edit later

The station felt different in late November.

Quieter, somehow.
Or maybe that was just the way the early dusk pressed against the windows, turning everything inside gold and soft.
Either way, Hattie found herself humming under her breath as she unwrapped another length of garland, the thin scent of pine mixing with the warm, lived-in smell of the firehouse: old coffee, laundry soap, and whatever candle someone smuggled in last week.

She wasn’t sure how she’d been put in charge of decorating the place for Christmas, but the minute she pulled open the bins in the storage closet, she knew she was doomed.

Twinkle lights.
Garland.
Little wreaths with velvet bows.

All of it exactly her weakness.

She climbed onto the low step stool, stretching to attach a strand of garland along the top of the doorway. The stool wobbled slightly under her foot, but she was too focused on getting the ribbon even to pay it much attention.

Declan’s sweatshirt hung loose around her, sleeves falling past her wrists in a way that made her feel steadier, warmer than the furnace in the corner ever could. She had absolutely stolen it the second he left on his call — which, she decided, was fair. He’d left it on the back of her chair anyway.

She pulled the next piece of garland up, stretching onto her toes—

And froze.

Her skin prickled before her brain caught up.

Someone had stepped in behind her.
Close.
Close enough that she could feel a presence even through the soft cotton of his sweatshirt and the quiet hum of the station.

She smiled, even before she turned.

“Hey,” she murmured, still holding the garland above her head.

She didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Declan had a way of filling a room without making a sound — like warmth learning how to take shape.

She glanced over her shoulder anyway.

His gear was half-unzipped, his hair mussed from the call, cheeks still a little flushed from the cold. He looked exhausted and steady all at once, eyes going straight to the sweatshirt on her, then up to the garland, then back to her in a slow, unmistakably soft sweep.

God. She felt that look down to her knees.

“I didn’t get very far,” she admitted, lifting the garland to illustrate her progress. “These things are… oddly complicated.”

Her lips curved, quiet and conspiratorial. “And I might have gotten distracted.”

She let the garland rest against the doorframe and finally turned toward him more fully, pushing her sleeves back up her hands.

“So,” she said lightly, “you’ll never guess what I overheard while you were out.”

A breath. A tiny pause for effect.

“There’s a betting pool now.”

She raised her brows, voice dropping to a whispered scandal.

“About when we’re going to move in together.”

She didn’t look away from him — not yet.

She wanted to see every bit of his reaction.

The moment her soft “Hey” drifted back to him, something in Declan’s chest unknotted. He stepped closer without thinking, drawn to her like warmth after a cold call. The sight of her—on her toes, wrapped in his sweatshirt, garland dangling from her hands—hit him so deep he couldn’t quite breathe right.

His voice softened, instinctive.

“Hey.”

She told him she hadn’t gotten far, that the decorations were complicated, and he let out a quiet breath that was half amusement, half something tender. His gaze flicked from the uneven ribbon to her hands to the sleeves swallowed past her wrists.

He shifted his stance, one hand hovering near the stool to steady it.

“I can see that. You’re doing fine.”

When she admitted she got distracted, his eyes dragged over her again—his sweatshirt hanging loose on her frame, her hair catching warm light, the faint flush across her cheeks. The corner of his mouth lifted, almost involuntary.

“Yeah… I noticed.”

She turned toward him fully, and that alone felt like gravity changing direction. His pulse kicked up, slow but heavy, settling somewhere low in his chest as she pushed the sleeves up, revealing just a hint more of her wrists. He swallowed.

Then she said she’d overheard something.

His brows pulled together, curious.

“Try me.”

And when she breathed out the words—There’s a betting pool now—he froze for a fraction of a second. His gear bag slipped a little off his shoulder. His heartbeat nudged upward, warm and sudden.

His voice came out lower.

“A betting pool?”

Then she hit him with the rest.

About when we’re going to move in together.

For a beat, the room felt smaller. Warmer. Like the garland lights above them had brightened. His eyes lingered on her face, on the way she didn’t look away. Something deep settled into him—quiet, sure, almost frightening in its clarity.

He stepped closer, enough that she could feel the cold still clinging to his turnout gear, enough that he could breathe in the faint pine scent clinging to her hair.

“…Is that right.”

The words were quiet, steady, threaded with something he wasn’t hiding anymore.

Something that said he’d already thought about it too.

