Page 136 of Knotting the Cowboys

I unbuckle my seatbelt and shift sideways in my seat, creating a space against my shoulder. Moving slowly, carefully,I slide one arm behind her back and use the other to guide her toward me. She makes a small sound of protest—something between a whimper and a sigh—but doesn't wake as I ease her across the center console until her head finds my shoulder.

"There we go," I breathe, adjusting her position until she's tucked against my side, her temple pressed to the junction of my neck and shoulder. "That's better."

She mutters something in her sleep—words that might be "too bright" or "so tired" or nothing coherent at all—and then she does something that stops my heart for a full second. She takes a deep breath, the kind that expands her whole chest, and I feel the exact moment my scent registers even through her unconsciousness.

Her entire body relaxes, melting against me like I'm the safest thing in her world, and she lets out this long, satisfied exhale that sounds like relief personified.

"'M safe," she mumbles, words slurred with sleep. "Mavi's here."

Christ.

I sit there frozen, her trust a physical weight against my chest, and realize I'm smiling. Not smirking or grinning or any of my usual calculated expressions—actually smiling like some lovesick teenager.When's the last time that happened? When was the last time anything made me feel this... soft?

Her breathing evens out again, deep and slow, the rhythm of someone who won't be waking anytime soon. I should move her, should drive us home where she can sleep properly in an actual bed. Should do a lot of things that don't involve sitting in a restaurant parking lot, holding her while she drools slightly on my shirt.

But I don't move. Can't move. Because this—her weight against me, her absolute faith that I'll keep her safe even in sleep—is everything I've been trying not to want.

It's also terrifying as hell.

I'm not a man who acts on impulse.

Everything I do is calculated, measured, weighed against potential outcomes and escape routes. It's how I've survived this long, how I've kept the people I care about safe.

But today?

Today, I saw Blake Harrison's smug face and lost every ounce of that careful control.

Kissed Willa in front of half the town like some possessive asshole, carried her to my truck like she was mine to claim.

The same wild, reactive energy that made me break protocol all those years ago.

My free hand clenches into a fist against my thigh, the phantom weight of command settling over my shoulders like a burial shroud. Different situation, same fundamental flaw—when someone I'm supposed to protect is threatened, all my training goes out the window.

All that careful control shatters like spun glass, leaving nothing but raw instinct and the driving need to save them, consequences be damned.

And look how well that worked out last time.

The memory comes without warning, triggered by something as simple as the way Willa's breath catches—just for a second, a tiny hitch that sounds too much like smoke inhalation, like lungs fighting for clean air that isn't there.

Suddenly, I'm not in my truck anymore.

I'm standing in the briefing room five years ago, tactical gear heavy on my shoulders, listening to Chief Morrison explain why we shouldn't be going into the Riverside Apartments at all.

"Building's been condemned for three months," he's saying, pointing at blueprints that show a structure held together by prayer and rust. "City was supposed to demolish it last week, but red tape, budget constraints, you know the drill."

But there's a fire. There are people inside. That's all that matters.

The smell hits first—not woodsmoke but the chemical reek of burning insulation, melting plastic, synthetic carpets turned to toxic soup. My team moves through the ground floor in practiced formation, each room checked and cleared with military precision. Second floor's already fully involved, flames licking through gaps in the ceiling, but the thermal imaging shows heat signatures on the third floor.

"Building's not gonna hold," Rodriguez says through the radio, and he's right. I can hear it in the way the structure groans, feel it in how the floor shifts beneath our boots. Every instinct screams to pull back, follow protocol, wait for the aerial ladder.

Then I hear it. Crying. Thin and high and terrified.

"There's a kid up there."

The words taste like ash in my mouth, both then and now. Willa shifts against my shoulder, mumbling something about horses, and I force myself to breathe through the phantom smoke that isn't there. My hand finds her hair, fingers threading through the tangled strands, anchoring myself in the present even as the past drags me under.

"Protocol says we wait," Chen had argued, ever the voice of reason. "Structure's compromised. We go up there, we might not come back."

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