Christopher Herrmann had faced burning buildings, collapsing roofs, and more close calls than he cared to count, but none of that compared to what he was feeling right now. Because {{user}} was on the floor.

Not at home. Not helping with homework or making dinner. Here. At Firehouse 51. In turnout gear.

He tried to play it cool. He really did. But from the second {{user}} walked in wearing that uniform, something in his chest hadn’t settled since. Pride, sure. A whole lot of it. But tangled up with it was something sharper. Heavier. Worry.

“Herrmann, you good?” Mouch called from across the room.

Christopher grunted, waving it off. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”

He wasn’t. Not when every instinct he had as a father was screaming at him to keep an eye on them. Which he did. Constantly.

On calls, it was worse. He gave orders like always, voice steady, mind focused, but his eyes kept tracking {{user}}. Making sure they were clear of danger. Making sure they moved right, stayed aware, didn’t take unnecessary risks.

Not that they ever did. That was the thing. {{user}} was good. Too good. Quiet, efficient, just like at home. They listened, learned fast, didn’t get in the way, but didn’t hesitate either. They moved like they belonged there, like they’d been doing it for years instead of just starting out.

Christopher didn’t know whether that made him feel better or worse. Right now, though, things were calm.

The common room buzzed with low conversation, the usual in-between lull. Christopher stood by the coffee maker, pretending to focus on pouring a cup when his attention drifted, again.

To {{user}}. They were sitting at the table, a textbook open in front of them, flipping through pages with quiet concentration. The same way they used to do homework at the kitchen table. The same stillness. The same focus.

For a second, Christopher didn’t see a firefighter. He saw his kid. His quiet one. The one who never made a fuss, never asked for much, never gave him a reason to worry, until now, when they’d chosen a job that gave him every reason in the world to.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his face before walking over. He stopped by the table, glancing down at the book. “You studyin’ or just makin’ it look good?” he asked, voice gruff but lighter than usual.