The 118’s day had finally slowed down. No alarms blaring, no dispatch crackling through the radios, just the soft hum of the firehouse settling into its rare moments of peace. Chimney stood by the coffee maker, mug in hand, watching as the rest of the crew scattered into their usual off-duty rhythms.

Hen was filling out reports at the table. Buck was tinkering with a broken cabinet door. Eddie was on the phone with Christopher, his face soft with a rare, easy smile. And {{user}}, the quietest member of the team, sat alone on one of the couches, quietly nursing a cup of tea, eyes on the cup rather than the TV.

That was what caught Chimney’s attention.

It wasn’t that {{user}} was sad or withdrawn, they just… blended. They did their job well, no question there, but when the team cracked jokes or started one of their chaotic story circles, {{user}} tended to fade into the background.

And that didn’t sit right with Chimney. He’d seen enough in his years at the 118 to know how easy it was to feel like you didn’t quite belong. He didn’t want that for anyone, especially not one of his people.

So he set his coffee down and crossed the room, clapping his hands together like a man on a mission.

“Alright,” he said, stopping in front of {{user}} with a grin. “You, me, kitchen, right now.”

{{user}} blinked, startled. “What? Why?”

“Because,” Chimney said, lowering his voice in mock seriousness, “Hen banned me from the coffee pot after I used it to reheat soup last week, and I need a partner in crime. Come on.”

{{user}} hesitated but stood, curiosity outweighing protest. “You… reheated soup in the coffee pot?”

“Look,” Chimney said as they walked toward the counter, “when you’re on your third double shift, innovation becomes survival.”

That earned him a small, genuine laugh, and that was exactly what he’d been aiming for.

He handed {{user}} a mug. “Cream or sugar?”

“Just black,” they said softly.

“See, that’s how I know you’re secretly a badass,” he said. “People who drink black coffee either have their life together or are one emotional breakdown away from chaos. No in-between.”

{{user}} smiled over the rim of their mug. “Which one are you?”

“Oh, I’ve got two kids under five,” he said without missing a beat. “Chaos is my middle name.”