Page 31 of Knotting the Firefighters
The name surfaces from smoke-hazed memory, storm-gray eyes and cedar-amber scent, strong arms carrying me from flames for the second time in two weeks.
"Welp." I shrug with more nonchalance than I feel, fingers still moving through golden fur. "I regret nothing."
His laughter intensifies, those jolly sounds that seem to vibrate through the air itself, reaching inside my chest to loosenknots I didn't realize had formed. There's something almost magical about it—the way genuine happiness can be contagious, spreading through shared space like warmth from a fireplace.
I've never met an Alpha like this.
The realization settles with quiet certainty. Every Alpha in my professional experience has carried that edge of aggression, that constant need to prove dominance through posturing and competition. Especially in firefighting, where physical capability translates directly to respect, where showing weakness can undermine your position faster than any policy violation.
But this Alpha seems completely comfortable in his skin, confident without needing to prove anything, strong enough that he doesn't require external validation.
"Beckett Calloway," he introduces himself, extending a hand that could probably crush mine if he wasn't clearly controlling his grip. "Though everyone calls me Bear, for obvious reasons."
I take his hand, feeling calluses that speak of hard work, noting the way his fingers engulf mine without any attempt at domination.
"Because you give teddy bear vibes?" The words emerge before my brain-to-mouth filter can intervene, but his delighted expression suggests offense isn't forthcoming.
"I'll take that as a compliment." His smile somehow widens further, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "But fair warning—if you're planning on hugging me, give me a heads-up first."
My eyebrows rise, curiosity piqued despite my current state of undress and vulnerability.
"Heads-up?"
"Your scent." He says it simply, matter-of-factly, like discussing the weather rather than the biochemical reactions that govern Alpha-Omega dynamics. "It's dangerously delightful, and I've got self-control with most situations, but I've never felt reactive to an Omega. Ever."
The admission sends unexpected heat flooding my cheeks, embarrassment mixing with something dangerously close to pleasure at the compliment hidden in his warning.
"Do I smell bad?" The question emerges smaller than intended, old insecurities surfacing despite years of telling myself that my designation biology shouldn't determine worth.
Bear's expression shifts—playful humor replaced by something more intense, more focused. He moves closer to the bedside, leaning in with deliberate slowness that gives me ample opportunity to protest or retreat.
I do neither.
Our eyes lock as he enters my personal space, his presence overwhelming in the best possible way. The scent of maple syrup and roasted chestnuts intensifies, wrapping around me like edible comfort, making my mouth water despite having zero appetite.
He inhales deeply, intentionally, drawing my scent into himself with the kind of reverence usually reserved for fine wine or religious experiences. The breath releases slowly, sliding past his lips with enough heat that I feel it ghost across my skin.
"You're the best sweet combination of goodness I've ever smelt," he whispers, voice dropping to that hushed register that makes every word feel like an intimate confession. "Which is only going to ignite chaos, because unlike the others, I really suck at the self-control department."
The air between us crackles with potential, with possibility, with the kind of tension that demands resolution through either retreat or advancement. My pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out rational thought, my body responding to his proximity with enthusiasm my brain hasn't authorized.
This is dangerous.
This is?—
The golden retriever shoves his face between us, tongue lolling as he delivers enthusiastic licks to Bear's cheek with enough force to break the moment's intensity. Bear chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest, his large hands coming up to give the dog proper attention—scratching, petting, rubbing faces together in a display of affection that somehow makes him even more attractive.
Dangerous thoughts, Murphy.
"We need to give him a name," Bear says conversationally, like we weren't just sharing a moment that made my toes curl. "And those kittens too. Can't keep calling them 'the livestock' or Rodriguez will have an aneurysm about proper facility protocols."
Relief floods through me—relief at the subject change, at returning to safer topics, at having space to breathe without his overwhelming presence short-circuiting my already compromised cognitive functions.
"The kittens," I manage, clutching at the conversational lifeline. "Are they okay? I bundled them in my coat, but I don't remember?—"
"All healthy," Bear assures me, settling on the edge of my bed with casual familiarity, his weight making the mattress dip. "Throwing absolute havoc around the firehouse, having these grown-ass men chase after them like it's their new fitness regime. Diabolical really, but it's good exercise. We've been slacking since settling into this new town that apparently had nothing happening until the last two weeks."
The phrasing catches my attention, pulls focus despite the pleasant distraction of watching him interact with the retriever who's clearly adopted him as new best friend.
