Page 86 of Knotting the Firefighters
His thumb brushes across my cheekbone with devastating gentleness, catching moisture and wiping it away like he can somehow erase the pain causing it.
If only.
Neither of us speaks—words feel inadequate, insufficient to capture the magnitude of what we're experiencing. The truth screams between us anyway, communication that transcends language, understanding that exists in the space where eyes meet and souls recognize approaching separation.
This is goodbye.
Not immediately, but soon.
The beginning of the end we've both been avoiding.
Calder leans in then, movement deliberate and slow, giving me infinite opportunity to retreat, to stop this, to maintain the distance that might make his departure slightly less devastating.
I don't retreat.
Can't retreat.
Need this too desperately to protect myself from future pain.
His lips brush mine—tentative, questioning, carrying a request rather than a demand. The kiss is nothing like our usual passion, nothing like the desperate hunger that typically characterizes our physical connection.
This is different.
Softer.
Weighted with significance that transforms simple contact into something profound.
I understand immediately what he's asking, what this gentle pressure represents. One last time—not frantic coupling driven by heat and pheromones and biological imperative, not the aggressive passion of Alpha claiming Omega.
Actual love.
Pure connection between Wendolyn and Calder.
Two people rather than two designations.
Making love as goodbye, as memorization, as a final gift before inevitable separation.
The realization should make me pull away, should trigger self-preservation instincts that recognize this will only make everything harder. Creating new memories now just provides additional material for future grief, gives me more moments to replay endlessly while learning to exist without him.
But I don't care.
Can't care.
Would rather have this pain than nothing at all.
He pulls back slightly—testing, assessing, giving me a chance to decline gracefully. His eyes search mine, looking for an answer to a question he hasn't voiced aloud.
Do you want this?
Should we do this?
Will making love now destroy us both or provide comfort worth the cost?
I close the distance, answering with action rather than words. My lips find his again—light pressure that gradually increases, permission granted through participation rather than verbal consent.
Yes.
I want this.
