped like it always did when he said something so casually sincere that it didn’t even occur to him how much it would stick. She didn’t answer right away. Just smiled at the batter like it had suddenly become very interesting.

You don’t have to prove anything to me.

God, she knew that. And still, the words landed soft and sure in her chest like they were stitching something together she didn’t realize had come undone.

She glanced over at him, already prepared to make a joke about teamwork and brownies and how she might start assigning him cleaning shifts if he got too good at this—

But then he kissed her.

Quick. Warm. Certain.

And everything in her went quiet for half a second, like a held breath.

Her lips curved against his the moment they met. Not because she’d expected it, but because she didn’t need to. She always felt it coming—the gravity of him. The way he pulled her in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

When he pulled back, his forehead grazed hers, and her lashes fluttered once, then lifted to meet his gaze.

“You’re lucky I like being interrupted,” she murmured, voice light, cheeky, even though her pulse was still fluttering behind her ribs. “Otherwise, I’d be pressing charges for emotional sabotage mid-whisk.”

His hand stayed warm on her side, grounding and familiar, and she leaned into it without thinking—just a subtle press of her hip against his. Easy. Close. The kind of affection you didn’t have to plan for.

Her fingers toyed with the whisk again, idly, then lifted it like it was an offering.

“Alright, Mr. Kitchen Warrior,” she said, lifting one brow with mock seriousness. “You’re on creaming duty, I’m on whisk patrol, and if we both survive this without setting off the smoke alarm, I’ll let you pick the movie tonight.”

She handed the whisk off with a little flourish, then bumped her shoulder into his as she turned toward the oven.

“But for the record,” she added with a glance over her shoulder, “you look real good in this domestic lighting. Might have to keep you in the kitchen more often.”

And even as she teased, even as her hands moved to preheat the oven and double-check the recipe she’d already read three times, her heart beat easy in her chest.

Like it belonged here.

Like he did, too.

Declan laughed low when she said kitchen warrior, the sound warm and easy, like it came from somewhere settled.

“A sword through a spatula?” he said, shaking his head as he accepted the whisk from her with mock gravity. “That’s aggressive branding, Monroe. I respect it.”

Their fingers brushed again, just a soft graze, but he still felt it all the way up his arm. He always did. It didn’t matter how many times it happened—his body still reacted like it was new.

He caught her watching the batter like it had suddenly offended her and smiled to himself. He knew that look. The one where she was pretending she didn’t care even though she cared deeply.

When she joked about pressing charges, he leaned in just enough to murmur, “Worth it,” before straightening again, his hand still resting at her waist like it belonged there—because it did.

He took the whisk from her with a dramatic little bow.

“Creaming duty accepted,” he said. “I will serve with honor.”

Then she said it—about him looking good in domestic lighting—and his mouth tipped into that crooked grin she loved.

“Careful,” he said, eyes soft as he started working the butter and sugar together. “You keep talkin’ like that, and I’m gonna start thinking this is my natural habitat.”

He glanced up at her, really looked at her—barefoot, cardigan sleeves pushed up, flour smudged on her hands like proof of a life being built.

“Truth is,” he said quietly, not joking now, “you’re the only one I ever wanted to be domesticated by.”

The words came easy. Honest. Like they’d been waiting their turn.

He flicked a tiny bit of sugar at her without warning, grinning when it dusted her cardigan.

“That’s my flirting,” he added. “In case you were wondering.”

Then he leaned in again, just brushing his nose to her temple.

“And yeah,” he murmured, softer, “you’re home. So I’ll happily stay in the kitchen as long as you’re in it.”

He went back to the bowl, steady and focused, but his eyes kept lifting to her like he couldn’t help it.

“Movie night stakes are high, though,” he added. “So don’t sabotage me with those looks. I need full concentration if I’m gonna earn control of the remote.”

And God—he was smiling the whole time.

Hattie bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too wide.

It didn’t work.

