They had all been warned a new medic was joining the 118, but no one prepared Buck for you walking through those bay doors.

You step in with your turnout bag slung effortlessly over your shoulder, hair pulled back, uniform crisp, posture calm but commanding. There’s an air around you—elegance that doesn’t belong in a firehouse and competence that absolutely does. Even Bobby pauses mid-sentence. Hen’s eyebrows lift. Chimney mutters “oh damn,” under his breath.

Buck forgets how to exist.

You’re ethereal—genuinely, impossibly gorgeous—but it’s the sharp focus in your eyes that hits him hardest. That quiet, unshakeable efficiency, like you’ve seen chaos before and learned how to tame it.

Bobby steps forward. “You must be our new paramedic.”

You nod politely. “Yes, sir. Ready to work.”

Buck is still staring.

Hen nudges him with her elbow. Hard. “Say something before you combust.”

“I’m not— I’m fine,” he whispers back, which is a lie because his heart is sprinting like it’s training for a marathon.

Then you turn—and give him a small, graceful, devastating smile.

“Hi,” you say softly, extending a hand. “I’m the new medic.”

Buck blinks once, twice. “Right—yeah—uh—I mean, I knew that. Obviously. Not that you look like a medic. I mean you do! Not that you don’t. You look great. You look— professional. And also—”

Hen closes her eyes. “Oh my God.”

Buck clears his throat, tries again. “Hi. I’m Buck. Evan Buckley. Just—Buck. Most people call me Buck.” (Stop talking, he begs himself.)

But you don’t laugh. You don’t look confused. You smile again—small, elegant, knowing. “It’s nice to meet you, Buck.”

He swears he hears bells. Or maybe that’s Chim snorting behind him.

Bobby gives you the tour, though Buck keeps drifting near you like an overexcited golden retriever who’s trying really, really hard to seem smooth. You ask smart questions, move with purpose, and every time you concentrate, your expression goes sharp and focused—god, it hits him in the chest.

Your first call with them seals it.

Multi-vehicle collision. A mess of glass and metal. Buck’s adrenaline kicks in fast, but then he sees you work—calm, steady hands, precise movements, voice clear and reassuring even over screams and sirens. It’s like watching grace move through chaos.

“Buck, I need pressure here,” you say, and he’s already beside you, already listening, already matching your pace.

When it’s over, when the patient is loaded and stable and the chaos fades, Buck looks at you, breathless—not from the call, but from you.

“You were incredible,” he says before he can stop himself.

You meet his gaze, a hint of amusement in your eyes. “I did my job.”

“Yeah. But you did it like you’ve been with us for years.”

Your expression softens. Just a little. “Thank you, Buck.”

It shouldn’t feel like a reward when you say his name like that, but it does. Warm. Gentle. A touch too soft for someone he just met.

Back at the station, Chim whispers, “He’s gone.”

Hen replies, “Fell in thirty minutes. That’s a new record.”

Buck tries to glare at them, but he can’t—not when you glance over at him from across the bay, sunlight catching in your hair, that composed elegance wrapped around an efficiency he can’t stop replaying in his head.

He’s done for. Completely gone.

And he knows it the second you say, with that calm, graceful tone he’s already addicted to—

“See you around, Buck.”

His smile is instant. Helpless.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, you will.”