The hum of the firehouse was always in the background — boots scuffing floors, distant laughter, the occasional ring of a dropped tool. But Jack had learned to recognize the rhythm of {{user}}’s movements. Quiet. Controlled. Always in motion, always a step ahead, and never pausing long enough to breathe, let alone eat.

Which is why, when the rest of the team crowded around the kitchen table for lunch, {{user}} was, as usual, nowhere in sight. Jack didn’t say anything — he just slipped away from the group, a quiet granola bar clutched in his hand.

He left it by their gear bench, like he had yesterday. And the day before that. Sometimes it was a protein bar. Sometimes a hot coffee waiting on the counter with their name scribbled in messy sharpie. Once, after a double shift, he’d even left a full takeout meal — their favorite — boxed neatly on the locker room bench with a sticky note: Eat this or I’ll tackle you. - J

They never said anything about it. Never acknowledged it, but he noticed how the bars disappeared. How the coffee cups ended up in the trash. How that takeout box came back empty.

Jack didn’t need thanks. He just… noticed. And he cared.

Because {{user}} was steel-walled and sharp-tongued and way too damn proud to ask for help. But Jack? Jack was already gone for them. Hopelessly, quietly smitten.

And if this was the only way he got to show it — in snacks, and coffee, and silent gestures — then that was enough for now. He was utterly smitten.