Her heart felt stupidly full—like it was expanding in her chest with every soft flick of his eyes in her direction, every offhand comment that felt a little too sincere, every teasing touch that said you’re mine without needing the words. He didn’t throw things like that around lightly—you’re the only one I ever wanted to be domesticated by—and he probably didn’t even realize how much it was going to live rent-free in her brain for the rest of the week. Maybe longer.

Possibly forever.

She stared at the sugar now clinging to her sleeve and shook her head like she was deeply put-upon. “You know flirting usually involves flowers or compliments, right?” she said dryly, brushing it off with a slow swipe of her hand. “Not sugar assault.”

But her voice was all warmth. Her grin was all trouble.

She stepped closer, leaning into the heat of him just slightly as she looked over the bowl and nodded approvingly. “Butter’s creamed. Sugar’s sweet. Your arms look really good while you stir. I think we’re ready for the next step.”

She handed him the next card from the recipe stack with the self-importance of someone directing a film shoot. “Cocoa powder in next. Level scoop. No clumps. No chaos. You’re adding joy, not making a mudslide.”

She arched a brow at him, lips twitching. “And once that’s in, it’s time to mix the dry and wet like they’ve always belonged together. Gently. Lovingly. Like you’re officiating a very emotional baking wedding.”

Then she stepped back—not far, just enough to hop up onto the edge of the counter and swing one leg over the other, watching him with open amusement.

“This is your moment,” she said, chin resting in her hand. “Show me what you’ve got, Captain Whisk.”

She could feel it radiating off her—love, comfort, mischief. The kind of warmth that came from being exactly where she wanted to be. She didn’t need a remote or a movie or even the brownies anymore.

Just him.

Still, her smile turned sweetly competitive as she added, “Remote rights are on the line, though, so don’t blow it.”

Declan watched her for a second longer than necessary.

Not because he’d forgotten the recipe. Not because he was distracted by the cocoa tin in his hand. But because she was perched there on the counter like she belonged in his kitchen the same way light belonged in a window—easy, natural, already woven into the place.

That look on her face did something to him. The fondness. The challenge. The way she looked at him like this—like he was safe to be ridiculous with. Like he was already winning just by being here.

He snorted softly at sugar assault.

“Hey,” he said, mild but amused, “you didn’t specify a flirting protocol. I’m improv-trained.”

He reached for the cocoa powder, scooping carefully, leveling it with the edge of the measuring cup the way she’d instructed. Deliberate. Focused. Like this mattered—because to him, it did. Not the brownies so much as the way she was watching him. The way her approval came in quiet nods and soft smiles instead of applause.

He tipped the cocoa into the bowl slowly, tapping the cup once, then twice, to make sure it fell clean.

“No clumps,” he reported. “Minimal chaos. Joy levels… moderate but rising.”

He glanced up at her, eyes warm, mouth curved in that familiar, crooked way.

“And I object to the phrase baking wedding,” he added, beginning to stir gently. “This is more of a long-term partnership. Mutual respect. Shared assets. Occasional messes we clean up together.”

He mixed the dry and wet with careful strokes, patient and unhurried, his forearms flexing slightly as he worked. Every now and then his gaze flicked back to her—checking in, reading her face like it was part of the instructions.

“You know,” he said after a beat, quieter now, “this part right here?” He nodded toward the bowl, then subtly toward her. “This is my favorite kind of afternoon.”

He smiled at her again—no teasing this time, just honest.

“No rush. No fixing anything. Just us, making something that didn’t exist before.”

He set the spatula down and stepped closer, placing one hand on the counter beside her knee, the other still faintly dusted with cocoa. Not crowding. Just present.

“And for the record,” he added, voice low and steady, “remote rights aren’t even the prize.”

His thumb brushed lightly against her shin—barely there, grounding.

“I already got what I wanted.”

Then, softer, with that look that said he meant every word:

“You. Here. Happy.”

He leaned back just enough to give her space again, picking up the bowl with a nod toward the oven.

“Alright, Monroe,” he said, mock-serious now. “Next step?”

But the way he was looking at her said he wasn’t going anywhere.

Hattie slid down from the counter like she was stepping into something sacred.

