Page 144 of Knotting the Firefighters
In a vintage store.
With the pack I've known for less than forty-eight hours.
Creating memories and experiences together instead of maintaining a careful distance.
The old me would decline—would maintain professional boundaries, would avoid situations that create intimacy and connection, would protect herself from potential hurt by refusing to participate in activities that might make her care too much.
But that version of me was lonely.
Isolated.
Convinced that safety required emotional distance.
And where did that get me?
I look at the woman's hopeful expression, at the vintage store that feels like a sanctuary, at the four Alphas waiting for my decision with varying degrees of patience.
Why not?
Life is short.
Gregory already tried to kill me twice.
Might as well enjoy the time I have rather than constantly preparing for the next catastrophe.
"I wouldn't mind," I finally respond, decision crystallizing with certainty that surprises me. "Why not? Let's give it a shot."
OBSERVATIONS AND ANTICIPATION
~SILAS~
The sight of Wendolyn literally falling off her chair, hysterical laughter consuming her entire body, is something I'm committing to permanent memory for future reference when pack morale needs lifting.
She's clutching her sides, tears streaming down her face, body shaking with genuine mirth that transcends polite amusement. The cause of her breakdown—Aidric's spectacularly deflated bread attempt—sits on the counter likeamonument to culinary failure.
It's impressively bad.
Like, deliberately sabotaged levels of bad.
Except he clearly tried, which makes it even more hilarious.
The dough has collapsed in on itself, creating a concave disaster that more closely resembles abstract art than edible food. The texture is simultaneously dense and hollow, achieving consistency that shouldn't be physically possible through normal baking processes.
How did he even manage that?
What sequence of errors produces bread that defies basic physics?
Bear snickers beside me, hand covering his mouth in a futile attempt to contain his amusement. His shoulders shake with suppressed laughter, making his massive frame vibrate with barely controlled mirth.
Calder doesn't bother hiding his reaction—just sighs with profound disappointment, shaking his head slowly.
"I know he usually succeeds at everything he attempts," Calder observes with clinical detachment, "but failing at baking wasn't the outcome I'd predicted. Thought his perfectionist tendencies would at least produce mediocre results."
Mediocre would have been an achievement.
This transcends failure into the territory of spectacular disaster.
Aidric's glare could probably ignite the failed bread through sheer force of rage.
