It was a Friday night at Molly’s, the end of another grueling week for Firehouse 51. The place was alive, music low but steady, laughter echoing through the bar, glasses clinking as firefighters, paramedics, and their friends unwound.

Blake Gallo sat at the bar, a few stools down from Ritter and Violet. His cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy, and his grin lazy in that way only a couple beers too many could make it.

“You sure you don’t want me to drive you home, man?” Ritter asked, finishing his soda and glancing over with concern.

Gallo waved a dismissive hand, nearly knocking over his empty bottle in the process. “Nah, nah, I’m good. ‘M fine. Promise. Legs still work, see?” He slid off the stool to prove his point and nearly stumbled, catching himself on the counter. “See? Totally fine.”

Violet gave him a look that screamed you’re absolutely not fine. “Blake, seriously, let him drive you. You’re gonna end up walking into a lamppost.”

But Gallo’s brain, hazy and buzzing with warmth and nostalgia, was set on autopilot. The world was soft around the edges, and one thought kept pushing to the surface through the fuzz of alcohol, {{user}}.

Her name. Her face. Her laugh. That was where he wanted to be. The cold Chicago night hit him like a wall, but even that didn’t sober him up. His jacket was unzipped, hair messy from running his hands through it, and his eyes blinked too slowly as he walked, half-determined, half-drifting, down the dimly lit street.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, probably Ritter checking in, but he ignored it. His feet knew where they were going before his mind did. A left here, a right there, blocks blurred together until he was standing outside {{user}}’s apartment building.

He squinted at the keypad like it was a puzzle he had to solve for entry into heaven. After a few failed attempts, he managed to punch in the right code. The lock clicked. Victory.

Inside, it was quiet. The faint scent of {{user}}’s candles and laundry detergent hit him instantly, comforting, familiar, home.

“{{user}}?” he called out softly, his voice carrying a lazy slur. “Hey, baby… you awake?”

There was no answer, but the lights from the living room flickered faintly from the TV left on, and that was all the invitation he needed. He kicked off his shoes clumsily, one landing sideways by the couch, and shrugged off his jacket, missing the coat rack completely.

When {{user}} appeared in the doorway, bleary-eyed and wearing a loose T-shirt, Gallo looked up at her with the biggest, dopiest grin imaginable.

“There she is…” he said dreamily, voice thick with emotion. “My favorite person.”