Page 23 of Knotting the Firefighters
The same Omega whose name has been circulating through every fire department within two hundred miles since her arrival in Sweetwater Falls. Decorated LA Fire Chief, the youngest woman and Omega to hold the position in that department's history, credited with implementing safety protocols that reduced firefighter casualties by thirty percent during her tenure.
The same woman whose personnel photos have been passed around like contraband, accompanied by appreciative comments about her "assets" and speculation about whether someone that attractive could possibly be as competent as her record suggests.
I'd shut that shit down hard at Station Fahrenheit, made it crystal clear that anyone caught objectifying potential colleagues would find themselves scrubbing equipment until their hands bled.
But I'd seen the photos myself—couldn't unsee them once Silas helpfully provided visual reference during one of our crew briefings.
Professional headshot that somehow failed to hide the curve of her smile, the intelligence in those green eyes, the way her hair caught light like living flame.
Doesn't do her justice.
The thought is traitorous, inappropriate, and completely true.
Because photographs can't capture scent, can't convey the way her presence seems to fill space even while unconscious, can't translate the fierce determination that drove her into flames for the sake of four tiny lives that most people would consider acceptable losses.
My phone buzzes insistently, reality intruding on whatever psychological crisis I'm apparently experiencing.
I yank the device from my pocket with more force than necessary, thumbs moving across the screen with practiced efficiency while my brain continues its unauthorized analysis of the woman sprawled at my feet.
The group chat explodes before I finish typing coordinates.
STATION FAHRENHEIT—ALPHA PACK
Me: Structure fire, sending coordinates. Get here ASAP.
Bear: On it. How bad?
Silas: Wind direction?
Before I can respond with relevant tactical information, my fingers apparently decide independent action is necessary.
Me: Need medical team too.
The chat goes momentarily silent—that pregnant pause that precedes either celebration or catastrophe.
Bear: Casualties?
Silas: Injuries?
I pause in texting the next sentence, the typing bubble taunting my pack while the scowl on my lips only grows in misery.
Me: The Omega. The one we pulled two weeks ago. She was inside.
If the previous silence was pregnant, this one is full-term and crowning.
The chat erupts with expletives, questions, and what I'm choosing to interpret as professional concern rather than the personal interest I can practically hear vibrating through the digital connection.
Bear: WHAT
Silas: Is she okay???
Bear: How bad
Silas: What was she doing in there
Me: Saving kittens. She's breathing but unconscious. Burns on her back, smoke inhalation.
Bear: Are we surprised she was saving kittens?
