Page 148 of Knotting the Firefighters

"It's not a rush," I correct gently but firmly. "We don't have pressing commitments requiring immediate return. No agenda beyond spending time together, enjoying activities, existing without constant time pressure."

Understanding flickers across her features—realization that she's been operating under outdated rules, that the urgency driving her behavior is an artifact from a pack that no longer controls her schedule.

"You're right," she admits quietly. "I'm actually not accustomed to not rushing home to be prompt. Gregory's pack had an unofficial curfew…needed to be back by six pm unless I had explicit permission and an approved reason for absence."

Curfew.

They imposed curfew on a grown woman with a demanding career.

Treated her like a teenager requiring supervision rather than an autonomous adult.

The medical professional in me catalogs this as additional evidence of controlling behavior patterns. The Alpha in me wants to track down Gregory and demonstrate exactly what happens to people who cage things meant to fly.

Focus on the present.

Can't change her past, but can shape her future.

"We don't operate that way," I state clearly, wanting zero ambiguity about our expectations. "You're Omega, which means we're invested in your safety and well-being. But you're also an adult with autonomy and interests. If you want to take cookingclasses that run past six pm, join a book club that meets in the evenings, or pursue any hobby that brings you joy. Those are your decisions to make."

Her eyes widen slightly—surprise evident, like she hadn't expected this level of freedom, like autonomy is a novel concept rather than a basic right.

"I don't actually have hobbies," she confesses with something approaching embarrassment. "Between work and pack obligations, never developed interests beyond professional competence and basic survival."

No hobbies.

A thirty-something woman with no hobbies because every moment was consumed by work and a relationship that demanded everything while providing nothing.

"Then we'll discover what you enjoy," I respond with certainty, already formulating plans. "Try various activities, expose yourself to options, see what captures your interest beyond firefighting and baking."

I gesture at the workspace, at the remnants of the class we'd just completed.

"You clearly loved the baking class. Genuine enthusiasm is evident in your participation, your laughter, and the way you engaged with the process."

Her smile is radiant—pleasure at being seen, at having preferences recognized and validated.

"It was amazing," she agrees enthusiastically. "The group activity aspect made it special—watching everyone work toward a common goal, seeing different skill levels and approaches, the shared satisfaction when things turned out well."

Or spectacularly poorly in Aidric's case.

"I particularly enjoyed seeing how concentrated Aidric and Calder became," she continues, amusement coloring her tone."Both of them are so determined to succeed, competitive even in a baking context."

"They were quiet for once," I add with clinical observation. "First extended period of non-argumentative coexistence I've witnessed in years."

Blessed silence.

No bickering, no sniping, no passive-aggressive commentary.

Just focused on tasks requiring attention.

"The only other time they achieve that level of quiet cooperation is during dancing," I hear myself saying, medical professional detachment slipping as I share information that might be strategically useful.

Or just entertaining.

Probably both.

Wendolyn's reaction is immediate—eyes widening, mouth dropping open in expression of pure surprise.

"They dance?" The question emerges almost accusatory, like I've revealed classified information. "Both of them? Together?"