Page 94 of Knotting the Firefighters

"Baby, you okay?" The endearment slips out automatically now, no longer feeling foreign or presumptuous. "Need you to respond if you can hear me."

Nothing—just soft breathing against my neck, her body completely relaxed in ways that suggest genuine sleep rather than medical crisis.

She's fine.

Just exhausted from everything—the emotional catharsis, the physical intensity, the biological changes happening to both of us.

Let her rest.

I settle back against pillows, careful not to jostle her, accepting that we're stuck in this position until my knot subsides. The waiting is actually welcome—it gives me time to process, to feel, to understand what's shifting inside me.

Because something is absolutely shifting.

Changing.

Transforming.

There's a sensation I can't quite identify—like I'm connected to something beyond the physical realm, like an invisible threadextends from my chest toward a destination I can feel but can't see.

Magnetic pull.

Being drawn toward a connector that's not physically present but emotionally rooted and impossibly strong.

It's the oddest sensation—simultaneously familiar and foreign, like remembering something I've never experienced, like recognizing a place I've never visited. My emotions feel amplified but also somehow not entirely my own, like they're mixing with someone else's, blending at the edges where individual experience becomes shared consciousness.

What the fuck is this?

The question spirals through my mind without answer, confusion mixing with exhaustion mixing with bone-deep satisfaction that makes thinking nearly impossible.

Connected.

I'm connected to someone.

Can feel hints of their emotions—contentment, protectiveness, underlying current of anxiety that doesn't belong to me but affects me anyway.

This is?—

This has to be?—

My knot finally begins to ease, the swelling reducing gradually as biology completes its purpose. The sensation of slipping free is almost disappointing—losing physical connection that's been anchoring me, grounding me, providing tangible evidence that what just occurred was real rather than an elaborate dream.

Wendy shifts slightly in her sleep, a soft sound escaping that might be a protest at the loss of connection or simply an unconscious adjustment. Her body remains draped across mine, completely trusting even in sleep, vulnerability absolute in ways that make my chest feel too small for my heart.

Mine.

My Omega.

My Wendy.

The possessive terminology should probably concern me—I've spent years avoiding pack bonds, rejecting the traditional Alpha role, insisting I didn't need Omega to feel complete.

Turns out I was wrong.

Spectacularly, completely wrong.

Needed her specifically, not Omegas generally.

Needed this woman who drives me insane and makes me better, and just permanently marked me as hers.