Firehouse 51 had always been home, but stepping inside after so long felt like stepping into a memory. The voices, the laughter, the smell of coffee burned just enough to be familiar—it all wrapped around Matt like a ghost of the life he left behind.

He stood in the lounge, hands in his pockets, nodding along as Herrmann cracked a joke, as Kidd fired back with something sharp, as Severide gave him one of those unreadable looks. It was easy to pretend, for just a second, that nothing had changed.

And then you walked in.

The room went silent.

Matt’s breath caught, and for a moment, he forgot how to move. You stopped mid-step, shoulders squared, the way you always stood when you braced for impact.

He hadn’t told you he was coming. He should have. But the moment had come too fast—the conference, the flight, the steps that led him back here. He’d told himself it was just work, just a few days. Nothing more. But looking at you now, he knew better.

Your face was unreadable at first, but he caught the flicker beneath it. Not just shock. Not just confusion. It wasn’t anger, either—at least, not entirely. It was something heavier. Something that settled like a weight in his chest.

You took a breath, your fingers curling into a fist before relaxing again. He knew that habit. Knew the way you held back when there was too much to say.

And yet, you didn’t look away.

Neither did he.

The others didn’t speak, but their presence filled the air—watching, waiting, knowing. Because everyone knew.

Some things never really fade.