The moment the words left him—“Is that right”—he didn’t step back.
If anything, he drifted closer, drawn in by the way she watched him, waiting.

Her eyes searched his, looking for the reaction she hadn’t let herself imagine out loud.
He let her have it—slow, deliberate, impossible to mistake.

His hand came up, brushing a stray pine needle from her hair. His fingertips grazed her temple, lingering a heartbeat longer than he meant them to. His chest rose with a quiet inhalation, steadying himself on the warmth of her.

His voice dropped even lower, gentler, like speaking too loudly might break something delicate between them.

“…And how long do they think it’ll take?”

He tilted his head just slightly, studying her expression—her parted lips, the faint flush beneath her freckles, the way her hands tightened on the garland she’d abandoned.

His thumb brushed her jaw, soft, careful.

For a second Hattie forgot how to breathe.

Declan’s touch wasn’t new.
He touched her often now — warm hands at her waist in the kitchen, fingers tracing lazy circles on her thigh when they watched TV, his palm finding the back of her neck every time he kissed her goodnight.

But something about this felt different.

The firehouse lighting glowed soft around them. The scent of pine and old coffee lingered in the air. She was still standing on a wobbly stool in his oversized sweatshirt, garland hanging forgotten from her fingertips — and he was looking at her like she was the most deliberate thing that had ever happened to him.

His thumb brushed slowly down the side of her jaw, gentle, grounding, impossibly warm.

Her heart climbed into her throat.

How long do they think it’ll take?

The question echoed in her chest long before it reached her ears.
She felt it—somewhere low, soft, secret—like the flutter of a page turning in a book she’d never expected to star in.

Hattie wet her lips without meaning to. His eyes followed the motion. Heat curled beneath her skin.

“I—” she started, voice catching the tiniest bit.

God.
She hated that.
She thought she’d outgrown that girl — the quiet one who whispered answers, who tried to make herself smaller, who never once believed anyone would look at her the way Declan was looking at her now.

But some habits lived in the bones.
And it was still jarring — still dizzying — to think anyone would bother making bets about her life, let alone her life with him.

She swallowed, trying again.

“I think,” she said carefully, “they put late spring on the board as the favorite.”

Declan didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Just watched her, eyes warm and deep and maddeningly unreadable.

Her cheeks flushed, but she pushed past it. She’d learned how to do that now — how to take her own space, even if it came hesitantly.

“There was a whole… conversation,” she added. “Not for my ears, obviously.”
A small, embarrassed smile tugged at her mouth. “But I’m still pretty good at slipping through unnoticed when I need to.”

It was true.
Even after two years working here — even after countless lunches shared, paperwork emergencies survived, late-night shifts waiting for him to return from calls — she knew how to move quietly, gently, like wind around corners.

Part of her still expected to be invisible.

Yet here he was, close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek, close enough that the cold still trapped in his turnout gear brushed her skin in contrast, close enough that the garland trembled in her hand.

She forced her eyes up.
Demanded herself to meet his fully.
And when she did, her voice softened into something real.

“They’re… very invested,” she murmured. “In us. In you. In me. I don’t—I don’t think I’ve ever had that before.”

She let out a small breath that fogged in the space between them, something like a laugh buried inside it.

“It’s strange. And sweet. And a little overwhelming.”

His hand was still on her jaw.
She leaned into it before she even realized she had.

“And,” she added, quieter now, “they’re very confident you’d win any bet involving me.”

Her pulse fluttered.
Her grip tightened on his sleeve.

“And maybe that’s the part I can’t wrap my head around.”

Her gaze held his — wide, searching, unguarded.

She didn’t look away.

Not this time.

Her words landed in him like a slow, controlled burn — heat spreading through his chest, settling deep in the hollow behind his ribs. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t look away. Just kept his hand on her jaw, thumb tracing the faint heat blooming under her skin.

She told him late spring.
She told him they talked about it.
She told him she still slipped through unnoticed sometimes.

His brow drew together — not in confusion, but in something sharp and protective he didn’t bother hiding.

When she finished, when she admitted that people believed he’d “win any bet involving her,” he exhaled once through his nose — something quiet and full, something that gave away far more than he usually let slip.

He dipped his head a fraction closer, his thumb brushing the soft point beneath her ear.

His voice came out low, steady, threaded with the weight of everything he couldn’t yet say outright.

“…Late spring, huh.”

He let his eyes sweep over her face, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing the moment.

