Smooth, Murphy.
Very subtle.
Definitely maintaining appropriate emotional distance.
"Then we'll have to live out the BookTok life," Bear promises with absolute seriousness. "Fulfill all your romantic fantasies, recreate every trope you've read about, make reality compete with fiction."
BookTok life.
He's referencing BookTok.
This massive Alpha firefighter knows about BookTok.
What is my life?
I laugh again—a genuine sound that feels foreign after months of careful emotional management, after years of learning that happiness is temporary and trust is dangerous.
"Don't promise a good time unless you're prepared to be held accountable," I warn, attempting a stern expression that definitely fails. "I'll absolutely call you out if reality doesn't match expectations."
"Please do." His encouragement is immediate, enthusiastic. "I'm absolutely up for the challenge of exceeding your expectations and proving that reality can surpass imagination."
Confident bastard.
Charming, confident bastard who's systematically dismantling my defenses.
He offers his hand—large palm extended in invitation, a gesture simultaneously casual and significant.
"Let's make way, tomboy Firefly."
Tomboy.
He called me tomboy.
While I'm literally wearing men's clothing because I have no alternatives.
I huff—indignation overriding any other response—and place my hand in his despite my protest.
"I'm so not a tomboy," I declare with as much dignity as someone wearing borrowed clothes three sizes too large can muster.
His grin is absolutely unrepentant, clearly enjoying my reaction.
"Prove it when we're in the mall," he challenges, already pulling me toward the door where the others wait with varying degrees of patience. "Update your wardrobe, show me what your actual style looks like when it's not vintage dresses or borrowed athletic wear."
Challenge accepted.
Didn't realize I was competitive about clothing until this exact moment.
But apparently, I'm determined to prove I have a feminine style beyond a vintage aesthetic.
The others have congregated near Aidric's truck—a large vehicle that probably seats six comfortably, the kind of practical transportation that screams "Montana rancher" rather than "fire captain." They're engaged in what appears to be a heated discussion about optimal driving routes, because apparently even simple trips to an adjacent town require tactical planning.
Pack dynamics are exhausting.
Everything requires negotiation, consensus, and consideration of everyone's preferences and concerns.
How do people do this long-term without losing their minds?
Bear keeps my hand in his as we approach, a proprietary gesture that doesn't escape anyone's notice. Aidric's expression darkens slightly—not quite jealousy but something adjacent, territorial instinct clearly activated despite his protests about not wanting Omega complications.
