Page 116 of Knotting the Firefighters
That apparently changes everything, and yet I can’t recall.
But what?
The question nags, frustration building at the gaps in my recollection. Because I remember dawn, remember Calder, remember the desperate connection that felt like goodbye?—
And then nothing.
Blank space where memory should exist.
Like someone edited out crucial scenes from my consciousness.
My fingers clutch Bear's shirt unconsciously, seeking an anchor while confusion spirals.
"Hey," he murmurs, noticing my tension. "It's okay. We'll explain everything once you've eaten and feel more coherent. No rush, no pressure."
His reassurance helps.
Marginally.
But I still want to know what I'm missing, what significant event occurred while I was apparently too exhausted to form lasting memories.
The kitchen comes into view—familiar now, recognizable as my rental cottage despite initial disorientation. The afternoon light slants through windows differently than morning, casting the space in a golden glow that makes everything look softer, warmer, and more welcoming than remembered.
Bear sets me carefully on the counter—positioning me like I'm a decorative element rather than a functional participant, though his attention remains focused as he assesses my stability.
"You good there? Not going to topple over if I turn my back?"
"I'm fine," I assure him, though I appreciate his concern. "Just hungry and confused, but physically stable."
Mostly stable.
Stable enough to sit on the counter without supervision.
He moves with efficiency through my kitchen, locating ingredients with surprising ease for someone who shouldn't know where anything is. Eggs, bread, butter—breakfast foods, despite the evening hour, are appropriate choices for someone who apparently hasn't eaten in a questionable timeframe.
"French toast okay?" He asks, already heating pan. "Figure you need something substantial but not too heavy, comfort food that won't upset your stomach after an extended fast."
Extended fast.
How long has it been since I ate?
"Perfect," I confirm, watching him work with practiced efficiency. "You cook regularly?"
"Grew up in a household where everyone contributed," he explains, whisking eggs with casual competence. "Learned early that size doesn't excuse incompetence in the kitchen. Plus, cooking is meditative—gives hands something to do while the mind processes."
Unexpected depth.
Layers beneath the teddy bear exterior.
Making me increasingly curious about this Alpha who references soft girl eras and cooks French toast, and offered to help run café like it's a simple decision.
The food comes together quickly—golden bread sizzling in butter, cinnamon and vanilla scenting the air, a domestic scene that feels simultaneously foreign and achingly familiar.
When was the last time someone cooked for me?
Not counting restaurants or Calder's occasional breakfast contributions.
When did someone last prepare food specifically because they cared about my well-being?
