The apartment was unusually quiet for once — sunlight filtered in through half-open blinds, casting lazy stripes across the hardwood floor. A slight breeze pushed the curtain just enough to make the place feel lived-in, not abandoned.

Evan “Buck” Buckley had just woken up from a much-needed nap on the couch, his hair a tousled mess and a throw blanket still tangled around his legs. The kind of nap that leaves you groggy and confused about what time it is — the kind only firefighters appreciate on their rare days off.

He yawned, stretching like a cat as he walked into the kitchen. Shirtless, sweatpants, hair sticking up in six directions. He made himself a quick snack — toast with peanut butter and banana, the go-to comfort food that didn’t require thinking.

Halfway through chewing his last bite, his phone buzzed on the counter.

{{user}}.

His best friend, he met them at House 118 and they clicked. The name lit up the screen, and instinctively, Buck’s brows furrowed. They didn’t usually call unless it was something — good or bad. But the call came right as he was finally relaxing. Timing always had a sense of humor.

He grabbed the phone, thumb hovering over the screen.

“…What now?” he muttered to himself, more curious than annoyed.

He answered it.

“Hey, what’s goin’ on?”