He didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t need to.

Because the second she said it — biceps and smile this time like she wasn’t singlehandedly orchestrating the downfall of his dignity — Caleb felt the corner of his mouth twitch in that helpless, familiar way.

God, he was doomed.

Not the kind of doom that crept in slow. The kind that knocked the wind out of you with a kiss by the fire and then strutted off without looking back, leaving you to douse the flames and pretend like you weren’t standing there half-wrecked with your heart in your hands.

He was still thinking about that kiss.

Still feeling the phantom of her mouth against his, warm and sure and final in a way that didn’t need words.

She kissed like she meant to undo him. And then she went and called him Hercules like it wasn’t already game over.

Caleb muttered something under his breath — not quite a curse, not quite a prayer — and knelt back down by the tackle box, trying to remember what the hell he was doing before she started talking again.

Hooks. Right.

He opened the lid, rummaging half-heartedly through the compartments, more for show than purpose. Because let’s be honest — there wasn’t a single piece of gear in that box more dangerous than Lena Hartley in fleece-lined boots and a smug grin.

He glanced up again.

She was standing in the shallows like a goddess out of a fishing catalog — sleeves rolled, hair tied back, stance confident and annoyingly graceful. The rod looked like an extension of her. Regal. Ridiculous. Entirely unfair.

And he was going to have to pose next to her catch like a trophy husband with something to prove.

Which… fine.

He’d do it.

Hell, he’d flex. Twice. Three times if she asked.

Not because she made him. But because somewhere along the line — sometime between that first argument about the damn maple tree and last night’s firelit kiss — he’d figured out something important.

Lena didn’t need him to prove anything.

She just wanted him to show up.

And he did. Every time.

Still crouched by the tackle box, he raised his voice just enough to carry:

“Pretty sure that grimace was me realizing you’d printed three copies for the fridge. One in black-and-white like it was a portrait.”

He heard her snort.

Then, quieter, to himself:
“Woman’s got a museum of my humiliation.”

He stood, wiped his hands on his jeans, and grabbed the second pole — the one he pretended not to care about but always used anyway because it had her initials carved into the handle. She’d done it last fall with her garden knife and a wicked grin. He hadn’t sanded it down.

Wouldn’t dare.

He stepped toward the riverbank, voice warm now, eyes on her.

“You catch something before me, I’ll pose however you want,” he said. “You catch two, I’m making breakfast shirtless.”

A pause.

“Three, and I’m not saying no to anything for the rest of the weekend.”

He cast his line beside hers, shoulder brushing hers lightly.

Didn’t look at her.

Didn’t have to.

He already knew she was smiling. That same smug, victorious, impossibly lovely smile that leveled him every time.

God help him.

He was smiling, too.

She didn’t look at him right away.

Didn’t need to.

Not when his voice rolled over the river like that—warm, rough, laced with the kind of promise that made her stomach flip and her cheeks ache from fighting a grin. Not when she could hear the smirk behind every word and feel it settle somewhere low and familiar inside her.

God, he was impossible.

Shirtless breakfast. No veto power for the weekend. Was he trying to lose? Or was this just his version of surrender?

Either way, she was taking him up on every last one of those terms.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the rod as she fought to keep her expression neutral, eyes locked on the water like she wasn’t seconds away from cackling. But the corners of her mouth were already betraying her. She was smiling.

Smiling like a woman in love.

Like a woman who’d already won.

Still, she had to say something—it was a moral obligation.

“Three fish, huh?” she murmured, casting a sideways glance without turning her head. “You sure you wanna risk that, Maren? Because I saw some movement under that log over there, and I’ve got lucky socks on.”

A beat.

“And before you ask—no, you can’t borrow them. We don’t share power items. That’s how empires fall.”

She let the silence stretch just long enough to hear his laugh—the low one that started in his chest and never failed to unravel something in her ribcage—then turned to face him fully.

God, he looked good.

Sun rising behind him. Hair still a little mussed from sleep. That look in his eye like he was thinking a thousand things and none of them innocent. And here he was, holding the rod with her initials carved in, like he didn’t even realize what that said to a girl who kept everything that mattered.

She looked at him for a second longer than necessary.

Then lifted her chin and said, like it was already fate:
“You know I’m catching three. So go ahead and start prepping your apology pancakes now. I like mine fluffy, and I will be needing whipped cream.”