Not the moment itself—there was nothing fragile here. Just warmth. Just him. Just this quiet, steady afternoon that felt a little like a beginning and a little like a memory all at once. Her bare feet touched the floor with a soft thud, and her fingers brushed his cocoa-dusted hand as she reached for the mixing bowl.

“I’ve got it from here,” she said, not bossy, not shy—just hers. A little breathless from how he’d looked at her, how he always looked at her when she wasn’t performing anything at all.

She took the bowl and turned toward the pan they’d set out earlier—greased and waiting, like it had known she’d need something easy and small to feel accomplished by.

The batter was thick and glossy as she poured, slow and careful, the spatula catching the edges while her other hand held the bowl steady. She didn’t rush. Didn’t worry about mess. He’d already told her trying counted.

“I think the joy levels just spiked,” she murmured, half to herself, half to the brownie batter, smirking as she coaxed it into the corners.

Declan hadn’t moved far. She could feel the heat of him just behind her—close enough to sense, not close enough to distract her from her task. Yet.

She set the bowl down once it was empty, then scraped the spatula clean with a few final, satisfying passes. Her lips curved as she licked the edge in the most nonchalant, smug way possible before glancing over her shoulder at him.

“Well?” she asked, eyes bright. “You ready to see if your mutual-respect-long-term-partnership brownies actually live up to the hype?”

She stepped aside to let him admire the handiwork, but didn’t go far. Her hip brushed his, lingering there for just a second longer than necessary before she nudged him gently with her elbow.

“Timer’s yours,” she added, playful but soft now. “You’re on watch duty, Mr. Domestic.”

And God, she liked saying that. Liked him here, in this kitchen, with her elbow in his side and cocoa on both of their hands. It felt easy. Right.

The kind of afternoon she wanted more of.

She crossed to the sink to rinse off the spatula, already humming under her breath, already imagining how good the house was going to smell in a few minutes.

Already planning on using the brownie bowl as an excuse to kiss him senseless.

Declan let out a soft laugh when she slid past him, the sound warm and a little helpless, like he was already done for and didn’t mind one bit. The afternoon light caught in her hair as she moved, turning the loose strands gold, and for a second he just watched her like this was his favorite kind of quiet—ordinary, domestic, full.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, stepping closer as she poured, eyes tracking the glossy batter like it was a miracle in motion. It ribboned thick and dark into the pan, the smell of cocoa already blooming in the warm kitchen air. “I’m emotionally invested now. There’s no backing out.”

He hovered just behind her shoulder, not crowding, just… present. Close enough to feel her warmth, to catch the faint scent of her lotion mixed with sugar and lemon cleaner. His hands rested on the counter, knuckles brushing the edge as he watched the way she coaxed the batter into the corners, careful even when she pretended she wasn’t. It made his chest ache in the best way.

“Look at that,” he murmured, genuinely impressed. “That’s a professional pour if I’ve ever seen one. Real Food Network energy.”

When she licked the spatula and glanced over her shoulder, his eyebrows lifted slowly, a grin spreading across his face like he’d just been handed a gift. His gaze dropped to her mouth for half a second before he caught himself.

“Oh, so that’s how it is?” he teased. “Chef gets first taste privileges?”

He leaned in just a fraction, voice dropping. “Bold move, Monroe.”

Her hip brushed his and he didn’t even pretend not to enjoy it—shifted just enough to keep the contact, elbowing her back gently in response. It was that quiet, unspoken language they’d built—touches that said I’m here without interrupting anything.

“Timer duty,” he repeated, mock-serious. “Copy that.”

He grabbed his phone off the counter, tapping in the time with exaggerated focus like it was a mission-critical operation. The soft click of the screen felt weirdly ceremonial.

“Alright,” he announced, tapping the screen. “Twenty-five minutes. I will guard these brownies with my life.”

He looked at her then—really looked—hands damp from cocoa, sleeves pushed up, hair a little wild, humming like the kitchen was her stage. The sunlight framed her like she belonged right here, like this was exactly where she was meant to be.

And he smiled like he already knew this was going to be good.

“Honestly?” he said, softer now. “I’m stupid excited to see how these turn out.”

