Page 117 of Knotting the Firefighters
The answer is depressing—years ago, before Gregory's pack, before foster care even. Some half-forgotten moment from childhood that exists more as an impression than an actual memory.
Bear plates the French toast with unexpected artistry—arranged presentation rather than casual pile, dusting of powdered sugar adding visual appeal, fresh berries from my fridge providing color contrast.
"Voilà," he announces with theatrical flourish, setting the plate before me with genuine pride in his creation.
It's beautiful.
Ridiculously beautiful for breakfast food prepared in my mediocre kitchen.
I pick up the fork, cutting into perfectly cooked bread, bringing the first bite to my mouth?—
Heaven.
Absolute heaven.
The combination of textures and flavors makes my eyes actually close in appreciation, an involuntary sound of satisfaction escaping before I can suppress it.
Bear's answering chuckle suggests he caught my reaction, satisfaction evident in the sound.
"Good?"
"Amazing," I confirm once I've swallowed. "Seriously, this is restaurant quality. Where did you learn to cook like this?"
"Practice," he says simply, leaning against the counter opposite me. "Years of feeding myself and occasionally pack mates who think cereal constitutes adequate nutrition."
I continue eating—each bite confirming the first impression, hunger making everything taste even better than objective quality warrants.
But between bites, the question returns:
What am I forgetting?
What happened that's significant enough that Bear mentioned it?
What changed while I was unconscious?
My intrigue builds with each passing moment, curiosity intensifying despite—or perhaps because of—Bear's obvious intention to delay explanation until I'm fed.
What could I have possibly forgotten?
BONDS AND BOUNDARIES
~WENDOLYN~
"IBONDED WITH YOU?!"
The shriek escapes atavolume that probably disturbs wildlife in a three-mile radius, my voice cracking with a combination of shock and disbelief and something approaching hysteria.
My finger extends toward Calder with accusatory precision, pointing directly at his infuriatingly relaxed face like I can somehow undo a permanent biological connection through aggressive gesturing.
He's sprawled on my living room couch—shirtless for reasons I absolutely don't have bandwidth to process right now, looking completely unbothered by my spiraling panic. His chest is on full display, decorated with scratches and marks that are definitely my handiwork, the visual evidence making my face burn with embarrassment and something I'm refusing to acknowledge as satisfaction.
Focus.
Not the time to appreciate the aesthetics of shirtless Alpha.
Currently having an existential crisis about permanent pack bonds formed while apparently unconscious.
"We—" I struggle to articulate coherent thought past the screaming in my brain. "Webonded? Like, actual pack bond? Permanent connection? The kind that creates psychic links and shared emotions and all that biological nonsense I've spent years avoiding?"
