Page 85 of Knotting the Firefighters
The thought is a steel-reinforced concrete, unshakeable foundation beneath every other consideration. Because when you love someone—truly, completely, devastatingly love them—you want their dreams to manifest even when those dreams exclude your presence.
Especially when those dreams exclude your presence.
Asking him to reject the captain position would be asking him to choose me over everything he's worked for, to sacrifice professional validation for a relationship we've never properly defined, to remain in small-town Montana when his future clearly exists elsewhere.
Selfish.
Cruel.
Fundamentally unfair to someone who's already given up so much by following me here.
So I won't ask.
Won't beg.
Won't make this harder by giving voice to the desperate plea currently screaming through every cell in my body.
Please stay.
Please choose me.
Please don't make me learn how to exist without you.
But I'll swallow those words, bury them beneath professional pride and the facade of supportive understanding. I'll smile and congratulate him and pretend my heart isn't shattering while I help him pack, while I wave goodbye, while I watch him disappear toward a future that doesn't include me.
Because that's what love requires.
Sacrifice.
Putting their happiness ahead of your own.
Even when it destroys you.
The knowledge doesn't make it hurt less—if anything, the certainty amplifies the pain, transforms abstract fear into concrete loss, and I'm already mourning despite it not having occurred yet.
Anticipatory grief.
Mourning something that hasn't ended but inevitably will.
Preparing for an absence that's approaching like a storm I can see on the horizon, but can't prevent.
I know I won't fall back asleep—my mind is too active, my emotions too raw, my body too aware of Calder's warmth and the approaching moment when I'll have to exist without it.
Might as well stop pretending.
My eyes open slowly, reluctantly, adjusting to the dim pre-dawn light filtering through curtains that don't quite close properly.
Calder is staring back at me.
His amber eyes are half-open, exhausted in ways that suggest he hasn't slept at all, dark circles evident even in low light. But his gaze holds intensity that steals my breath—appreciation, regret, longing, and something that looks dangerously close to goodbye.
He knows too.
Has been lying awake wrestling with the same truths.
Arrived at the same inevitable conclusion.
A tear escapes before I can stop it, hot trail down my cheek that betrays emotions I'm desperately trying to contain. His hand moves immediately—muscle memory from months of comforting me, of being present through breakdowns and bad days and moments when being strong becomes impossible.