Not just the brownies.

Everything.

He leaned over and bumped her shoulder with his, affectionate and easy, letting the contact linger for half a second longer than necessary.

“And if they’re terrible,” he added, smirking, “we’ll eat them anyway and call it character-building.”

He watched her rinse the spatula, the sound of water filling the quiet space, his gaze fond and unguarded. The house felt settled around them—clean counters, warm light, the low hum of the fridge like background music to their afternoon.

“But if they’re amazing,” he continued, “I’m tellin’ everybody I trained you.”

A beat.

“I didn’t,” he admitted quickly, grin crooked. “But I will absolutely take credit.”

He pushed a strand of hair gently behind her ear as she turned back toward him, thumb brushing her cheek in that absent, affectionate way that said more than words ever could.

“Either way,” he added quietly, “I’m proud of you. For trying. For building stuff with me. For… all of this.”

His smile softened, steady and sure.

“Now c’mon,” he said lightly. “We wait. And then we celebrate like champions.”

Hattie laughed under her breath and tipped her head toward him, eyes bright and mischievous.

“Well,” she said, dragging the word just enough to make it a challenge, “if we’re gonna celebrate like champions, we should probably get these brownies in the oven before we get distracted.”

She leaned in and kissed him—quick, soft, just the kind that landed and stayed with you longer than it lasted. A thank-you kiss. A you’re very hard to ignore kiss.

Then she turned back toward the pan.

Declan was already moving. No words. Just muscle memory and quiet attentiveness as he crossed to the oven and pulled the door open for her, one hand steadying it while he stepped back to give her space.

Hattie slid the pan inside carefully, lining it up just right, the heat brushing her face. She could feel him there behind her—solid, warm, utterly dependable. When she straightened, he closed the oven door without a sound, sealing the moment in like a promise.

She turned, lifting one finger to point at him like she was laying down terms.

“Just so we’re clear,” she said lightly, “if these brownies are incredible, you get full credit. I made you do most of the work.”

She tilted her head, smile turning a little smug, a little fond.

“I was busy,” she added, “admiring how unfairly attractive you are while being all focused and domestic. Those arms were doing things for me.”

She dropped her hand and leaned back against the counter, folding her arms loosely, still watching him.

“And if they’re terrible,” she went on, just as cheerfully, “that’s also on you. Because I trusted you.”

A beat. Then softer, teasing warmth layered underneath—

“But I have a good feeling.”

The oven hummed quietly, already at work. The kitchen felt full in that anticipatory way—clean counters, faint cocoa in the air, twenty-five minutes stretching out in front of them with nothing demanding their attention.

Hattie glanced around, then back at him.

“So,” she said, rocking back on her heels. “How do we kill time while we wait?”

Her eyes flicked briefly toward the living room. The couch. The playlist still running low in the background.

She smiled again—easy, settled, deeply in love.

“Because I vote something that involves sitting very close to you and absolutely not being productive.”

Declan watched her like he always did in moments like this—like she was doing something quietly extraordinary instead of something as simple as sliding a pan into the oven. The kiss she gave him lingered on his mouth long after she’d pulled away, soft and grounding, the kind that sank in slow and stayed.

“Yeah,” he murmured, smiling to himself as he shut the oven door. “Distracted’s already a problem.”

When she pointed at him, laying down her very official brownie terms, he lifted both hands in mock surrender, a low laugh rumbling out of his chest. The sound was warm, unguarded—home.

“Alright, alright,” he said. “I accept full responsibility. Glory or blame. I’m a brave man.”

He stepped closer as she leaned back against the counter, closing the space like it was instinct. His hands settled easily at her waist, thumbs brushing along the soft knit of her cardigan, absent-minded but deliberate. Like he needed to touch her just to stay oriented.

“Also,” he added, head tilting slightly, eyes openly appreciative as they moved over her face, “you don’t get to accuse me of being unfairly attractive while domestic and then act surprised when I can’t focus on anything else.”

His smile softened into something slower, more tender.

“And for the record,” he went on quietly, “I did not do most of the work. You built the whole thing. I just… showed up where you told me to stand.”

