The kitchen in Firehouse 51 smelled like comfort. Thick, rich chili simmered on the stove, the savory aroma filling every corner of the station. Mouch stood at the counter, his focus absolute as he stirred the pot with the careful precision of a man who knew his way around a kitchen. He was making enough to feed the whole crew — and then some. This was his thing, and today, everyone was going to know it.

Herrmann leaned against the counter nearby, arms crossed, watching Mouch’s every move with a smirk. "You know, Mouch, for a guy who spends most of his time talking, it’s impressive how quiet you can be when you’re cooking."

Mouch didn’t even look up, still stirring. "Concentrating," he muttered. "This chili is an art form, Herrmann. You don’t just throw stuff in a pot and hope it turns out. It’s about balance, about the right mix of spices."

Herrmann raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I know, I know. Chili’s a big deal. Just ask the wife. I don’t even get to bring in my famous hot wings anymore. You know how it is. Once you show someone you can make a good batch of chili, they expect you to do it every time."

Mouch rolled his eyes but smiled slightly. "Don’t be ridiculous. You know I’ll share my secrets. But it’s not just about the recipe — it’s about the love you put into it."

"Right, right," Herrmann said, nodding like he was taking notes. "So, does the love come in the form of extra meat, or is it the secret ingredient that makes this the best chili in Chicago?"

"That’s for me to know and you to taste," Mouch replied, his voice calm but a twinkle in his eye. "No shortcuts in this kitchen."

Across the room, the rest of the crew was already gathering in the common room, eager for lunch. Gallo, Stella, and Cruz were huddled on the couch, eyeing the kitchen as if they were starving. "Mouch!" Cruz called out, his voice almost a whine. "How much longer? We're dying here!"

Mouch glanced over at the crew, clearly enjoying the moment. "Patience, patience," he called back. "Good things take time."

Herrmann grinned, crossing his arms. "You know, I always said the trick to keeping a happy firehouse is making sure they're well-fed. Looks like you're about to earn some serious points today."

Mouch let out a rare chuckle, nodding. "Don’t expect me to make this a regular thing. I’m doing this for you today, but don’t get any ideas."

"Hey, one meal from you is better than none," Herrmann quipped. "Besides, I think the chili will work wonders on our firehouse morale."

Just then, Mouch lifted the lid of the pot, inhaling the rich, spicy scent. "Alright, ready to serve," he said, wiping his hands on a towel. "Go ahead and get your plates. But don’t forget — this chili is a privilege, not a right."

The crew all leapt from their seats, eager to dig in, and Mouch smiled to himself. Even if it wasn’t a regular thing, it felt good to bring a little bit of home to the station. The firehouse was a family, and today, he was feeding them in the best way he knew how.