And then—because she couldn’t help herself—she leaned in a little closer, lips just shy of his ear, and whispered:

“Oh, and Caleb?”

A beat.

“When I win… I’m not letting you put on a shirt ‘til Monday.”

She kissed his cheek—light, quick, maddening.

Then turned back to the water like she hadn’t just detonated the last of his composure.

Because yeah, she’d catch the fish.

But truth was… she already caught him.

And that? That was the best damn trophy of them all.

He didn’t answer.

Not because he didn’t have something to say—he had plenty. Half of it inappropriate, the other half dangerously close to sounding like vows.

But she’d leaned in, whispered that line like it didn’t carry a hundred implications, and kissed his cheek like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t going to be replaying the feel of her lips and that smug little smirk for the rest of the weekend—and probably the rest of his damn life.

So yeah. He was quiet.

For a second.

Then he shifted his grip on the rod, stared out at the water like it had personally offended him, and finally let out a long, quiet breath through his nose.

“Okay,” he said, calm. Too calm. “So that’s how we’re playing it.”

No shirt ‘til Monday.

She had no idea the kind of fire she’d just lit. Or maybe she did. Of course she did.

She always did.

He cast his line with practiced ease, letting the lure land clean in the current just upstream from hers, like he’d done it a thousand times—which he had. And while she stood there practically vibrating with self-satisfaction, he adjusted the brim of his ball cap, cleared his throat, and said:

“Lucky socks or not, you should pace yourself.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it. Just reeled in slow, steady. Let the tension build.

“Because I am gonna catch three fish,” he added. “Probably four. And when I do…”

A beat.

He turned his head, met her eyes.

“…I’m still not putting on a shirt.”

His voice was low, deliberate. Like a warning and a promise all in one.

“And not because you said so,” he added, deadpan. “Because I intend to win this morning and still get pancakes out of it.”

Another pause. He reeled in again, smooth and focused, already feeling that familiar rhythm setting in. He could feel it—the quiet of the trees, the bite of the cool air, the slight tug of the line. It was all there. All working in his favor.

“And when I do win,” he said, “you’re gonna have to live with the fact that I out-fished you in your own socks.”

He let the words hang there.

Then added, almost sweetly:

“I’m gonna print that photo in black-and-white, Lena. Full frame. Real dramatic lighting.”

A smirk crept in—slow and dangerous.

“And you better believe I’m putting that on the fridge.”

Then he went quiet again.

Not because he was done.

But because the fish were biting.

And she’d started this.

He was just finishing it.

Oh, he was good.

Too good.

That calm, practiced cast. That hat pulled low like he wasn’t about to look her in the eye and deliver a line worthy of being carved into stone. The absolute audacity of turning her own threat into a victory speech like he hadn’t just walked straight into her trap—smirking, smug, shirtless and all.

And worse?

He was the better fisherman.

Had been since the start. His casts were smoother, his patience longer, his instincts sharper. She could trash-talk him into oblivion, but they both knew—if this were actually about the fish, she never stood a chance.

But it wasn’t. That wasn’t the point.

She didn’t want to win the fish.

She wanted this.

The banter. The slow-burn standoff. The delicious tension of knowing they were both bluffing in opposite directions, and somewhere in the middle of all of it, love sat grinning like it already knew how this would end.

She hummed—low and amused—then reeled in her line and recast like she was still taking it seriously.

Spoiler: she wasn’t.

“Okay, National Geographic,” she said finally, glancing over with narrowed eyes and an infuriatingly soft smile. “But if I see you practicing your brooding model face for that photo, I’m throwing you in the river.”

She watched him twitch at the corner of his mouth. Just barely.

And that almost-smile? Victory.

“I’ll give you the fish,” she added, casual as anything, like she was tossing him the keys to a car he already owned. “Hell, I’ll even cook ‘em for you. But don’t think for a second that evens the scoreboard.”

She paused.

Then turned toward him just enough to let the morning sun catch the slope of her cheek and the defiant glint in her eye.

“Because you might win with the fish…”

A beat. A smirk.

“But I got you out here bragging like a frat boy and trying to impress me in my socks.”

Another pause.

“And that, my love? Is the real win.”

She cast again, let the silence stretch, and grinned to herself as the line flicked out into the water. The woods were still. The light was gold. And Caleb Maren was at her side, muttering curses under his breath while pretending he wasn’t exactly where he wanted to be.

