Page 113 of Knotting the Firefighters
"No social media, actually," he admits cheerfully. "But I read extensively. A generous variation of fiction across multiple genres. Romance, fantasy, contemporary, you name it."
What.
I blink at him, reassessing every assumption I'd made based on appearance and profession.
"You read fiction?" The question emerges more surprised than intended. "Like, romance novels? With the feelings and the character development and the happily ever afters?"
"Why is that surprising?" His expression shifts to curiosity, genuine interest in my reaction rather than defensiveness.
Why indeed?
I struggle to articulate the ingrained expectations I hadn't realized I was carrying—the stereotypes about masculineinterests, about Alpha preferences, about what firefighters do in their spare time.
"I'm not used to men…or well, Alphas specifically…being interested in what I enjoy," I finally admit, honesty feeling safer than deflection. "I run a bookstore. Or, well,ranone. Café combination, actually, but I closed it temporarily."
Wildflower & Wren.
My sanctuary started feeling like a prison.
"Why'd you close it?" Bear's question carries genuine curiosity rather than judgment. "Recent decision?"
The memories flood back—weeks of increasing isolation, of serving customers while feeling completely alone, of being surrounded by love stories while living situationship that refused to evolve.
"A few weeks ago," I confirm, voice dropping quieter. "Because it felt lonely, running it by myself. You're surrounded by all these books emphasizing love and happy endings, the rush of being adored by devoted partners, and there you are—in situationship that's going nowhere, unable to find commitment, getting side-eyed by nosy townfolk who judge your choices while buying their coffee."
The gossip got old.
The pitying looks, the whispered speculation, the casual cruelty of small-town judgment.
All of it accumulated until showing up to work felt like punishment rather than joy.
Bear's expression softens—understanding evident without pity, sympathy without condescension.
"You want to reopen it eventually?" The question suggests he's already forming plans, seeing possibilities I haven't considered.
"Maybe?" The response remains uncertain. "Having help would be a significant factor, though. Can't imagine returningto solo operation, going back to that particular brand of loneliness."
His smirk is absolutely wicked—mischief evident in the curve of his lips, the sparkle in his half-lidded eyes.
"Why don't you open once or twice weekly, and I'll help?"
What.
I stare at him, confusion evident.
"You have the station," I point out, logic overriding the flutter of hope in my chest. "You're a firefighter with responsibilities, on-call schedules, and emergencies that don't care about café hours. Plus, you already offered to help with ranch work at Cactus Rose."
Too many commitments.
Too generous an offer to be realistic.
"Technically on-call," Bear clarifies, unbothered by my practical objections. "Normally, I go in to aid Silas and Aidric with specific situations rather than maintaining a full-time presence."
On-call rather than full-time?
That's unusual for a firefighter of his experience level.
"Why aren't you full-time?" Curiosity overrides manners, the question emerging before I can censor it.
