Probably already halfway there.
The thought should terrify me, should trigger all the commitment-averse reflexes I've cultivated through years of avoiding serious entanglements. Instead, it just feels inevitable—like falling is simply a matter of when rather than if.
We share a smile that communicates far more than our verbal sparring, the kind of connection that transcends words, that speaks directly to whatever primitive part of our brains handles mate recognition and pack bonding.
This is going to get complicated.
This is already complicated.
This is?—
The alarm erupts overhead, a piercing wail that cuts through the atmosphere like a blade through silk. We both look up instinctively, training overriding personal interactions, bodies tensing with readiness to respond.
"Now this has to be some planned bullshit," I groan, recognition settling. Three fires in two weeks after months of quiet? No coincidence exists that convenient.
Wendolyn's expression shifts—humor replaced by sharp professional assessment, the transformation so complete that I'm suddenly seeing Chief Murphy instead of the woman I've been flirting with.
"How fast can you get this IV out?"
The question is practical, strategic, and delivered with the kind of command authority that makes my Alpha instincts sit up and pay attention for entirely different reasons than her physical appearance.
She wants to respond.
To the call.
Without clearance, gear, and probably against every medical recommendation, Silas would make if he were present.
I should say no.
Should insist she remains in medical, follow proper protocols, and doesn't endanger herself further after two near-death experiences in fourteen days.
Instead, I smirk, already reaching for the IV line with practiced efficiency.
"Don't tell Silas, and I'll do it in two minutes."
Her laugh is pure delight, eyes sparkling with mischief and adrenaline and the reckless courage that makes firefighters either heroes or cautionary tales.
"Deal."
CHIEF MURPHY TAKES COMMAND
~WENDOLYN~
The elevator doors slide open with mechanical precision, revealing the main floor of Station Fahrenheit in all its supposedly state-of-the-art glory.
Supposedly being the operative word.
Because what greets me isn't the organized chaos of emergency response, isn't the practiced choreography of trained professionals mobilizing with military efficiency, isn't anything remotely resembling the disciplined crews I commanded for fifteen years in Los Angeles.
Instead, I'm witnessing what can only be described as a clusterfuck of epic proportions.
Alphas stumble over each other trying to access gear lockers, their movements uncoordinated and frantic. Two are actively arguing near the equipment racks—something about whose turnout coat belongs to whom, voices escalating with each exchange. Another group hovers near the fire trucks looking lost, like they're waiting for divine intervention to tell them which vehicle to board.
And the kittens.
The goddamn kittens.
All four are loose, racing across the polished concrete floor with the kind of chaotic energy that only baby animals possess. Three younger Alphas—barely out of their teens by the looks of them—chase after the tiny terrors with expressions of absolute helplessness, diving and missing, scrambling and failing, creating more disruption than the kittens themselves.