She didn’t need to catch a damn thing.

She already had everything worth reeling in.

He heard her.
Every word.
Every smug little dig laced in sunshine and syrup and hell-bent on ruining his composure for the second time that morning.

And the worst part?

She was right.
About all of it.

He’d been so caught up in making her laugh, in playing the part of “man who wins things with fish,” that he hadn’t realized she was playing a completely different game.

One she was already winning.
Effortlessly.
In his socks.

Caleb didn’t respond at first. He kept his eyes on the water, jaw tight, lips twitching like he might smile—or groan—or say something he couldn’t take back. Because that was the thing about Lena: she didn’t need to out-catch him.

She just needed to look at him like that.
Smug. Soft. Sure.
Like he was already hers. And always had been.

And he was.

So yeah—he was muttering curses under his breath. But only because she’d landed the biggest hook of the morning, and it hadn’t even touched the water.

He reeled in slow, calm, pretending like he wasn’t deeply, spiritually undone by the sight of her in his hoodie and those damn socks, weaponizing the sun and that grin and the whole “real win” speech like she hadn’t just leveled him without trying.

God, she was lethal.

He cleared his throat, finally casting another smooth line just upstream.

“You’re lucky I like losing to you,” he said, voice low and warm, like the words were built for the space between them. “Otherwise I’d be more offended by the frat boy comment.”

A pause.

He tilted his head just enough to catch her in the corner of his eye. Smirking. Glowing. Entirely unbothered.

“And for the record,” he added, “I wasn’t trying to impress you.”

Another beat. His voice dropped to something deeper, steadier.

“I already have you.”

He cast again, fluid and quiet, like it didn’t cost him a damn thing to say that out loud. Like it was just a fact. Like gravity.

Then—without looking at her—he added, dry as hell:

“Also, you said my socks. Just want that on the record.”

He heard her scoff.

Felt the grin creeping up despite himself.

And yeah, she could claim the scoreboard. The photo rights. The bragging rights. She could have it all.

Because she was right.

He already had everything he wanted.

And if she needed to feel like she’d won the weekend?

He’d give her that too.

Hell, he’d even let her keep the socks.

Lena froze.

Not dramatically. Not fully. Just enough.

Just long enough for her pulse to hitch at the way he said it—I already have you—like it was the easiest truth in the world. Like he didn’t just drop it between casts like he wasn’t still actively making her fall in love with him in real time.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

Because damn him.
He didn’t play fair.

And of course he had to throw in the sock comment after, just to knock her off balance again. Classic Caleb Maren—level her emotionally, then immediately follow it with something smug and ridiculous like he wasn’t still the best damn fisherman in this stretch of Colorado and the reason her knees felt a little watery.

She scoffed. Loudly.

And then, just for effect, she gave a theatrical little pout—lower lip out, brow creased in exaggerated betrayal.

“You know,” she said, tone laced in faux-injury, “you used to try harder to impress me. Back in the day, you’d do this whole flirty woodsman routine. Chop some firewood, haul something unnecessarily heavy, kiss me like I was the last woman on Earth.”

She sniffed like she was heartbroken, even as her eyes gleamed with affection.

“Now I’m lucky if I get a flex and a pancake.”

She turned toward him fully then, rod still in hand, arms crossed like she was giving him the serious girlfriend talk, even though her smile was already tugging its way through.

“I swear, you catch a couple trout and suddenly you think you can stop courting me.”

A pause. A breath. A look.

Then softer, more honest:

“I like being courted, Caleb.”

She shrugged like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter. But it did. She meant it.

Because yes, she had him. Yes, she kept the socks and the pictures and the man. But that didn’t mean she wanted him to stop trying. Not when she loved the way he chased her, teased her, worshipped her without ever saying the word.

Not when she chased him right back.

She stepped closer, shoulder bumping gently into his. Let the tension between them hum and flicker like morning light on the water.

Then, voice dipped into that velvet-smooth Lena register—the one that always got him to look at her, even when he was pretending not to:

“Just sayin’. If you want to keep me in your socks, Maren… you might wanna keep earning it.”

A beat. Her eyes sparkled.

“I’ll even let you flex while you do it.”

And just like that, she cast her line again—smooth and practiced and completely unbothered, as if her heart hadn’t just practically skipped a beat when he said he had her like that.

