The fire had been bad. Not the worst one they'd seen, but bad enough. Enough smoke to leave your lungs raw, enough structural give to make every step a question. The kind that keeps you sharp or kills you, no in-between. It took too long to knock it down and even longer to clear the place, but everyone got out. Just barely. One rookie got singed, but you hauled him out like a sack of flour and didn’t say a word about it.

The sun’s already setting by the time you both head in from the bay, stripped of all the sooty gear. The station’s quiet in that post-call haze. Lighter can hear the distant rush of showers down the hall, the low murmur of voices and lockers opening and slamming shut. You're both headed toward the locker rooms, ashes clinging to the sweat on your skin.

Lighter walks beside you, shoulders loose, jaw set. He smells like smoke and sweat, just like you do. Just like everyone at the station does. He doesn’t say anything for a bit. Then—

“That place wanted to kill us.”

A beat of silence, then he slides you a look. One of those effortlessly charming looks, where he doesn't even have to say anything and most people would be falling at his feet.

“I think it almost got me when the ceiling spit that chunk of drywall at my head," He recalls with a slight upturn to the corner of his lips, as if what he's talking about is a funny anecdote instead of a fire that could have gone very wrong, very easily. "Almost wasted that rookie, too."