Page 43 of Knotting the Firefighters

I roll my eyes with more force than necessary, turning away before my expression reveals exactly how affected I am.

"Ensure everything stays smooth here," I instruct the rookies, tone clipped. "No lost animals, no disasters, no reasons for Captain Hawthorne to regret leaving you unsupervised."

"Yes, Chief!" Another unified response, enthusiasm undimmed by my attempt at sternness.

I pause, fixing them with exasperated stare.

"You really don't need to salute like this is the military. We're firefighters, not soldiers."

Dax grins—sudden, bright, completely unrepentant.

"We already know you're a badass chief from LA who'll get our cocks skinned if we don't follow orders exactly."

The crude phrasing should probably offend me, but instead I find myself fighting a smile at their honest enthusiasm.

I turn slowly toward Bear, eyebrow arching in silent question about exactly what reputation preceded me.

He shrugs, completely unbothered by my accusatory look.

"Trust me," he tells the rookies, though his eyes remain locked on mine. "The rumors are true. Best behavior, or face consequences that will make you reconsider every life choice that led to disappointing Chief Murphy."

"Yes, SIR!" they respond, apparently deciding Bear also deserves military deference.

He gestures toward the remaining vehicle—smaller than the main response trucks, configured for quick transport rather than equipment hauling.

"Fire van is ready with a driver. You can change in the back while we're en route."

I nod, already moving, adrenaline singing through my system in ways I haven't felt since Los Angeles. The familiar rush of emergency response, of lives potentially hanging in balance, of training and instinct taking over from conscious thought.

This is what I was made for.

The two main fire trucks are already pulling out, sirens wailing, lights painting the station interior in rotating red and blue. Their departure is coordinated, efficient, completely transformed from the chaos that greeted me ten minutes ago.

Ten minutes.

That's all it took to reorganize complete disaster into functional emergency response. Ten minutes of clear authority, specific commands, consequences for non-compliance.

Why wasn't someone doing this already?

The question nags as Bear and I jog toward the waiting van, but answers will have to wait until after we handle whatever fresh hell is currently burning in Sweetwater Falls.

I climb into the back, Bear following, the driver already accelerating before we're fully settled. The van lurches forward, siren joining the symphony already fading into distance.

Turnout gear waits on the bench—coat, pants, helmet, gloves, boots. Not custom like Bear's equipment, but functional, well-maintained, approximately my size through either luck or someone's quick assessment of my dimensions.

Rodriguez.

Has to be. Tom Rodriguez, who'd called me Chief at my rescue two weeks ago, who'd been making inquiries according to Hazel Martinez, who apparently anticipated I might need gear if circumstances arose.

"Clever man," I mutter, already shrugging into the coat while the van sways around corners.

"Who?" Bear asks, his own gear already perfectly positioned despite the moving vehicle.

"Rodriguez. For having equipment ready in my size."

"He's been hoping you'd accept the position." Bear's tone carries something complicated—respect, resignation, maybe concern about implications for his own pack dynamics. "Keeps talking about your qualifications, your innovations in LA, how Station Fahrenheit needs someone with actual vision instead of just warm body filling administrative role."

The compliments sit uncomfortable, weighted with expectations I'm not sure I want to meet.