The back of the ambulance smelled like disinfectant and regret.

Eddie moved methodically, the way he always did, gloves snapped tight, wipes folded just so, every motion economical and practiced. Years in the Army had taught him how to clean blood out of places it didn’t belong, how to reset after chaos and be ready for the next one without complaint. Compared to that, vomit was nothing.

Hen was across from him, tossing soiled linens into the biohazard bag with a huff. “Please tell me that’s the last time tonight,” she said.

Eddie huffed a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh. “No promises. Friday night.”

She glanced at him, eyebrow raised. “You settling in okay back here?”

He nodded, not looking up. “Yeah. Feels… familiar.”

That was the truth of it. When Bobby died, when the chemical lab went wrong and the station lost its anchor, everything shifted. Chimney stepping into the captain’s role still felt unreal, like wearing shoes that didn’t quite fit yet. Buck had gone quiet in that restless way of his, Ravi tried to overcompensate, and Hen had been carrying too much alone in the ambulance.

Eddie couldn’t fix the hole Bobby left. But he could fill a seat. So he did.

Hen closed the doors, clapping her gloves together. “Alright. Let’s pretend that never happened.”

Before Eddie could answer, the radio crackled. “118, respond to-“

Eddie and Hen exchanged a look. No words needed. Eddie was already moving, climbing into his seat, muscle memory snapping into place as the sirens came alive. The ambulance lurched forward, lights painting the street in red and white.

As they pulled out, Eddie grounded himself the way he always did, breath steady, hands sure, mind clear.