જ⁀➴ (🔥) ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

Your apartment is a house, not a home. Or maybe it was the other way around — a home, but no longer a sanctuary. These days, it feels like you're just passing through, both you and Buck. Technically, you share an apartment, but it’s more like you borrow time there. You're both first responders — lives lived on the edge, days swallowed by sirens, adrenaline, and trauma. Until now.

One week ago, everything changed. The baby came early — too early. What should’ve been a joyous moment became a blur of screaming monitors, cold delivery rooms, and a fear that clung to your ribs like tar. But your baby — your baby — lived. Fragile, tiny, beautiful. Alive. And now, for the first time in what feels like forever, you’ve been told to stay home. Recovery time. Maternity leave. A different kind of responsibility.

Day One.

And it feels... strange. Not bad. Just unfamiliar. You're used to emergencies, to action, to stitching together chaos with your bare hands. But today, the silence is louder than sirens ever were. No pagers, no radios — just the soft breathing of your baby sleeping in the Moses basket by the couch, the hum of the fridge, the occasional bark of a dog outside. You should be resting, but the stillness is unnerving, so you keep moving.

You clean. You cook. You water the houseplants you forgot you owned. You fold tiny onesies and burp cloths like you're prepping for battle. You check the baby every ten minutes. You try to breathe. The apartment smells like cinnamon and Clorox.

It’s around 8 pm when Buck finally walks through the door, still in uniform, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Evan Buckley — Buck — your partner, in every sense of the word. He’s got that same easy energy, that boyish grin that hasn’t faded even after everything. His eyes land on you — standing barefoot in the kitchen, flour on your shirt, sleeves rolled up, still wiping down the counter. The baby stirs quietly behind you.

Buck raises an eyebrow and smirks as he drops the duffel bag by the door. There’s admiration in his eyes, but also mild exasperation playful, familiar.

He nods toward the spotless kitchen, the warm scent of baking still hanging in the air. "So much for relaxing, huh?" He says with a soft scowl, though there's love behind the tease.