“They’re wrong.”

His fingers curled lightly at her waist, guiding her off the last inch of the stool until her feet met solid ground and her breath hitched against him.

“They’re way off.”

Her admission — I’ve never had this before… I can’t wrap my head around it — settled into him like a vow he hadn’t known he’d been carrying.

His forehead nearly brushed hers, the garland lights flickering above them as though leaning in too.

“Hattie.”

His voice softened — not fragile, but honest in a way that felt almost private.

“You don’t see yourself the way the rest of us do.”

His hand slipped from her jaw to the back of her neck, warm and sure.

“And as far as bets go?”

He gave her a small, almost-smile — the kind only she ever got out of him.

“I’d put my money on us a hell of a lot earlier than spring.”

His thumb stroked the edge of her jaw again, gentle, grounding.

“And I’d win.”

For a heartbeat, the station disappeared.

The low murmur of the TV in the day room, the distant clink of dishes in the kitchen, the hum of the heater kicking on — all of it blurred into a soft, indistinct backdrop. All she could really register was his hand at the back of her neck, the other settled at her waist, the solid line of his body in front of hers.

I’d win.

The words settled low and deep, like someone dropping a warm stone into water and letting the ripples move slowly outward. Her fingers had bunched in the front of his jacket without her noticing, knuckles pressing lightly into the cool fabric, anchoring herself there.

He was close. Closer than they usually allowed in the building. Close enough that she could see the faint red at the edge of his knuckles, the soot-smudge on his collar, the tiny scar at his jaw she liked to trace with her thumb when they were on his couch and nobody else was within miles.

Her body knew that version of him.
Her body wanted to lean into that version of him now.

For a second, she almost forgot there was a front desk twenty feet away. That anyone could step out of the hallway. That technically, she was on the clock and he was in uniform and this was still a place with rules and radios and emergency lines.

The thought came late.
Almost an aftershock.

Her heartbeat tripped, not in panic, but in awareness.

We’re at work, her mind supplied faintly.
Her chest answered, and?

She drew in a quiet breath instead of stepping back. The lights from the garland over the doorway haloed him in soft gold and green, glinting off the tiny bits of reflective material still clinging to his gear. The whole thing was ridiculous — too cinematic for a Tuesday evening, too intimate for a firehouse entryway.

Her voice, when it finally emerged, felt small but sure.

“That’s… a very confident answer,” she said, studying the line of his mouth like it might give her more information than the words had. “You know that, right?”

Her tone was gentle, not accusing. If anything, there was a thread of wonder woven through it that she didn’t bother to hide.

His thumb was still moving in slow, absent circles at the nape of her neck, like he’d forgotten to stop. The sensation sent a quiet shiver down her spine. She shifted her weight, and the tiny adjustment brought her just that bit closer, her toes nearly touching his boots.

A laugh — soft, breathy, disbelieving — slipped out before she could stop it.

“Some people need charts and pros and cons lists,” she murmured. “You just… decide.”

She tipped her head the slightest bit, their foreheads almost touching, the world narrowing to that narrow slice of space between them.

“And somehow, you always sound like you’re right.”

That truth scared her more than anything. Not in a bad way — in the sky opening up over your head way. Big. Real. Impossible to pretend she hadn’t noticed.

A flicker of sound came from somewhere down the hall — a locker door, a distant voice — pulling the edges of reality back into focus. The reminder that they weren’t in his kitchen, or her living room, or the cab of his truck in some dark parking lot where time felt optional.

They were in the station.
There were people here.
Phones could ring. Alarms could go off. Someone could round the corner at any second.

She exhaled slowly, a tiny smile tugging at her mouth as she let her hand relax on his jacket instead of clutching it.

“We really shouldn’t be having this…” she gestured faintly between them with her free hand, “…whatever this is, right here in front of the garland.”

Her eyes warmed as she said it, though, making it very clear she wasn’t actually sorry.

“But,” she added, softer now, “I’m not exactly in a hurry to move.”

Her gaze flicked up to his again, steady despite the flush heating her cheeks.

“And for the record,” she said, voice dropping just a touch, “if you did put money on us… I wouldn’t bet against you either.”

The admission felt huge and quiet at the same time, like slipping a key into a lock and choosing to turn it.

A radio crackled from somewhere deeper in the station; a phone rang once at the front desk and then stopped. The world was still happening around them.

