Probably paranoid.
But not impossible.
I've witnessed departmental politics manipulate careers before—seen promotions offered then rescinded, seen temporary positions become permanent traps, seen ambitious firefighters lured away from stable situations into disasters disguised as advancement.
What if this is a gimmick?
What if I return to LA and discover the position was never real?
Or worse—real but temporary, lasting just long enough to ensure I can't return to what I've built here?
The scenarios spiral through my mind with increasing anxiety, each more catastrophic than the last. Because leaving Sweetwater Falls means abandoning everything I've constructed over six months—the rental property, the connections with locals, the careful integration into a community that doesn't trust outsiders easily.
Leaving behind Wendolyn.
That's the real cost, the calculation that makes every other consideration irrelevant.
She'll slip away.
The certainty settles with leaden weight, an undeniable truth I've been avoiding since Aidric's pack entered the equation.
Because I've seen the chemistry—impossible to miss, painful to acknowledge. The way she and Bear conversed like old friendsdespite meeting hours ago, the easy rapport that usually takes months to develop, and the laughter that came naturally rather than forced.
He makes her smile.
Genuinely, freely smile in ways I haven't seen since Los Angeles.
And Aidric—fuck, Aidric with his storm-gray eyes and commanding presence and the history we share that complicates everything. The way Wendolyn looks at him carries curiosity, challenge, and interest that speaks to connections forming, whether either of them wants to acknowledge it.
She'll fall in love with them.
All three—Bear's warmth, Silas's competence, Aidric's intensity.
They'll give her the pack I can't provide, the stability I can't offer, the future I can't guarantee.
And I'll be in Los Angeles, hundreds of miles away, completely out of the loop.
Unable to check in beyond phone calls that grow increasingly infrequent, unable to physically be present when she needs support, unable to compete with Alphas who get to see her daily.
She'll forget about me.
The thought is a knife between ribs, sharp and devastating, and probably true. Because why would she maintain a connection with lone Alpha in a different city when she has the entire pack right here, offering everything I can't?
Proximity wins.
Always has.
Humans bond with who's available, not who's absent.
My arms tighten reflexively around her sleeping form, like I can somehow hold her here through sheer force of will, like physical contact creates permanent bonds that distance can't erode.
Selfish.
Completely selfish to want her to wait, to hope, to maintain feelings for Alpha who chose career over her.
Because that's what accepting an LA position means—choosing professional advancement over personal relationship, prioritizing my dreams over our reality, valuing a captain's badge more than waking up beside her.
She'd never ask me to stay.
