Page 146 of Knotting the Firefighters
Punishment.
She's punishing them like misbehaving children.
And they're accepting it without argument.
Both of them groan—theatrical suffering that suggests they're not actually opposed, just maintaining appearances—and shuffle toward the door with dejected body language.
Bear chuckles, already moving to follow.
"I'll go help them out. Make sure they don't argue themselves into property damage."
Diplomatic.
Leaving me alone with Wendolyn under the guise of supervision.
Subtle, Bear.
Very subtle.
Margaret turns her attention to Wendolyn, smile warm and genuine.
"Feel free to stay behind if you'd like, dear. The pack that was supposed to arrive never showed up, so there are extra baking materials you're welcome to use. No sense letting good ingredients go to waste."
Extra materials.
Empty shop.
Wendolyn looks absolutely edible in that dress Bear selected.
This is either a terrible idea or a perfect opportunity, depending on perspective.
Wendolyn's eyes light up—genuine enthusiasm at the prospect of continuing an activity she'd clearly enjoyed.
"Thank you! That's incredibly generous." She moves toward the remaining workspace, examining available ingredients with practiced assessment. "Would hate for anything to go to waste."
Margaret bustles toward the back, gathering her belongings while providing additional instructions about oven settings and timing that Wendolyn absorbs with professional competence.
She's done this before.
Extensively.
The casual way she's already measuring flour, the practiced efficiency of her movements—this is a skill set developed through repetition.
The shop owner departs with a cheerful wave, the door chiming behind her, leaving us in sudden silence broken only by the sounds of Wendolyn organizing ingredients.
I remain still, content to observe from my vantage point near the wall. Medical training has taught me the value of patience, of watching before acting, of gathering information before making decisions.
And right now, watching Wendolyn work is infinitely more interesting than participating.
She's changed since we arrived—tension from earlier dissolving into relaxed confidence, shoulders losing their defensive rigidity, movements fluid rather than guarded.
She's comfortable.
Actually comfortable for the first time since consciousness.
Baking centers her somehow, provides focus that allows everything else to fade.
Her attention remains fixed on the workspace, completely absorbed in whatever she's planning to create. The afternoon light filters through vintage lace curtains, casting a soft glow that makes her hair look even more vibrant, which highlights the particular way her dress hugs curves Bear had so enthusiastically marked hours ago.
