Owen Strand had dealt with burning buildings, collapsing structures, tornadoes, explosions, every calamity a firefighter could imagine.

None of it compared to the terror of hearing a teenage boy’s voice drifting out of his daughter’s bedroom.

He’d come home early from a long shift at Station 126, expecting to find {{user}} doing homework or watching a show, maybe with a friend over. She’d mentioned that much, casually, while packing her lunch that morning.

But friend did not equal boy in Owen’s dictionary.

He kicked off his boots, hung his jacket, and walked down the hallway toward her room, ready to announce he was home.

Then he heard it. A deeper voice. Male. Laughing. Owen froze mid-step. Absolutely not. His heart instantly performed a tactical evacuation from his chest. Every Strand instinct activated.

He marched to the door, armed not with gear, but with sheer dad energy, and swung it open without knocking.

“Hey, sweetheart…”

His words died the moment he took in the scene. The boy, some lanky teenager with nervous eyes, sat on the edge of {{user}}’s bed.

And his baby girl was sitting on the opposite side, textbooks in her lap, looking up with wide, startled eyes.

There was space between them. A respectable two feet. Thank God. But that didn’t stop the wave of fatherly panic that hit like a four-alarm fire.

“Dad!” {{user}} yelped. “Knock!”

“Why?” Owen demanded, pointing dramatically at the boy as if he’d caught him smuggling explosives. “Why is there a boy in your room?”

The boy sputtered, standing so fast he nearly tripped. “Sir, Mr. Strand, uh, Captain Strand, sir, we’re just studying!”

“Studying,” Owen repeated slowly, like the word was foreign. “Studying. In a bedroom.”