But for a few stolen seconds more, Hattie let herself forget the professional distance they were supposed to keep. Let herself exist in this small, warm pocket of Christmas lights and pine-scented air and the man who kept choosing her like it was the easiest decision he’d ever made.

His breath tightened in his chest as he watched her, the soft flush on her cheeks, the way her fingers eased but didn’t fully release his jacket. The warm glow from the garland painted her in a light that made everything inside him go fiercely, quietly still. His hand slipped more securely around her waist, drawing her just a breath closer, as his thumb grazed the edge of her jaw with unthinking care.

His voice dropped, low and steady.

“…Come here.”

He angled his body toward hers, closing the last inch of hesitance between them. His forehead hovered close to hers, close enough that he could feel the faint warmth of her breath against his lips. His hand at her neck deepened just slightly, grounding her, grounding himself.

“…Look at me.”

When her eyes lifted to meet his, something settled in him — something decisive and warm that he couldn’t have hidden if he tried. His heartbeat caught once in his throat, then steadied as though it had made up its mind long before he opened his mouth.

“You know I’m not guessing, right?”

His thumb stroked slowly, absently, over the soft skin beneath her ear. His gaze traced the curve of her mouth, the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to want what was happening.

“I’m sure because I know what I want.”

He shifted closer, boots brushing hers, his presence solid and unshakeable around her. A soft breath left him — not a laugh, not a sigh, just the unconscious exhale of a man settling fully into honesty.

“And I’m not trying to rush you.”

His fingers tightened at her waist, gentle but full of intention.

“But I’m not slowing down, either.”

His eyes softened then — a depth of warmth almost startling in how plainly it lived there.

“…Hattie.”

He said her name like it was something he was choosing, on purpose, with his entire chest.

His forehead brushed hers at last, just the faintest contact, barely-there but impossible to ignore.

“Tell me you feel this too.”

His voice barely above a murmur, steady as a heartbeat.

“Because I’m all in.”

For a second, she just let the words sit there between them.

Because I’m all in.

They didn’t crash over her. They didn’t knock the air out of her lungs or send her scrambling for footing. Instead, they sank in slow and sure, finding all the places a year and a half of friendship and six months of being his had already been quietly making room.

She realized, with a soft, almost dizzy certainty, that nothing about this felt rushed.

They’d had bad coffee at three a.m. together.
They’d shared a hundred half-conversations at her desk and twice as many in parking lots and grocery aisles and his living room.
She’d seen him come back from calls with smoke still clinging to his hair, seen him laugh until he bent at the waist, seen him fall asleep mid-sentence with his head on her thigh.

Her heart, apparently, had made its decision long before he’d said it out loud.

Heat fluttered under her skin, soft and bright. She let herself lean into his touch, just a little more, her nose brushing his as she drew in a careful breath.

“Declan,” she whispered, matching the way he’d said her name, like it was a choice, not an accident.

She didn’t drop her gaze this time.
Didn’t look away or down or anywhere else.

“I do feel it.”

The admission slipped out without stutter or apology. It felt… good. Like saying something that had been true for a while and finally catching up to it.

Her hand left the edge of his jacket and slid higher, fingers flattening over his chest where his heartbeat thudded steady beneath the fabric. The solid warmth of him there steadied her more than any deep breath ever had.

“I’ve been feeling it,” she added, a wry little smile ghosting at the corner of her mouth. “For a while now.”

A faint line eased between his brows. His shoulders softened, just a fraction. His fingers at her waist flexed once, as if absorbing the weight of what she’d just handed him.

She tipped her head, letting their foreheads settle fully together now, the contact small but anchoring. The world narrowed to the circle of his arms, the gentle scratch of stubble at his jaw, the faint clean-smoke scent that always followed him home.

“And for the record,” she murmured, voice low, “I’m not scared of… sooner.”

He stilled, just for a heartbeat.

She could feel the question in the way his hands went quiet. She answered it before he had to ask.

“If you’re thinking earlier than whatever date they’ve got circled…” her lips brushed the words against his, close enough to almost be a kiss, “I am too.”

Saying it didn’t feel like jumping off a cliff.
It felt like stepping onto something already built between them — steady, solid, earned.

“I’m all in,” she said, soft but sure. “With you. With… whatever comes next. Where we sleep, where we put the mugs, whose terrible alarm clock we keep. All of it.”

Heat flickered through her chest at her own boldness, but she didn’t walk it back.

