The aroma of fresh coffee mingled with leftover bacon and toast as the crew of Firehouse 51 gathered in the common room. Morning sun filtered through the windows, casting a golden hue on the cluttered table — scattered mugs, a deck of half-played cards, someone’s half-eaten granola bar.

Herrmann was mid-story, animated as ever, gesturing with his coffee cup. “So I’m yelling at this umpire — I mean, full-on dad rage — and Cindy’s in the bleachers like, ‘Christopher, sit down before you embarrass the whole family!’”

Laughter erupted around the table. Mouch nearly choked on his coffee. Gallo leaned forward, already breathless. “I wish I’d seen that. You yellin’ at a little league ump is the best image I’ve had all week.”

Ritter smirked. “Let me guess, your team still lost?”

Herrmann groaned. “That’s not the point!”

Stella Kidd, lounging on the couch with her feet kicked up, chuckled. “I went hiking. Quiet. Peaceful. No yelling at officials. Just trees and me.”

Severide, Stella’s husband, sitting beside her, gave her a sideways glance. “Peaceful? You came home with a sprained ankle.”

She waved him off. “Warrior injury. Still worth it.”

Amid the laughter and banter, {{user}} sat quietly near the window, a warm mug in hand, their expression soft but distant. Not sad — just quiet. Always listening, always present, but rarely the center of conversation.

Brett noticed first. She nudged Violet, who gave a small nod. Across the room, Capp and Tony shared a look. They all knew — {{user}} wasn’t one to jump into the noise. But they were one of them. And in 51, nobody got left on the outside.

“Hey, {{user}},” Stella called gently, her voice easy, familiar. “You do anything fun this weekend? Or were you the only smart one who stayed in and relaxed?”

Heads turned, all eyes now on {{user}}, but not in a pressuring way — just open, warm. Encouraging.

Even Chief Boden, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed and that rare, fond smile, chimed in. “I bet you had the most sensible weekend out of all of us.”