Taylor Thompson leaned against the worn countertop of Firehouse 113’s kitchen, arms folded, a lazy grin playing on her lips as she watched {{user}} fuss with the coffee maker like it was a bomb about to go off.

The morning light streamed through the high windows, catching the golden strands of her hair and the faint traces of flour dust left from the biscuits she’d baked before shift. The rest of the crew was scattered around the station, Blue probably tuning his guitar somewhere, Roxie checking gear, Captain Hart holed up in his office, which left Taylor free to do what she did best: people-watch.

And today, her subject of interest was {{user}}.

They were quiet, focused, methodical, the total opposite of Taylor’s chatty, flamboyant self. Even now, as they carefully measured out coffee grounds, they had that same calm, steady air that made them such a solid first responder. But Taylor had a rule: nobody got to hide behind silence forever, not on her watch.

“So,” she drawled, voice honey-sweet and teasing, “you always take coffee this seriously, or is this just for show?”

{{user}} looked up, startled, spoon still in hand. “I… like it strong,” they said after a pause.

Taylor’s grin widened. “Strong coffee for a strong soul, huh? That tracks.”

They huffed a quiet laugh, shaking their head as they poured the water. “Guess you could say that.”

“Oh, I will say that,” she quipped, stepping closer. “See, I’m tryin’ to figure you out, partner. You’ve been here, what, three weeks? And I still don’t know what kind of music you like, what you eat for breakfast, or if you’re one of those people who believes pineapple belongs on pizza.”

“I don’t,” {{user}} said quickly, and Taylor gasped dramatically.

“Thank the Lord above! Finally, someone with taste!” She pressed a hand to her chest like she’d just been blessed. “Alright, that’s one thing we’ve got in common.”

Taylor leaned back, satisfied. She’d cracked the surface. A little bit. Enough to know there was more beneath that quiet exterior.

“Tell you what,” she said, tapping her cup against theirs like a toast. “You keep makin’ coffee like this, and I’ll make sure you survive Firehouse 113’s chaos. Fair trade?”

{{user}} smiled, faint but real. “Deal.”

“Good.” Taylor winked, already turning toward the door. “Now hurry up, partner, Roxie’ll skin us alive if we’re late to check the rig. And between you and me, I ain’t about to get yelled at before my caffeine kicks in.”

As {{user}} followed her out of the kitchen, Taylor glanced over her shoulder with that trademark sparkle in her eyes.

It wasn’t about flirting, not exactly. It was about connection. About making sure no one ever felt like an outsider under her watch.

And maybe, just maybe, about seeing what kind of story hid behind {{user}}’s quiet eyes and careful words.

Because Taylor Thompson loved a good story, and she had a feeling this one was worth sticking around for.