She let her thumb trace a slow, nervous circle over his chest, then pressed her palm flat there again, sealing the words in place.

“So if you want sooner?” she finished, breath fanning against his mouth. “Then I do too.”

For a suspended second, everything held — the garland, the lights, the faint murmur of the station beyond the doorway. His breath caught, warm against her lips, and she felt the answering rush of feeling through him like a quiet, grateful yes.

She didn’t wait for him to close the distance.

Hattie lifted onto her toes and kissed him.

It wasn’t one of their careful, quick, we’re-technically-at-work kisses. It wasn’t wild, either. It was something in between — slow and purposeful, the kind of kiss that said I meant every word and I’m not taking any of it back.

His mouth met hers with a soft, surprised sound, his hand at her neck tightening just enough to pull her that fraction closer. The world sharped and softened all at once — the press of his lips, the faint scrape of his jaw, the warmth that pushed up, up, into her ribs until she had to curl her fingers into his shirt to brace against it.

For a moment, the station really did disappear.
No radios, no phones, no front desk.
Just the two of them in a doorway under cheap garland and bad fluorescent lights, kissing like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

She let it linger longer than she probably should’ve.
Then, reluctantly, she eased back.

Her lips skimmed his once more in a tiny, closing press — a punctuation mark on the promise she’d just made. When she pulled away, her cheeks were warm, her breathing just a touch uneven, but her eyes were clear.

“Okay,” she said softly, almost to herself. “Now we really are going to get carried away in front of the tinsel.”

A small, breathless laugh slipped out of her, breaking the intensity enough for the rest of the world to bleed back in. She slid her hand down from his chest, smoothing the front of his jacket like she was ironing the moment back into something almost-professional.

She took half a step back, not far, just enough to give them both a little air. The absence of his body heat made her immediately miss it, but she straightened her shoulders and nudged his hip with hers.

“Assistant Monroe,” she said in a mock-brisk tone, “has a shocking amount of garland to wrangle before shift change.”

Her eyes betrayed her, though, crinkling at the corners with a private, lingering warmth that didn’t belong to “work Hattie” at all.

She bent to scoop up the trailing end of the garland, shaking it out between them. “And Firefighter Caldwell,” she added, glancing up at him from under her lashes, “has just drastically increased her motivation to finish before we get interrupted.”

She turned toward the doorway, lifting the garland again, his sweatshirt sleeves slipping adorably over her hands. As she stretched up to hook it in place, she tossed, lightly over her shoulder:

“Because apparently we have… things to discuss later. Important logistical matters. Closet space. Drawer assignments. Whose plants are most likely to die.”

Her tone was playful, but the words weren’t a joke.

She felt him move in behind her again, close but not quite touching, and a little smile pulled at her mouth as she adjusted the ribbon into place.

All in.
She’d said it.
He’d said it first.

And somehow, with her feet planted on solid station tile and a plastic wreath in her hands, it felt exactly right.

Her whisper of his name settled into his chest like something warm and gripping. The way she leaned into him, the way her forehead met his, the way her voice didn’t shake this time — it hit him hard, deeper than the ribs, into a place he didn’t touch often.

When she said, “I do feel it,” the air left his lungs in a slow, shaken exhale he didn’t bother hiding. His fingers curled at her waist, pulling her closer with instinct more than decision.

His voice came out low, almost breathless.

“…Yeah?”

She added that she’d been feeling it for a while. The quiet, wry truth of it softened the tension in his shoulders immediately. A warmth bloomed up his spine, relief threaded with something fierce and grateful.

His thumb brushed her jaw.

“Good.”

Her forehead settled against his, and the contact grounded him — steadied the rush of wanting, anchored the tug in his chest that had been growing for months.

When she confessed she wasn’t afraid of sooner, something sharp and bright flickered behind his ribs. His grip at her waist tightened subtly, as if the words had physically pulled him closer.

His voice dropped into something honest, almost reverent.

“Hattie…”

Then she said it — that she was thinking earlier too. That she was all in. That she wanted his mornings, his mugs, his terrible alarm clock.

His breath caught.
His eyes closed for a second.
He let himself feel it.

When he opened them again, the lines in his face had softened into something unmistakably vulnerable.

“…Then we’re on the same page.”

