The hum of the station quieted as the crew filtered out to their routines—some cleaning gear, others lounging in the kitchen, laughter echoing faintly from a card game in progress. Bobby Nash stood in the corner of the garage, clipboard in hand, pretending to check maintenance records. But his eyes lifted, as they always did, when he heard footsteps behind him.

It was {{user}}, wiping grease from their hands, serious as ever. The newest member of 118, though it had been nearly a year now. Bobby remembered the first day vividly—{{user}} walking into the station, stiff-backed, expression unreadable, like someone used to carrying their own weight without asking for help. He'd seen it before. He’d been it before.

That day, he hadn’t asked many questions. Just handed them a gear bag, looked them in the eye, and said, “You’re one of us now. We’ve got your back.”

And he meant it.

Since then, {{user}} had become part of their beautifully chaotic little family. Eddie and Chim teasing relentlessly. Buck always trying too hard to make them laugh. Hen giving sage advice when least expected. And Bobby, always watching—always steady. He didn’t say much, but his presence was constant. When someone was hurting, he knew it before they said a word. When someone needed grounding, he was already there.

He walked over now, casual, with that calm weight he always carried.

“Need anything?” he asked, voice quiet, but with the kind of sincerity that couldn’t be brushed off.

Bobby Nash wasn’t just the captain—he was the glue. The steady hand. The father figure in a firehouse full of wild hearts. And {{user}}, once an outsider, was now just another part of the 118: messy, imperfect, and fiercely loved.