I don't respond—can't trust my voice not to break again, can't formulate words that won't sound like begging or bargaining or all the desperate things I'm thinking but won't say.
So I just breathe.
In, out.
Pine and bourbon and safety.
Memorizing this moment against the future when it's all I have left.
The cottage settles around us, afternoon light shifting through windows, casting long shadows across half-packed boxes that represent my immediate future. Tomorrow I move into Station Fahrenheit, begin my temporary tenure as Chief, and navigate pack dynamics with four Alphas who barely tolerate each other.
But tonight?—
Tonight I can stay here.
In Calder's arms.
Pretending that temporary doesn't mean temporary at all.
His breathing evens out, becomes slower, deeper, suggesting he's drifting toward sleep despite the awkward position. My own exhaustion pulls at consciousness, medication, and emotional catharsis combining to make my eyelids heavy.
Just a few more minutes.
Just a little longer in this safety.
Before everything changes.
Before he leaves.
I let my eyes close, let myself sink into the warmth and security of his embrace, let myself enjoy the safety his arms bring—potentially one last time.
Before I have to learn how to be strong again without him.
CROSSROADS AND CONSEQUENCES
~CALDER~
She fits perfectly in my arms—has always fit perfectly, like whoever designed the universe decided we were complementary pieces before either of us existed.
Wendolyn Murphy, decorated Fire Chief turned small-town refugee, currently curled against my chest like she's seeking shelter from storms I can't see but absolutely feel brewing.
Her breathing has evened out, the shaky inhales transforming into the deep, rhythmic pattern that signals unconscious surrender. She's fallen asleep without realizing it, exhaustion and emotional catharsis combining with whatever cocktail of medications Dr. Winters prescribed to drag her under despite the awkward position.
Trust.
That's what this represents—the kind of fundamental trust that allows someone to completely let go, to become vulnerable in ways that defy survival instincts, to believe safety exists enough to stop fighting consciousness.
She trusts me.
Feels safe with me.
Even while I'm contemplating decisions that might destroy that trust completely.
I cradle her closer—careful of her healing burns, mindful of the bandages Dr. Winters had replaced before discharge, terrified that if I loosen my grip even slightly, she'll somehow disappear like smoke through my fingers.
Precious.
Fragile despite her strength.
