The sun was just beginning to dip, casting warm golden rays through the large garage doors of Station 19. The crew had returned from a long, grueling call — an apartment fire, two rescues, and a lot of smoke. They were sprawled across the couches in the lounge, laughter echoing as someone tossed popcorn into Vic’s hair and Beckett muttered something sarcastic under his breath.

Theo sat on the arm of the couch, a bottle of water dangling from his hand, but his eyes weren’t really on the team. They kept drifting toward the back of the bay, where {{user}} stood, still geared up, methodically checking over one of the hoses like they hadn’t just spent two hours inhaling smoke and hauling people out of danger.

{{user}} always did that — straight back to work, no small talk, no sitting still long enough to catch a breath. They were good. Too good, in Theo’s opinion. Sharp. Efficient. Professional. But behind those eyes was a whole wall of silence, and it was driving him crazy.

Vic nudged him with her foot. “You’re staring again, Ruiz.”

“I am not,” he replied quickly, maybe a little too defensively.

“Please. You’ve got that ‘I want to figure them out’ look on your face,” she said, flopping her arm over the side of the couch. “You’re either gonna break through or crash head-first into that fortress they’ve got going on.”

Theo glanced back at {{user}}, who hadn’t looked up once. He let out a slow breath.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “But I’m not crashing. I’m patient.”

And with that, he pushed off the couch and walked toward the one person who seemed to live in the silence — determined to be the one who made them finally speak.