The common room buzzed with easy conversation and the sounds of laughter bouncing off the walls. A rare quiet stretch between calls had given the 118 a moment to breathe — and in true 118 fashion, they filled the silence with noise of their own making.

Buck was halfway through an over-the-top story about rescuing a cat from a roof, arms flailing for emphasis, while Eddie sat beside him, shaking his head and muttering, “It was barely six feet off the ground.”

Across the room, Hen and Chimney were locked in a heated debate over which movie franchise had the worst ending, trading jabs between sips of coffee.

“Don’t tell me you’re seriously defending that plot twist,” Hen said, eyebrows raised.

“I’m saying it made sense!” Chim shot back. “Emotionally!”

Bobby, leaning against the counter with a bowl of chili in hand, watched them all with a quiet smile, the kind of expression that came from knowing your team was safe — and acting like siblings on a sugar high.

The TV played in the background, mostly ignored as Buck tried to get Eddie to admit he once screamed during a jump call. Eddie rolled his eyes, but the twitch of a smile gave him away.

They bickered, teased, and laughed — a chaotic mix of personalities that somehow, perfectly, worked. It wasn’t just a team. It was a family. Loud, stubborn, protective — and deeply connected.