Page 145 of Knotting the Firefighters
"Fuck off," he snarls without heat, defensive walls fully activated. "Baking is stupid anyway. Completely arbitrary process with too many variables and insufficient control mechanisms."
Translation: he's embarrassed.
Genuinely, deeply embarrassed that something defeated him.
The shop owner—elderly woman named Margaret who'd introduced herself with maternal warmth—tsks disapprovingly while circling Aidric's creation like a doctor assessing a terminal patient.
"The problem," she declares with authority that brooks no argument, "is that you're not putting enough EMOTION into the process!"
Emotion.
In baking.
This should be entertaining.
She launches into a passionate monologue about the joys of putting love with every ingredient, about how baked goods absorb the baker's feelings and intentions, about respecting the mystical relationship between creator and creation.
She's completely serious.
Genuinely believes that emotional investment affects bread quality.
Which is objectively ridiculous from a medical perspective, but somehow feels accurate watching her work.
Aidric looks like he's being lectured by his grandmother about life choices—simultaneously resistant to criticism and unable to completely dismiss it because authority figures trigger his ingrained respect responses.
I observe quietly from my position near the work station, medical professional detachment allowing me to catalog reactions without actively participating in the chaos.
This is remarkable.
Genuinely remarkable.
Because this is the first group activity we've shared—all of us together, cooperating toward a common goal, functioning as an actual pack rather than a collection of individuals who happen to share bonds.
Years.
It's been years since we did anything like this.
My gaze tracks to Wendolyn, watching as Bear physically lifts her from the floor where she'd collapsed laughing. His hands are gentle despite his strength, careful of her healing burns, supporting her weight while she catches her breath.
The interaction is natural—no awkwardness, no overthinking, just two pack members helping each other with instinctive care.
She's glue.
Wendolyn is the adhesive bonding us into a functional unit.
Making us act like a pack instead of a dysfunctional group of Alphas with unresolved trauma.
Bear sets her back on her feet, keeping one hand on her waist to ensure stability while she wipes tears from her eyes. The casual intimacy of the gesture speaks to rapidly developing comfort, to barriers dissolving faster than any of us anticipated.
Three days.
We've known her for three days.
And she's already transforming pack dynamics that have been stagnant for years.
Margaret claps her hands together, drawing attention with a gesture that clearly signals a shift in activity.
"Aidric and Calder—" Her tone is firm, maternal authority that makes both Alphas straighten automatically. "—you'll be on cleanup duty outside while everyone else retrieves their finished baked goods."
