Page 88 of Knotting the Firefighters
Capable.
Strong.
Safe in ways I've never experienced before.
The shirt comes off—his cooperation making the process easier, both of us now skin to skin in the growing dawn light. His scent intensifies with proximity and arousal—pine and bourbon and smoke, the combination that's become synonymous with home, with safety, with everything I'm about to lose.
Don't think about loss.
Think about now.
This moment.
This connection.
His mouth leaves mine to trace along my jaw, down my throat, finding that spot below my ear that makes rational thought nearly impossible. His teeth graze gently, Alpha instinct warring with careful control, the desire to mark visibly restrained by understanding that claiming serves no purpose when departure is imminent.
He won't bite.
Won't leave permanent proof of connection that's fundamentally temporary.
Because that would be cruel.
Would give me hope for a future that doesn't exist.
My fingers thread through his hair—shorter than when we first met, trimmed recently in concession to Sweetwater Falls' conservative aesthetics. The texture is familiar, the gesture automatic, my body knowing how to touch him even when my mind is fragmenting under the weight of approaching grief.
"Calder," I breathe, his name escaping on exhale that carries too much meaning, too much vulnerability, too much raw need.
"I know," he responds, understanding without elaboration what I can't articulate. "I know, baby. I've got you."
Baby.
He's never called me that before.
Always "Wendy" or "darlin'" or "Chief" with varying degrees of affection and exasperation.
Never something so tender, so intimate, so clearly precious.
The endearment breaks something in my chest, makes tears flow faster despite my efforts to contain them. Because he's giving me this—this moment of complete vulnerability, this admission through pet name that I matter, that this matters, that losing me will hurt him as much as his departure destroys me.
Equal devastation.
Mutual destruction.
Both of us choosing pain because the alternative is worse.
His hands find the waistband of my pants—questioning touch that pauses, waiting for confirmation.
I lift my hips in response, permission granted through movement, trusting him to navigate around bandages and healing wounds with the care he's always shown.
The fabric slides down slowly, revealing more skin to the cooling air and his burning gaze. He takes his time removing the garment completely, careful not to jostle injuries, treating me like I'm simultaneously precious and fragile despite knowing I'm neither.
It's the thought that counts.
The care is embedded in each movement.
The love expressed through gentleness rather than words.
