Page 130 of Knotting the Firefighters

He's so transparent.

Claims he doesn't care while broadcasting possession with every glance.

Calder smirks knowingly, amber eyes tracking between me and Bear with an expression suggesting he's entertained by whatever pack dynamics are currently at play.

Silas simply observes with medical professional detachment, probably cataloging everyone's reactions for future reference or intervention.

"Shotgun," I call pre-emptively, because if I'm going to endure an hour-long drive to the adjacent town, I'm claiming front seat privileges.

"Omega privilege," Bear agrees immediately, already moving to open the passenger door with exaggerated chivalry. "Though technically all positions in this vehicle could be considered shotgun, given how many firearms Aidric probably has stashed in various compartments."

Wait, what?

Aidric's growl suggests Bear's observation is accurate, which raises concerning questions about Montana gun culture I'm not prepared to address before coffee.

I settle into the passenger seat with a grateful sigh, appreciating the cushioning and leg room. The borrowed jeans are already uncomfortable—too stiff, wrong proportions, constant reminder that I'm wearing someone else's clothes.

Need to fix that situation immediately.

Priority one: acquire clothing that actually fits.

Priority two: figure out how to navigate pack dynamics without losing my identity in the process.

The others pile into the back seat—Calder claiming position directly behind me, Bear in the middle because his size makes that the only logical arrangement, Silas taking the remaining spot with resigned acceptance of his fate.

Three grown Alphas crammed into the back seat.

This is going to be interesting.

Possibly catastrophic.

Definitely entertaining.

Aidric starts the engine, country music immediately flooding from speakers at a volume suggesting he's deaf or has terrible taste or possibly both.

"We're not listening to this for an hour," Calder announces immediately, reaching for the controls.

"My truck, my music," Aidric counters, batting his hand away.

"Your truck, our sanity," Silas interjects diplomatically. "Compromise or I'm prescribing everyone headphones."

Here we go.

The bickering starts before we've left the driveway.

This is definitely going to be interesting.

I catch Bear's eye in the rearview mirror—he's grinning widely, clearly finding the chaos entertaining rather than annoying.

His earlier words echo through my mind.

It's going to be hella entertaining.

He wasn't wrong.

This pack is going to be exhausting, overwhelming, and probably catastrophic in multiple ways.

But never boring.