Page 112 of Knotting the Firefighters

Calder who's leaving.

Calder who got offered position in LA.

Calder who I?—

The memory fragments there, incomplete pieces that refuse to assemble into a coherent narrative. Something happened between us beyond the lovemaking I remember, beyond thedesperate connection at dawn, something significant that's hovering just outside conscious awareness.

What am I forgetting?

Fingers move through my hair—gentle, rhythmic motion that makes me realize Bear's no longer fully asleep.

The touch is too deliberate, too controlled to be an unconscious adjustment.

A low, husky whisper follows:

"You awake?"

His voice carries that particular quality of recent consciousness—rough around the edges, not quite coordinated, warm in ways that transcend temperature.

I lift my head again, finding his eyes half-open, regarding me with an expression that's simultaneously sleepy and intensely focused.

Pretty.

His eyes are absurdly pretty when they catch light like that.

Dark brown that looks almost amber in low lighting, warmth evident even through exhaustion.

"Morning, Teddy," I murmur, the nickname emerging automatically despite our limited acquaintance.

His lips curve into a smirk—satisfaction evident at the endearment, like I've given him a gift through simple word.

"Evening, Firefly," he corrects gently, amusement coloring his tone.

Evening?

How long was I asleep?

What day is it even?

"Firefly?" I pout, attempting indignation that doesn't quite materialize through lingering drowsiness. "I'm more fierce than that. Fireflymakes me sound delicate."

His chuckle rumbles through his chest into mine, vibration pleasant against my ear.

"Not in my eyes," he counters, fingers still moving through my hair with hypnotic rhythm. "Though I wouldn't be proper Alpha if you weren't allowed your 'soft girl era' with me in your life."

Soft girl era.

Did this massive Alpha just reference TikTok terminology?

In small-town Montana?

Heat floods my cheeks—genuine blush triggered by the casual domesticity of his phrasing, the assumption of "with me in your life" like it's a fact rather than a temporary arrangement.

I settle my chin on his chest, using the position to maintain eye contact while processing his unexpected cultural literacy.

"You're watching too much social media," I accuse, attempting a stern expression that probably fails given my current position. "Shouldn't be knowing those terms in a small town like this. Thought y'all just knew about cattle and pickup trucks and whatever else constitutes rural Montana culture."

His laugh is genuine, warm, the kind that makes his whole body participate.