Which was exactly how he liked it.

When she asked how to kill time, his gaze followed hers toward the living room—the couch still rumpled from earlier, sunlight pooling over the cushions, the low hum of the playlist drifting through the house. He smiled like the answer had never been in question.

“Oh, I’ve got a plan,” he said, voice easy, fond. “Very specific. Very unproductive.”

He nudged her gently away from the counter, arm slipping around her shoulders as he guided her toward the living room. Not rushing. Just steady. Like he wanted to stretch this part out as long as possible.

They reached the couch and he sat first, tugging her down with him so she landed half in his lap, half against his side—exactly where she fit. His arm wrapped around her without thought, hand settling at her hip, fingers warm and sure.

“This,” he said, glancing down at her with that soft, stupidly affectionate look he never tried to hide, “is how we wait.”

He brushed his knuckles along her cheek, pushing a loose strand of hair back behind her ear, thumb lingering there like he forgot what came next.

“We sit too close,” he continued, voice low and content. “We don’t talk about anything important. We maybe argue about what movie we’re not actually gonna watch. And every five minutes, I remind you that I’m extremely excited about brownies you made.”

His forehead tipped gently against hers.

“And also,” he added, quieter now, honest in the way that mattered, “I really like doing nothing with you. Feels like… winning.”

He smiled again, slow and affectionate, holding her like he had nowhere else to be.

“Timer’ll go off when it goes off,” he said. “Until then? You’re mine. Couch rules.”

Hattie let his words settle into her the way warmth did when you stopped bracing against it.

Until then? You’re mine. Couch rules.

It should’ve made her roll her eyes. It did—barely, just enough to count—but the truth was her whole chest softened at the claim anyway. At the way he said it like it was obvious. Like the world could be loud and messy and complicated, and he still wanted the simple part: her tucked into his side, the timer running, nothing urgent between them.

She shifted in his lap until she was settled the way she liked—close enough to feel his breathing, angled so she could look up at him without craning her neck. Her fingers traced the edge of his shirt absent-mindedly, not fidgeting so much as… grounding herself in him.

Then she lifted her chin, eyes bright with that playful certainty she only ever wore with him.

“Okay,” she said, like she was making an official announcement. “First of all—we made brownies. As a team.”

She pointed a finger at his chest, gentle but accusatory, like she was catching him in a lie.

“You don’t get to act like you were just… a helpful kitchen bystander. You measured flour like you were defusing a bomb and whisked like your reputation depended on it.” Her mouth tugged into a grin. “That counts.”

Her gaze flicked—briefly, shamelessly—to his forearms where his sleeves were pushed up earlier, then back to his face. She tried to keep her expression innocent. She failed.

“And second,” she added, voice sugar-sweet, “now that I know you’re good at this? The easy, beginner-friendly era is over.”

A beat.

Not threatening—exactly. Just… promising. Her eyes glittered like she had plans and a printer full of recipe cards.

She softened again, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth—quick, affectionate, like punctuation—before settling her cheek near his shoulder without fully disappearing into him.

“Also,” she said, lighter now, “you said we’re not talking about anything important, so we’re picking a movie. Immediately.”

She shifted just enough to reach for the remote, then paused and looked up at him like she was offering him a very fair selection process.

“I vote You’ve Got Mail,” she said. “Because it’s cozy and you secretly like when I quote it at you.”

Her brows lifted, teasing.

“Or,” she continued, tapping the remote against his chest once, “Knives Out if you want something fun and ridiculous and we can pretend we’re solving the mystery even though we absolutely won’t.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly, like she was considering him as a suspect.

“And if you try to claim you don’t have an opinion,” she warned, softly smug, “I’ll put on When Harry Met Sally and spend the entire movie staring at you like you’re Meg Ryan.”

She let that hang there—sweet and scandalous in the most harmless way—then smiled like she couldn’t help herself.

“Pick,” she said, and her finger drew a lazy little circle on his shirt. “Because I’m comfortable, I’m not moving, and I plan on using you as a blanket until those brownies are done.”