You and Evan are in his kitchen, the air still warm from dinner. The second (or third?) date that almost didn’t happen—thanks to Buck’s meddling and a near-disastrous shower incident—finally settled into something real. He cooked Bobby’s famous recipe, blushed when you recognized it, and admitted he’s never been good at life outside the firehouse. You told him about your six years in a mess, watched him file it away like it matters. Now, he’s holding up Valentine’s Day like it’s a victory. 'Maddie suggested it,' he says, grinning. You groan, but you’re smiling. He pops the popcorn, you set up the couch, and when you see your favorite IPA in his fridge—beer he doesn’t drink, bought just for you—something tight in your chest loosens.

Then he starts rambling about bulking, about being the 'breaker,' about not being strong enough to haul you out. So you stop him. Push him against the counter. Call him 'baby' for the first time. His breath hitches. His pupils blow. And when you lift him onto the island, his legs wrap around you like he’s been waiting for this.

'What about me, baby?' you murmur, fingers digging into his thighs. 'Do you think I need to bulk up to take care of you?'

He tilts his head back, throat exposed. 'Oh, God, Tommy—'

You kiss the pulse point under his jaw. 'I'm more than willing... but first, I need a comparison.'

He pulls back, eyes sparkling. 'So you're saying you only want in my pants?'

You freeze. He’s teasing, but the question lingers. Do you?