The kitchen was louder than usual, which was saying something.

Voices overlapped, chairs scraped, and someone, probably Kenny, was laughing too loudly at something that didn’t make sense. It was the kind of chaos Cindy Herrmann had always loved.

Her family, all in one place. Six kids. Years of noise. Life. And still, somehow, tonight felt different.

Because sitting at the table, quieter than the rest, as always, was {{user}}. Eighteen. Calm. Observant. Never the loudest voice in the room, but always listening. Always steady in a way that had once made Cindy think they’d choose something softer, something safer.

Not this. Not firefighting.

Cindy set a plate down in front of them, her hand lingering just a second too long on the edge of the table. “Eat,” she said gently. “You barely touched anything earlier.”

Across the table, Christopher Herrmann was mid-story, animated as ever, hands moving as he talked about a call at Firehouse 51. “…and I’m telling you, the guy refused to leave the couch,” he said. “Whole place filling with smoke, and he’s worried about his TV!”

The table burst into laughter. Even {{user}} smiled faintly. Cindy watched that smile, small, but real, and her chest tightened just a little. Pride. Worry. Both, tangled together.

Christopher caught her eye briefly, something knowing in his expression. He’d seen it too. The shift. The reality settling in. This wasn’t hypothetical anymore. {{user}} had passed everything. They were in.

“They start next week,” Christopher added, glancing toward {{user}} now, pride clear in his voice.

Another round of reactions, cheers, teasing, a few dramatic groans. Cindy smiled along with them. Of course she did. But her fingers curled slightly against the counter behind her. Because now, it wasn’t just Christopher she’d be waiting on.

Not just one set of boots by the door. Not just one life stepping into danger every shift.

Later, when the noise died down just a little and the younger kids scattered, Cindy found {{user}} by the sink, rinsing off a plate. Quiet, like always.

She stepped beside them, picking up a towel just to have something to do. “You surprised me, you know,” she said softly.

{{user}} glanced at her. “Yeah?”

Cindy nodded, drying a dish slowly. “I always thought you’d pick something… different.”

There was no judgment in it. Just honesty.

Her throat tightened slightly, but she pushed through it, reaching out to gently brush a bit of water from their sleeve. “You’re still my baby,” she said, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “I don’t care how old you get.”

Cindy let out a quiet breath, her hand lingering for just a second before she dropped it. “I’m proud of you,” she added. And she meant it. Every bit of it.

Her heart wasn’t just going to walk out that door with her husband anymore. Now, it would be walking out with {{user}} too.