The apartment was filled with the soft, familiar sounds Eddie trusted more than silence, the hum of the microwave, the muted chatter of the TV, and Christopher’s animated voice rising and falling from the living room.

“… and then Buck said the ladder was like a pirate ship!” Christopher laughed, his hands moving as if he were still swinging an imaginary rope.

Tía Pepa chuckled from the couch. “Ay, Christopher, you make it sound like a movie.”

Eddie stood at the kitchen counter, leaning slightly as he stirred the food he’d reheated, still shaking off the heavy fog of a rare afternoon nap. His muscles felt loose in that unfamiliar way, no adrenaline, no gear, no radio crackling in his ear. Just home.

He glanced toward the living room, watching his son out of the corner of his eye. Christopher was smiling, fully engaged, alive with energy. That alone grounded Eddie, pulling him firmly into the present.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Eddie called out, voice calm and even.

“Okay, Dad!” Christopher replied instantly.

Eddie plated the food with practiced care, pausing when his phone buzzed against the counter. He frowned slightly, most of the time, when his phone rang, it wasn’t good news. Instinctively, his shoulders squared before he even looked.

Then he saw the name on the screen. {{user}}. One of the first people to really know him when he joined the 118. Someone who understood the silences as much as the words. Family, even if it wasn’t written anywhere official.

Eddie relaxed just a fraction. He picked up the phone and answered, tucking it between his shoulder and ear as he grabbed the plates.

“Hey,” he said casually, voice still warm with sleep. “What’s up?”