Chapter 13 Packing Up Promises #2
Never loved Wendolyn Murphy—flawed, stubborn, temperamental woman beneath the chief's badge.
But Calder does.
The truth settles with quiet certainty, reframing months of interactions through a new lens.
The way he brought coffee without being asked, I remembered how I take it, despite never writing it down.
He fixed my gate at midnight because he knew I'd been too exhausted to handle it.
The gentleness in his touch contrasted against the passion in his kisses, the way he holds me like I'm simultaneously fragile and unbreakable.
He sees me.
All of me—the competence and the fear, the strength and the vulnerability, the chief and the woman.
And he stayed anyway.
Followed me from Los Angeles to Montana, left his own promising career to exist in the same small town, maintained careful distance while being perpetually available, never demanding more than I could give while making it abundantly clear he'd accept everything if offered.
That's love.
Real, messy, complicated love that doesn't require perfect circumstances or ideal timing.
And now his opportunity has arrived—the promotion he deserves, the position he's earned, the future he's been building toward.
Which means leaving me behind.
The thought crystallizes with devastating clarity. He'll return to Los Angeles, take command of his station, build a new crew, and new relationships. He'll find a pack that actually wants Alpha addition, find Omegas who aren't broke, and mess with stalker ex-packs and complicated legal situations.
He'll move on.
Find someone better.
Someone who isn't fundamentally damaged.
The tears come before I can stop them—hot, unexpected, completely mortifying in their sudden appearance. They spill over without permission, tracking down my cheeks in silent testimony to emotions I don't know how to articulate.
Calder's hand reaches my face with devastating gentleness, calloused thumb brushing away moisture while his expression shifts into concern that makes my chest ache.
"Why are you crying?" His voice is so quiet, so careful, like he's approaching a wounded animal rather than a grown woman having an emotional breakdown.
"I'm not," I lie automatically, the denial utterly unconvincing given the evidence currently streaming from my eyes.
Smooth, Murphy.
Very believable.
More tears fall—one by one, then faster, until I'm actively crying in front of someone who's witnessed my vulnerability more than anyone but still makes me want to hide my face in shame.
"Fuck," Calder breathes, and then his arms are around me—careful of my back but firm around my waist, pulling me against his chest where his pine-bourbon scent wraps around me like a sanctuary.
"I'm sorry," I sob into his shirt, words muffled against fabric that's rapidly becoming damp. "This is probably the new medication or something. Hormonal adjustment is making me emotional. Everything's just crashing down simultaneously, and I can't—I don't—"
Coherence has left the building.
Apparently, why are we doing unfiltered emotional honesty now?
Calder doesn't respond with words—doesn't ask questions or demand explanations or make me feel pathetic for breaking down.
He simply scoops me up with practiced ease, cradling me against his chest like I weigh nothing, carrying me the few steps to my bed, where he settles us both against the headboard.
The position is awkward—him sitting upright, me curled in his lap like an oversized child, my face still pressed against his chest while tears continue their relentless escape.
But it feels safe.
Devastatingly safe.
He holds me through it all—through the sobbing that I can't control, through the shaking that makes my entire body tremble, through the raw grief of mourning something that hasn't even ended yet.
Because it will end.
Has to end.
Calder will leave for Los Angeles, and I'll stay here with my temporary pack and my temporary chief position, and my temporary everything.
He'll find the right pack for him—Alphas without complicated history, without the tension that crackles between him and Aidric, without the chaos that seems to follow me everywhere.
He'll find the right Omega—someone who isn't fundamentally broken, who doesn't come with stalker ex-packs and ongoing investigations, who can give him stability instead of constant crisis.
Someone who might actually deserve him.
Someone who isn't me.
The tears slow gradually, exhaustion replacing active grief, leaving me hollow and wrung-out in his arms. My breathing evens, hiccupping sobs transforming into shaky inhales, the storm passing as suddenly as it arrived.
Calder's hand moves through my hair with rhythmic gentleness, fingers carding through tangles with patient attention. His other arm remains firm around my waist, anchoring me against him, communicating safety through touch rather than words.
He doesn't ask.
Doesn't demand explanations or force conversations I'm not ready for.
Just holds me while I break apart, offering silent support without judgment.
That acceptance—that unconditional presence—is what finally undoes me completely.
Not the crying, not the grief, but the recognition that this man loves me enough to let me fall apart without trying to fix me, without making it about him, without any expectation except that I'll eventually be ready to put myself back together.
And he won't be here when I do.
The thought settles with leaden weight, reality asserting itself past emotional catharsis.
In two weeks—maybe less—Calder Hayes will board a plane back to Los Angeles. He'll start his new position, build his new life, and create his new future.
And I'll be here.
In Sweetwater Falls with my temporary pack and my temporary position and my temporary everything.
Learning to exist without the one person who makes me feel safe and where I rightfully belong.
But right now, in this moment, I can still pretend.
Can still curl into his chest and breathe his scent and feel his heartbeat steady against my ear.
Allow myself to believe that safety is permanent rather than fleeting, that love is enough to overcome logistics and distance and all the practical reasons this can't work.
Can still enjoy the safety his arms bring.
Potentially one last time.
The thought should make me cry harder, should trigger a fresh wave of grief and desperation.
Instead, it just makes me hold tighter—memorizing the feel of him, the scent of him, the particular way our bodies fit together like puzzle pieces designed specifically for each other.
One last time.
Make it count.
Make it enough to last through all the lonely nights ahead.
Calder's lips press against my temple—soft, reverent, carrying the weight of everything we're not saying aloud.
"I've got you, Wendy," he whispers, the words vibrating through his chest into mine. "For as long as you'll let me, I've got you."
For as long as you'll let me.
Not forever.
Not permanent.
Just as long as circumstances allow before real life intrudes.
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.