She grinned to herself.

Because she was his.
But he was hers, too.
And he better remember how lucky that made him.

The cast landed smooth again.

But his focus wasn’t on the water anymore.

It was on her.

That curve in her cheek where the sun hit just right. The twitch at the corner of her mouth when she tried not to smile. The way she pretended to be unbothered when he said something that settled too deep.

She liked being courted.

Of course she did.

Not with grand gestures or five-star dinners. Lena Hartley didn’t need candlelight to feel seen — she needed intention. Thoughtfulness. The kind of love that noticed. That remembered.

And Caleb?

He noticed everything.

So he stepped closer, quiet over gravel and grass, rod still in hand but forgotten.

“You like slow mornings,” he said, voice low as the river beside them. “French press. Me in the kitchen pretending I’m not watching you dance to whatever music you think I can’t hear.”

She stilled. Just slightly.

He kept going.

“You like bookstores with creaky floors. Holding hands in public but not talking about it. Small diners with laminated menus and lemon slices in your water.”

Another step. Closer now. Eyes steady.

“You like back roads and playlists. Kissing at red lights. Looking at houses we’ll never buy.”

He stopped beside her. Right beside her.

His fingers brushed lightly against hers, not taking, just touching.

“You like being known,” he said softly.

A pause.

Then, with that crooked little smile — the one that meant trouble and truth all at once — he added:

“And you like when I say it first.”

He took the rod from her hands without asking, set it down gently on the grass.

Then reached for her — just her hands at first, then her waist — and pulled her in close, slow and certain.

“I’m not done courting you, Lena,” he murmured against her temple. “Not by a long shot.”

A breath.

Then into her ear, warm and certain:

“You wanna stay in my socks? Watch me earn it.”

And with that, he kissed her — not teasing, not rushed. Just real.

Like a man who already knew the way back to her heart.
Because he’d never left.

She hated how fast it happened.

How quick the burn in her chest bloomed the second he started talking — not sweet, not practiced, just true. Like he’d opened up her internal wiring and read it back to her like a poem he’d memorized without trying.

God, she wanted to roll her eyes.

She wanted to sass him. Push him off balance. Say something smug about how he better keep this energy up through the winter or she was stealing all of his socks and holding them hostage.

But she couldn’t. Not yet.

Because his voice — that low, quiet one he only used when he meant something — was still echoing in her head.

"You like being known.”

That was the one that got her.

The one that hit a little too close to the bone, in the best, worst way.

Because he was right.
Of course he was.

She didn’t care about being adored from afar. She didn’t want love letters or big speeches or some sweeping gesture meant to impress. She wanted to be seen. To be remembered. To be quietly chosen by someone who noticed the little things and kept noticing long after the thrill wore off.

And Caleb Maren had just listed off every single one of those little things like he wasn’t even trying.

Like he just knew.

Her throat felt tight.

God, he was hot when he was shirtless and hauling things. She’d never pretend otherwise. But this? This version of him? Steady hands. Quiet words. That warm, sure tone like there was no world in which she wasn’t already his—

That was what really did her in.

That was the part that made her feel like she was standing barefoot in the middle of an open field, struck stupid with the realization that someone finally understood her.

She felt his arms wrap around her. Familiar. Certain. Like a place, not a person.

And yeah, maybe she melted a little.

Just a little.

Her hands slid up the front of his shirt — slow, intentional — as she leaned into his kiss, smiling against his mouth like she hadn’t just been internally leveled.

When they finally pulled apart, she didn’t step back.

She stayed close. Kept her hands right where they were, fingers fisted gently in the fabric, as if letting go might undo something.

Then, quieter than usual, but no less Lena:

“…Okay, well now you’re just showing off.”

A beat.

“And I do like bookstores with creaky floors, you bastard.”

Her eyes sparkled, lips tugging up at the corners — soft, but proud. A little undone. A little dangerous.

She rested her forehead against his for a breath. Maybe two. Then whispered, deadpan:

“You realize you’re completely ruining my ability to pout effectively.”

A pause. Then, teasing again—gentler now, but still her:

“You do that again and I’m gonna start believing I’m not just in this for your biceps.”

She let the silence stretch just long enough for him to grin. Just long enough for her to pretend she had composure.

Then, softer:

“…You really know me.”

