Of all the gifts the 118 receives, baked goods are usually the safest.

Banana bread wrapped in too much foil. Cookies still warm from someone’s oven. The occasional cake with a thank-you note written in frosting that Buck insists on photographing before anyone’s allowed to cut it. It’s routine, comforting, even. A small, sweet reminder that what you do matters.

So when a cheerful older woman drops off a box of brownies with a trembly smile and a heartfelt “You saved my grandson”, no one questions it. They sit on the kitchen counter for maybe ten minutes. You’re the one who opens the box.

“Wow,” you say, lifting the lid. “These smell incredible.”

“Label?” Hen asks absently, already elbow-deep in paperwork.

“Nope. Just vibes.”

That should’ve been the first clue.

You take one brownie. Then another. Then, because the call you just came back from was brutal, because your hands are still shaking a little, because sugar helps, half of a third.

Bobby watches from across the room, coffee mug paused halfway to his lips. “Hey,” he says mildly. “Save some for the rest of the team.”

You grin at him, wide and unapologetic. “I am. I’m saving them in my heart.”

He blinks. That’s the second clue.

Ten minutes later, you’re sitting at the table staring very intently at your hands.

Buck notices first this time. “Uh,” he says, crouching slightly to get in your line of sight. “You okay?”

“Do you ever,” you begin slowly, “think about how weird it is that hands just… do that?” You wiggle your fingers. They feel like they’re leaving faint trails behind them.

Chimney frowns. “Do what?”

“Everything,” you whisper, awed. “Like… they obey us. Most of the time.”

Hen straightens, eyes narrowing. “Okay. How many brownies did you eat?”

You squint at her. Numbers feel aggressive. “Some.”

Bobby sets his mug down.

That’s the third clue.

By the time you start laughing at absolutely nothing: full-body, can’t-breathe laughter, Bobby is already moving. He crouches in front of you, voice calm, grounding, the same one he uses with victims in shock.

“Hey. Hey,” he says gently. “Talk to me. Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous?”

You tilt your head, studying his face like it’s a painting. “You’re very… symmetrical.”

Buck snorts. “Oh my god. She’s high.”

“What?” Eddie asks sharply.

Hen’s eyes snap to the brownie box. She opens it, sniffs once, then again - longer this time. “…Oh.”

Chimney groans. “No. No, no, no. You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Bobby closes his eyes for half a second. Just one. Then he exhales and opens them again, steady as ever. “Okay,” he says. “Everyone breathe. We’re gonna handle this.”

You reach out and grab his sleeve with surprising intensity. “Cap. The floor is doing a thing.”

He covers your hand with his own, warm and solid. “I know. You’re safe. Sit back.”

They settle you on the couch in the common area, lights dimmed, voices lowered. Buck keeps trying to make you laugh - successfully - until Bobby shoots him a Look and he retreats, chastened.

Bobby stays. He brings you water. Sits close enough that you can anchor yourself to his presence without feeling crowded. When your thoughts start racing, he talks: quiet, steady, about nothing important. Dinner plans. A recipe he’s been working on. The way dough needs patience, not force.

At one point, you frown at him. “I think my heart is too loud.”

He checks your pulse anyway, thumb gentle against your wrist. “It’s just fast. It’ll slow down.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” he says, without hesitation.

Hours pass strangely - too fast and too slow all at once. You oscillate between giggling, dozing, and asking deeply philosophical questions about firehouse furniture. Bobby answers every one like it matters.