Page 42 of Knotting the Firefighters
I turn my attention to the golden retriever, who's maintained his protective stance around the kittens throughout my entire authoritative display. His tail wags when he notices my focus, tongue lolling happily.
He needs a name.
Can't keep calling him "the retriever" or "good boy"—he deserves proper identification, something that captures his loyal, protective, slightly goofy essence.
"Blaze," I announce, decision crystallizing. The name fits—carries fire association appropriate for his rescue circumstances, sounds strong without being aggressive, rolls off the tongue easily.
The retriever's tail wags harder, like he approves of his new designation.
I point to the kittens next, addressing each tiny troublemaker individually.
"You—" The calico with attitude. "Ember."
"You—" The gray tabby who seems most adventurous. "Ash."
"You—" The pure black with white paws. "Cinder."
"You—" The orange tabby who started all the chaos. "Spark."
Fire-themed names for creatures saved from flames, probably predictable, but appropriate given circumstances.
I turn back to the three young Alphas, whose expressions suggest they're committing every word to memory like gospel.
"Names?" I demand, tone brooking no delay.
"Dax Mercer," the tallest offers, sandy hair falling into hazel eyes. He's gangly in that way young men are before they grow into their frames, all limbs and nervous energy.
"Rook Callahan," the second provides, darker coloring with striking blue eyes, already showing the build that suggests he'll be massive once fully developed.
"Flynn Ashford," the third finishes, auburn hair and freckles that make him look younger than he probably is, green eyes bright with intelligence.
Good names.
Distinctive, memorable, not the generic Marcus/Jake/Tyler nonsense that plagues half the fire departments I've worked with.
"Dax, Rook, Flynn," I repeat, cementing the associations. "You three are responsible for Blaze and the kittens. Feed them, give them essential wate, and keep them contained and safe. If Captain Hawthorne returns before we do, inform him I'm out with Bear and the entire Station Fahrenheit crew responding to the call."
They straighten automatically, hands twitching toward salutes before remembering I just criticized that particular habit.
"Yes, Chief!" they chorus anyway, unable to help themselves.
Movement behind me announces Bear's return—I hear his approach before turning, his distinctive maple-chestnut scent intensifying as he draws closer.
When I do turn, professional assessment wars with visceral reaction.
Fuck.
Because Bear in casual clothing is attractive.
Bear in turnout gear is absolutely devastating.
The protective equipment emphasizes his size rather than diminishing it, makes him look simultaneously capable of tremendous gentleness and catastrophic violence. The jacket sits across shoulders broad enough to carry the world, pants hanging off hips in ways that make my mouth water despite completely inappropriate timing.
Our eyes meet, and I watch his expression shift as he reads whatever's showing on my face. That knowing smirk returns, the one that says he's absolutely aware of his effect and enjoying my reaction.
Professional, Murphy.
Maintain professional demeanor.
