Page 75 of Knotting the Firefighters
Followed me from Los Angeles to Montana, left his own promising career to exist in the same small town, maintained careful distance while being perpetually available, never demanding more than I could give while making it abundantly clear he'd accept everything if offered.
That's love.
Real, messy, complicated love that doesn't require perfect circumstances or ideal timing.
And now his opportunity has arrived—the promotion he deserves, the position he's earned, the future he's been building toward.
Which means leaving me behind.
The thought crystallizes with devastating clarity. He'll return to Los Angeles, take command of his station, build a new crew, and new relationships. He'll find a pack that actually wants Alpha addition, find Omegas who aren't broke, and mess with stalker ex-packs and complicated legal situations.
He'll move on.
Find someone better.
Someone who isn't fundamentally damaged.
The tears come before I can stop them—hot, unexpected, completely mortifying in their sudden appearance. They spillover without permission, tracking down my cheeks in silent testimony to emotions I don't know how to articulate.
Calder's hand reaches my face with devastating gentleness, calloused thumb brushing away moisture while his expression shifts into concern that makes my chest ache.
"Why are you crying?" His voice is so quiet, so careful, like he's approaching a wounded animal rather than a grown woman having an emotional breakdown.
"I'm not," I lie automatically, the denial utterly unconvincing given the evidence currently streaming from my eyes.
Smooth, Murphy.
Very believable.
More tears fall—one by one, then faster, until I'm actively crying in front of someone who's witnessed my vulnerability more than anyone but still makes me want to hide my face in shame.
"Fuck," Calder breathes, and then his arms are around me—careful of my back but firm around my waist, pulling me against his chest where his pine-bourbon scent wraps around me like a sanctuary.
"I'm sorry," I sob into his shirt, words muffled against fabric that's rapidly becoming damp. "This is probably the new medication or something. Hormonal adjustment is making me emotional. Everything's just crashing down simultaneously, and I can't—I don't?—"
Coherence has left the building.
Apparently, why are we doing unfiltered emotional honesty now?
Calder doesn't respond with words—doesn't ask questions or demand explanations or make me feel pathetic for breaking down. He simply scoops me up with practiced ease, cradling me against his chest like I weigh nothing, carrying me the few steps to my bed, where he settles us both against the headboard.
The position is awkward—him sitting upright, me curled in his lap like an oversized child, my face still pressed against his chest while tears continue their relentless escape.
But it feels safe.
Devastatingly safe.
He holds me through it all—through the sobbing that I can't control, through the shaking that makes my entire body tremble, through the raw grief of mourning something that hasn't even ended yet.
Because it will end.
Has to end.
Calder will leave for Los Angeles, and I'll stay here with my temporary pack and my temporary chief position, and my temporary everything.
He'll find the right pack for him—Alphas without complicated history, without the tension that crackles between him and Aidric, without the chaos that seems to follow me everywhere.
He'll find the right Omega—someone who isn't fundamentally broken, who doesn't come with stalker ex-packs and ongoing investigations, who can give him stability instead of constant crisis.
