The firehouse was unusually quiet.

Too quiet.

You sat at the metal table, legs stretched out, sipping bad coffee that had been reheated one too many times. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, each second dragging after the chaos of the earlier calls. Sirens, smoke, adrenaline—now just stillness.

Ian was across from you, elbows on the table, jaw tense. His turnout jacket was tossed over a chair, hair still damp from sweat. He hadn’t said much since the last call.

“You okay?” you asked finally.

He shrugged. “Yeah. Just tired.”

You didn’t buy it.

Hours passed with nothing but the hum of the building and the occasional crackle of the radio. You both ended up sitting on the floor near the lockers, backs against the cold metal, knees almost touching.

Ian exhaled slowly. “You ever feel like… if you stop moving, everything you’re holding back just crashes into you?”

You turned your head to look at him. “All the time.”

He let out a dry laugh. “Figures.”

Silence again. Not uncomfortable—just heavy.

“I don’t talk about this stuff,” he said suddenly. “Not really.”

“You don’t have to,” you replied. “But you can.”

Ian stared at the floor, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve. “I spend so much time trying to keep it together. Be the reliable one. The strong one.” His voice dropped. “Sometimes I’m scared that if I let someone see the messy parts, they’ll leave.”