She kissed him then — surprising him, undoing him. His hands tightened automatically, one at her waist, one at the back of her neck. He kissed her back slow at first, then deeper, drawn in by the heat of her mouth and the surety she’d just given him. His chest pressed lightly against hers, the faint tremor in his breath betraying how long he’d wanted that exact moment.

When she finally pulled away, he stared at her like he was still gathering oxygen, lips parted, breath uneven. The warmth of her lingered on him — on his mouth, on his hands, all the way down to the base of his spine.

She said they were about to get carried away in front of the tinsel, and despite the flush in his cheeks and the pounding in his chest, he huffed a soft, low laugh.

“…Yeah. We really are.”

Her mock-brisk tone made his mouth twitch upward, the heat between them grounding into something familiar, playful, theirs.

When she said she had garland to wrangle, he straightened a little, pretending for half a second that he could think clearly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her next line — Firefighter Caldwell has drastically increased her motivation — sent a warm, unfamiliar pulse through him. His chest tightened with a mix of pride and tenderness he didn’t try to hide.

“That so?”

She turned, lifting the garland again, and he followed her without closing the distance, but close enough that her warmth brushed the air between them. He couldn’t stop looking at her — sleeves swallowed her hands, hair glowing in the garland lights, cheeks still flushed from kissing him like she meant it.

Then she tossed her line over her shoulder —
We have things to discuss later. Closet space. Drawer assignments. Plants.

A slow, warm smile pulled at his mouth, deeper than any she’d seen him give at work. Something like awe flickered behind it — that she was saying these things out loud, to him.

His voice came out rough but gentle.

“…Yeah. We’ll figure it all out.”

He shifted a little closer, enough that the back of her sweatshirt brushed his chest when she reached up.

“And for the record?”

He dipped his head toward her ear, voice low and warm.

“I’m ready whenever you are.”

He let his hand rest lightly at her hip — a touch that wasn’t pulling, wasn’t demanding, just there, steady and certain.

“And sooner sounds real good to me.”

He didn’t move away after saying it.
Didn’t step back.
Just stood there behind her, watching her adjust the ribbon, feeling the quiet thrill of knowing she’d chosen him just as wholly as he’d chosen her.

And God, it settled into him in a way nothing else ever had.

His words lingered against the shell of her ear, low and warm, and for one dangerously indulgent second, Hattie almost forgot she was holding a strand of garland and not standing in the middle of his kitchen with nowhere to be.

Her heart thudded once, hard enough to steal her breath, before it evened again into something steadier — a quiet rhythm she only ever seemed to find with him.

His hand at her hip was light, not possessive, but present in a way that made her skin spark under the cotton of his sweatshirt. She didn’t lean away. Didn’t need to. Her body already knew how to calibrate around him — warmth to warmth, space to space, breath to breath.

The moment stretched between them, charged and soft, humming beneath the fluorescent lights and twinkle of plastic pine needles.

And then — because the closeness was starting to make her brain go a little mushy and they were technically still on the job — Hattie cleared her throat gently and exhaled a laugh under her breath.

“Well,” she said, glancing up toward the top of the doorway, “since I apparently have a tall, strong, emotionally available human ladder now…”

She looked at him over her shoulder, brows raised, lips tugging into a small, satisfied grin.

“I’m officially retiring the death trap of a step stool.”

Declan huffed out a laugh behind her, his chest brushing her back in a way that made her toes curl inside her boots.

She turned slightly and pointed the garland at him like it was a task assignment. “Congratulations, firefighter. You’ve been promoted to seasonal installation crew.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused, but she was already holding out the garland with both hands — sleeves still too long, swallowed halfway down her palms, which somehow made her feel both ridiculous and completely invincible.

“You want sooner?” she said, softer now, more to herself than him. “Start here.”

Her smile softened. It wasn’t teasing anymore — not really. Just a quiet moment of joy wrapped in pine needles and bad artificial snow.

She leaned in again, quick this time, brushing a kiss against his jaw — not for show, not for drama, just because she could. Just because she wanted to. Just because it was his jaw and her heart and this place and them.

Then, with all the self-possession of a woman who’d just told the man she loved that she was all in and meant it, Hattie stepped back and clapped her hands lightly together.

“Alright,” she said, mock-formal. “Let’s make this place look like a fire-safe Christmas exploded in here.”

And just like that, she handed him the garland, turned on her heel, and walked toward the supply bin in the corner — grinning to herself the entire way.

Because yeah. She’d meant it.

All of it.
Every word.
Every heartbeat.