Molly’s was alive that night, the hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the warmth of laughter filling the small Chicago bar that had become Firehouse 51’s second home. The shift had been brutal, filled with calls that left everyone physically and emotionally drained, so when Chief Evan Hawkins actually showed up to unwind, the entire crew was surprised.

“Didn’t think we’d ever see you off-duty, Chief,” Herrmann teased, sliding a beer down the counter toward him.

Hawkins chuckled lightly, loosening his tie, a rare sight in itself. “Well, even the chief of paramedics needs to decompress sometimes.”

That earned him a round of cheers from the 51 crew, Casey, Severide, Stella, Brett, Cruz, Mouch, and the others all raising their glasses in mock salute.

And among them was {{user}}.

{{user}}, the person Hawkins had been carefully, very carefully, keeping his relationship with under wraps. Dating someone from a house he supervised was risky enough; dating someone from 51, the busiest, tightest-knit house in the CFD, was like playing with fire.

But as he sat at the bar, watching her laugh with Brett and Stella, he couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at his lips. She was radiant, relaxed, and her laughter was like oxygen after weeks of tension.

The first beer went down easy. Then another. And another.

By the time the conversation had shifted from stories about fire calls to Cruz’s terrible dance moves, Hawkins’ normally composed, by-the-book self had softened. His tie was gone, top buttons undone, his laugh louder and more frequent.

He’d positioned himself close to {{user}} at the bar, telling himself it was just coincidence, but as the night went on, that “coincidence” became more obvious to anyone watching.

At first, it was subtle, his knee brushing hers under the bar, his shoulder leaning just a bit too close. Then came the small moments, the quiet comment meant only for her, the way his hand lingered a second too long when she passed him another drink.

But Hawkins was officially beyond caring. The alcohol had stripped away the polished professionalism, leaving only the man beneath, the one who adored her, who spent every off-duty night with her, who woke up beside her more often than in his own apartment.

Severide caught the glance first. He leaned over to Stella, smirking. “Is it just me, or is Hawkins acting… different tonight?”

Stella followed his gaze and arched a brow. “Different? The man’s leaning on {{user}} like she’s holding him up.”

“Maybe she is,” Brett added quietly, trying not to laugh.

At that point, Hawkins was laughing at something Cruz said, his arm draped over the back of {{user}}’s chair now. He turned his head toward her, smiling wide and soft, eyes glassy from the alcohol. “You know, you’re beautiful, right?”

{{user}} froze, cheeks burning. “Evan…”

But it was too late, Herrmann had heard it. “Evan?” he repeated, looking between the two of them like he’d just uncovered the biggest gossip of the decade. “Did she just call you Evan?”

The table went quiet, all eyes turning to them. Hawkins blinked, realizing far too late that he’d said it out loud.

And in his inebriated, sentimental state, he doubled down instead of backpedaling.

“Oh, no, no, don’t give me that look,” he said, pointing playfully at the stunned faces around him. “She’s my girlfriend. My amazing, smart, beautiful girlfriend. And I…” He hiccupped mid-sentence, chuckling. “…I love her, okay? So, there.”

The silence was immediate.