Page 100 of Knotting the Firefighters
Yesterday?
The day before?
How long have I been asleep?
I force my eyes open with concerted effort, blinking against light that feels too bright despite being diffused by curtains. The room swims slightly, equilibrium protesting vertical orientation, body loudly complaining about being asked to function.
Food.
Need food.
Then back to sleep.
Simple plan.
The medication must be causing side effects—Dr. Winters had warned about potential drowsiness, mentioned that hormonal adjustments might make me feel off-balance temporarily. This exhaustion is probably a normal, expectedreaction to the new suppressant regimen combined with healing injuries and general stress.
Nothing concerning.
Just rest and food, and more rest.
I swing my legs over the bed's edge with caution, giving my body time to adjust to movement. Standing requires more effort than anticipated, muscles are trembling slightly, and balance is less reliable than preferred.
Stairs.
Kitchen.
Banana or something equally simple.
Then back to bed before I collapse.
The journey from bedroom to hallway feels epic—distances that should be negligible stretching into a marathon, each step requiring a conscious decision to lift a foot, place it forward, and transfer weight without toppling.
Why is walking so difficult?
Seriously, what's in these medications?
The stairs loom ahead—twelve steps that suddenly appear treacherous, a vertical challenge my current capabilities might not safely navigate.
One at a time.
Hand on the railing.
Don't rush.
Voices drift up from below—male voices, multiple of them, engaged in what sounds like a heated discussion punctuated by emphatic shushing noises.
Calder's talking to someone.
Multiple someones.
Who's in my house?
His scent reaches me before visual confirmation—pine and bourbon and smoke, the combination that's become synonymous with safety, with home, with Alpha who just?—
Did something.
Something I can't quite remember, but definitely significant.
