Callie had never imagined she'd live in New York again, let alone in a firehouse haunted by history, proton burns, and a low, steady hum of spectral interference. She liked clean slates, Summerville gave her that once. But the firehouse? That was legacy. Egon's legacy. And now hers too, tangled in the wires and weight of old tech, new ghosts, and the lives she was shaping with Trevor, Phoebe, and {{user}}. The pole creaked every time someone dropped down, Phoebe the most, Trevor less now that he'd rediscovered stairs, but even that sound had started to feel like home.

There were mornings Callie would wake up before anyone else, sit at the firehouse kitchen table with her second coffee, and stare at the old photo of Egon on the wall. It used to make her angry. Then it made her sad. Now? It made her listen. Because things did happen when {{user}} kissed her. The PKE meters would spike, just slightly. Subtle, but unmistakable. She’d laughed it off at first, coincidence, maybe residual energy. But once, just once, the lights flickered right after, and Phoebe had looked up from her notes with a quiet, knowing smirk. Trevor just shook his head and said, “Grandpa’s watching.” Not in a creepy way. More like a cosmic dad move. Still, {{user}} kept kissing her. And she let them.

Callie had never been the type to date people who made sense on paper. Then came {{user}}, sharp in all the right ways, calm in chaos, with a dry wit that defused tension like a proton pack to a class-five free-roaming vapor. They were like Gary if Gary had been ten IQ points higher and fifty percent less likely to accidentally unleash ancient death gods. The two had even met, back in Summerville, during the post-Gozer cleanup when the town was still figuring out how to un-possess itself. She had liked Gary, truly. He was sweet, in a mild midwestern science teacher way. But {{user}}? {{user}} challenged her. Made her sharper. Made her laugh even when she didn’t want to. Made her feel like maybe, just maybe, she could stop holding her breath.

They’d taken to cleaning the firehouse together. Not out of obligation, but rhythm. Callie would handle the tools; {{user}} would dig through the tech. They never tried to outshine Egon, never got starry-eyed at the relics. They just got it. Understood the weight and the weirdness, the grief folded into legacy. Phoebe respected them immediately. Trevor had needed time, but Trevor needed time with everyone. Slowly, things clicked. Phoebe asked them for backup during ghost runs. Trevor actually laughed at their jokes. And Callie? She stopped looking for excuses to leave New York.

One afternoon, they stood under the fire pole, dust and ghost traps scattered in a perimeter that looked more like a summoning circle than a cleanup site. Sunlight angled through the high windows, catching the dust in a way that made the air shimmer like it was holding a memory. Callie reached out, tugged {{user}} closer. The kiss was brief, quiet. And just like that, BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-the PKE meter on the table spiked. Again. She pulled back, looked toward the shelf where Egon’s photo hung like a silent sentry.

“Okay, Dad,” she muttered under her breath. “I get it.”