Page 133 of Knotting the Firefighters

I rise smoothly, approaching with careful consideration for her privacy despite desperate curiosity about what's causing distress.

"You good in there?" My knuckles rap gently against wood, inquiry rather than demand.

Her huff carries through clearly—exasperation mixed with genuine frustration.

"This is a disaster."

Disaster seems excessive.

Though Wendolyn has a tendency toward dramatic assessments when things don't meet her exacting standards.

I can't suppress the chuckle that escapes—genuinely amused by her theatrical suffering over clothing that probably looks fine.

"Can I come in and assess the damage?"

The pause that follows suggests she's weighing options—maintain privacy versus accepting assistance from someone who's clearly not leaving until this crisis is resolved.

"Ugh, first of all, I'm like half-naked," she finally responds, voice muffled by the door and presumably fabric. "Second, this design is horrible. Nothing fits right, and I look ridiculous."

Half-naked.

She said half-naked.

Like that's supposed to discourage me rather than intensify interest.

"I still don't understand why that would stop me," I respond with deliberate nonchalance, unable to resist teasing despite knowing I should probably respect boundaries and personal space and all those other concepts that seem increasingly irrelevant.

Another groan—this one carrying resignation rather than actual protest.

"Fine, but don't make fun of me."

Victory.

Small victory, but I'll take it.

I open the door carefully, respecting her vulnerability even as curiosity drives me forward.

The sight that greets me requires conscious effort to maintain an appropriate facial expression rather than reacting with enthusiasm that would definitely qualify as "making fun."

Holy fuck.

She's standing before the mirror in apparent distress, wearing a bra that features adorable cat and dog print—a playful design that's simultaneously childlike and somehow incredibly sexy in context.

Focus on the problem, not the lingerie.

Professional assessment of clothing situation.

Not ogling the pack Omega in a state of undress.

My eyes track downward despite my best intentions—taking in the cinched definition of her waist, the detailed outline of abdominal muscles that speak to a dedicated fitness regimen, the particular way her body curves with feminine softness over athletic foundation.

She's built.

Genuinely, impressively built.

Fire chief's standards of physical fitness clearly maintained despite months away from active duty.

The pants she's attempting to wear are clearly the source of frustration—hanging loose at the waist, bunching awkwardly at the hips, obviously designed for a different body type entirely.