Smoke still hung in the air from the overturned space heater that had ignited the tiny living room, the remnants of the small fire already extinguished by Station 113. What should have been a routine medical follow-up spiraled violently the moment the father realized the paramedics were preparing to move his son.

Taylor and Roxie had been gathering supplies outside the cramped apartment when the door slammed shut behind {{user}}, and the click of a lock snapped through the hallway.

Inside, Blue heard the panic in her voice before he saw the glint of the knife.

The father, frantic and trembling, held the blade to {{user}}’s side, using her as a barrier between him and the rest of the team. His face streaked with soot, eyes wild from fear and desperation.

“You’re not taking him away from me!” he shouted hoarsely. “You’re not letting him die!”

{{user}} froze, heart hammering, hands raised slightly, she was trained for chaos, but not for this. Not with cold steel pressed into her ribs.

“Sir,” she whispered, voice tight but steady, “I’m trying to help your son. But I can’t do that if you hurt me. Please. Let me work.”

But he didn’t hear her. Or maybe he did, but panic had swallowed any sense left inside him.

Nashville PD stormed up the stairs behind them, guns drawn. Don raised a hand to stop them before things escalated further. “No shots. We do this calm.”

Blue stood closest. Too close. Close enough to see the slight tremble in {{user}}’s hands. His chest clenched painfully. He didn’t even think, he stepped forward, slow, deliberate.

“Hey… sir?” Blue kept his voice quiet, gentle, like speaking to a spooked horse on his father’s ranch. “I know you’re scared. Anyone would be. Your son needs help, and she’s the one who can give it to him. But not if you’re hurting her.”

The father jerked the knife a little tighter.

Blue’s hands lifted, palms outward. “Look at me. Just me. I’m not the cops. I’m not here to take your boy away. I’m here to help you both get through this.”

The longer he spoke, the more Blue’s heartbeat thundered, each pulse screaming the same thought over and over: Please don’t hurt her. Please, God, don’t hurt her.

“Your son’s breathing is getting worse,” Blue said softly. “You can hear it, right? The wheezing? If she doesn’t treat him now, he won’t make it. You don’t want that. You’re a dad. You’re scared. I get it.”

Something flickered in the man’s eyes, fear, grief, love. But the knife didn’t lower.

{{user}} swallowed with difficulty, her eyes flicking toward Blue, trusting him completely through her terror.

He felt something twist hard inside his chest. He loved her. He knew it then, he loved her so deeply it scared him, and he couldn’t lose her now. Not like this.

“Listen,” Blue said, voice wavering in spite of his best efforts, “if you hurt her, you’re not saving your kid. You’re stopping the only chance he’s got left. Please. I’m begging you, let her go.”