Page 17 of Knotting the Firefighters
The familiar routine of ranch work calls to me—simple, physical, nothing more complex than hay and water and keeping things alive. But there are more pies to bake, and now apparently pack arrangements to consider, and a future that suddenly looks less like hiding and more like fighting.
"I'll be back tomorrow," I promise. "Early shift before Willa leaves."
He nods, already turning back to his work, trusting that I'll keep my word because out here, your word is all that really matters.
The drive back to my rental feels different, charged with possibility I hadn't allowed myself to consider. Station Fahrenheit. Three months with a temporary pack. An investigation with an Omega chief who actually gives a damn.
Gregory thought he could reduce me to ash.
He forgot that phoenixes are born from burning.
My hands grip the steering wheel tighter as I navigate the winding road, decision crystallizing with each mile. I won't let him win. Won't allow fear to keep me from what I've earned through years of dedication and sacrifice.
The familiar outline of my little rental house appears, and with it, an unexpected vehicle—Calder's truck, parked like itbelongs there. He's sitting on my porch steps, elbows on his knees, looking like he's been waiting a while.
"Thought you had fence repairs," I say as I exit my truck, trying for casual but landing somewhere closer to breathless.
"Finished early." He stands, his full height making me crane my neck to maintain eye contact. "Saw Hazel Martinez leaving the ranch. Everything okay?"
The concern in his voice, the way he's clearly been worried enough to abandon his work and wait for me—it does things to my carefully maintained walls that I can't afford.
"The investigation's moving forward," I tell him, climbing the porch steps until we're closer to eye level. "She's taking it seriously."
"Good." The word comes out fierce, protective. "About damn time someone did."
"There's a catch though." I fidget with my keys, not quite meeting his eyes. "She says I need a pack. Temporary protection while the case proceeds. Three months minimum."
The silence stretches, loaded with unspoken implications.
When I finally look up, his expression is unreadable, that particular stillness that means he's processing, calculating, arriving at conclusions I'm not ready to hear.
"Three months," he repeats slowly, like he's tasting the words.
"Just for legal standing," I clarify quickly. "Nothing permanent, nothing?—"
"Wendy." The way he says my name stops me mid-ramble. "What if it wasn't just for legal standing?"
The question hangs between us, dangerous as any flame.
Because we both know what he's really asking, what door he's trying to open that I've kept desperately locked.
"I should check on those other pies," I say instead of answering, fumbling with the lock.
His hand covers mine on the doorknob, warm and steady.
"We need to talk about this eventually."
"I know." The admission comes out small, scared. "Just... not yet. Not until I figure out what happens next."
He steps back, giving me space even though every line of his body says he wants to do the opposite.
"When you're ready, I'll be here. For whatever you need. Pack, protection, or just someone to share the burden."
I escape inside before I can do something stupid like kiss him again or worse—tell him that I'm already considering it.Considering him.Wishfullly thinking of “us” that extends beyond stolen moments and careful boundaries.
Through my kitchen window, I watch him drive away, and then I'm alone with the ghost of possibilities and the echo of a name.
Station Fahrenheit.