And that was it.

That was the real win. Bigger than pancakes. Bigger than fish. Bigger than the whole damn weekend.

She smiled again—smaller this time. Real.

Then tilted her head up and kissed him once more, slower now. No fire. Just warmth. Just him.

And when she pulled back, her voice was barely more than a breath.
“That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t need to.

Because she was still close — forehead against his, breath brushing his lips, fingers fisted in his shirt like she wasn’t letting go until the earth tilted.

And God, maybe he didn’t want it to.

Her words landed somewhere low in his chest, slow and searing.

That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

He hadn’t known he could want something more than steady.

More than safe.

But her? This?

It was something else entirely. It was standing in front of a wildfire and letting it burn away everything you weren’t. Letting someone see what was left and stay anyway.

And he was staying.

No hesitation.

He let one of his hands slide up the back of her neck, thumb brushing beneath her ear, like maybe if he touched her gently enough, she’d know what he meant without him having to ruin it with words.

But the words were still there.

Raw. Real. Right at the edge of his mouth.

So he kissed her instead — not to distract her, but to show her. All of it. Every broken-down, soft-lit truth he didn’t know how to say.

Because she was the whole damn win.

She was chaos and peace, both. Fire and stillness. Smart-mouthed and sharp-eyed and more known to him than anything else he’d ever tried to hold onto.

He let the kiss deepen, slow and certain.

Not a question.

A vow.

And when they pulled back, just enough to breathe, he still didn’t move. He stayed exactly where she had him. Fingertips curled at her waist. Shirt half-wrinkled in her grip. His voice, low and rough:

“You never had to earn that, Lena.”

A pause.

“I already saw you. Before you ever said a word.”

He meant it.

God, he meant it so much it hurt.

The chipped polish. The opinionated playlists. The perfectly labeled spice jars and the hundred unread drafts in her phone and the way she stayed when things got hard.

She didn’t need to be soft to be loved.

She just needed someone who could love her in the sharpness, too.

He looked at her then — really looked — and smiled in that slow, rare way of his. The one that only came when he felt something that mattered.

Like her.

All of her.

“I knew it was you the second you argued about the maple tree.”

Another pause.

Softer this time, honest in a way that didn’t try to be anything else:

“I was just waiting for you to know it too.”

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t move a single inch as his words settled into her chest like they’d always belonged there.

Because of course he saw her.
Before she said a word. Before she softened. Before she gave him anything but challenge and chaos and raised eyebrows and demands he wasn’t supposed to meet.

And instead of flinching?

He stayed.
He waited.

God, he waited.

Her throat burned. Not from sadness. Just… knowing.

That ache you get when someone hands you everything you never asked for, but always wanted.

And Caleb Maren had always been that person.
Steady. Quiet. Looking at her like she wasn’t too much and never would be.

She let out a breath—shaky, but held with pride.
Then stepped back half an inch just so she could look at him properly. So she could see the exact shape of the man who’d dared to fall for her when she was all edges and noise.

Her eyes glinted. “That maple tree was planted in the wrong spot.”

She pointed at him, finger pressed to his chest now, like it was her version of a vow. “You can pretend it was romantic all you want, but I was right. And you were stubborn. And it was your own fault for thinking I was just going to let that go.”

A beat. Her smile curved. “I was insufferable.”

But her voice softened next, dropped just below the surface of her bravado. “And you… were patient.”

Another beat. Then, because she couldn’t help herself—

“You had zero right to be that hot and emotionally evolved. Like, pick a lane, Maren. It’s exhausting.”

Her voice was warm now, threaded with all the pieces of her he used to only get in glimpses—
The vulnerability.
The affection.
The wonder of someone who still couldn’t quite believe she’d been chosen for something this good, this safe, this right.

“And for the record,” she added, tilting her chin up, teasing again, but gentler now—“if you’d given me what I wanted when I wanted it, I probably wouldn’t have stuck around.”

She shrugged. Casual. Honest. Lena.

“I’m used to getting my way. I’m not used to someone making it mean something when I do.”

Her fingers fisted lightly in his shirt again. Not pulling him closer this time. Just… holding on.

Then she smiled again—soft, sure, and hers.

“Good thing I stayed.”

She leaned up. Brushed her nose against his. Kissed him like it wasn’t a reward or a surrender, but a promise.

“And better thing you waited.”