Page 32 of Knotting the Firefighters

"Was there a reason for your station to suddenly come to such a small town?"

His expression shifts—humor fading into something more serious, more professional. The transformation is subtle but complete, reminding me that beneath the teddy bear exterior lives a trained firefighter with all the accompanying competence.

"Well, the plan was always there," he admits carefully, dark eyes watching my reaction with an assessment I recognize from my own years of reading people under pressure. "But it got expedited when it became pretty clear that someone is intentionally setting fires."

The words land like physical blows, each syllable carrying implications I've been trying desperately not to consider.

Gregory.

His pack.

Attempted murder that everyone wants to dismiss as property damage.

I keep my expression neutral, years of command experience providing the mask I need to avoid revealing the panic clawing at my chest. Don't think about smoke-filled kitchens, about locks clicking from the outside, about laughter echoing while flames consume everything you've built.

Bear continues, either not noticing my internal crisis or politely ignoring it.

"It got expedited for good reason, because today's fire was suspicious as hell. The owner abandoned that property over a year ago—building's been sitting empty, no electricity, no reason for spontaneous combustion."

"Which means..." I trail off, letting him complete the logical progression I'm already dreading.

"Which means someone intentionally placed that golden retriever, and potentially those kittens, with the assumed hope that a certain Omega firefighter would happen to pass by at exactly the right moment and act on the call of duty."

The analysis is sound, the conclusion inevitable, the implications absolutely terrifying.

I sigh deeply, pinching the bridge of my nose in a gesture that's become automatic over the past two weeks whenever confronting the reality of my situation.

"Well isn't that great?" The words emerge flat, stripped of inflection by exhaustion and resignation. "I have a stalker."

Bear's eyebrow arches, expression shifting into something protective, possessive, and dangerous despite his teddy bear demeanor.

"That's definitely not a good thing," he says carefully, each word measured. "But he'll have trouble getting through a whole firehouse of Alphas who've decided you're worth protecting."

The casual claim of protection—collective, pack-based, offered without my asking—should probably trigger my independence reflexes. Should make me bristle at the presumption that I need saving, that I can't handle my own problems, that being Omega somehow necessitates Alpha intervention.

Instead, I find myself laughing.

Real laughter, bright and surprised, bubbling up from somewhere genuine despite the seriousness of our conversation.

"Well, I can't exactlystay here," I gesture around the medical bay, at the IV still feeding fluids into my dehydrated system. "I have a ranch to run. Responsibilities. Things that don't pause just because someone's trying to murder me through increasingly creative methods."

"A ranch?" Bear's interest sharpens, curiosity replacing concern. "You're running it by yourself?"

The question hangs there, weighted with implications about my pack status, about support systems, about all the ways Omega independence gets questioned in communities that expect traditional arrangements.

Should I tell him?

The internal debate lasts approximately three seconds before I realize that Bear's genuine warmth, his lack of judgment, his apparent acceptance of unconventional situations makes him possibly the safest confidant available.

"It's complicated," I hedge, watching his reaction.

His smile returns—slow, warm, absolutely devastating in its authenticity.

"Well then." He crosses his arms, settling more comfortably on the bed's edge, his entire posture communicating patient interest. "Good thing I've got all day."

The wink he adds should be ridiculous, should feel performative, but somehow it just amplifies his charm—that rare combination of masculine confidence and genuine approachability.

I find myself smiling back, the expression feeling foreign after weeks of careful neutrality, of hiding behind vintage dresses and cheerful customer service masks.