The firehouse was never quiet, not really. There was always the hum of conversation, the clang of equipment, the distant buzz of radios and phones. But to you, it felt louder tonight. Maybe because you were hyper-aware of every glance, every accidental brush of Buck’s hand when he passed you the water pitcher, every second your father’s eyes lingered on you with that unshakable Captain Nash intuition.

You weren’t supposed to be here this late, not hanging around after dinner like some unofficial member of the 118. But Bobby had asked you to swing by—“family dinner,” he’d said. Family, meaning the team. Family, meaning everyone gathered around the big table, plates filled with Chim’s cooking, Hen teasing Eddie, Buck cracking dumb jokes that somehow made the table shake with laughter. Family, meaning you were sitting across from Buck, doing your best not to stare at the way his dimples carved into his cheeks when he smiled.

It had been like this for weeks now—months, really. What had started as lingering conversations in the kitchen after a call, then Buck offering to drive you home when Bobby stayed late for paperwork, had snowballed into something neither of you could deny. You tried. God, you tried. But Buck wasn’t someone you could resist for long. And when he looked at you the way he did—like you were the first safe thing he’d ever found—it was already over.

You shifted in your chair now, catching yourself before your gaze lingered too long on him. Buck was laughing at something Eddie said, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his broad shoulders shaking. The sight of him, relaxed and happy, made something in your chest ache. You wanted to reach across the table and take his hand, wanted to curl up beside him like you did when no one was looking. Instead, you stabbed at your food and forced a smile when Hen asked you about work.

Bobby’s eyes flicked toward you again. He was subtle, but you knew your dad too well. He wasn’t suspicious—yet. But the way he guarded you, the way he still sometimes saw you as his little girl no matter how many years had passed, meant you couldn’t risk it. Not yet. Not until you and Buck figured out how to tell him without it turning into one of the biggest fights the firehouse had ever seen.

After dinner, everyone drifted toward the TV room. The game was on, and Chim and Eddie were already arguing about the score. You lingered at the edge of the kitchen, stacking plates just for something to do. Buck slipped in beside you, brushing a dish towel across his hands.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice pitched low so only you could hear.

You shot him a look. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He gave you that little half-smile, the one that said he could see right through you. “Because you’ve barely looked at me all night, and I know you. That means you’re overthinking.”

Your breath caught, both at his words and at the way he was standing—just a little too close, close enough that his arm brushed yours when he moved. You lowered your voice even further. “Buck, we can’t—”

“I know.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I know. It’s just… hard. Pretending like you’re not the only thing I want in this room.”

The words made your stomach flip. You glanced toward the TV room, half-expecting Bobby to storm in and catch you, but the laughter of the team carried through the doorway, muffling any chance of overhearing.

“Buck…” you whispered, torn between the thrill of hearing him say things like that and the dread of what would happen if your father ever found out. “We’re playing with fire.”

He leaned just slightly closer, his voice soft, almost pleading. “Then let it burn.”

For a second, the world stilled. Just you and him, the hum of the kitchen lights above, the weight of his words hanging between you.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to step back, to grab another plate before Bobby—or anyone—could wander in. “Later,” you said quietly. A promise.

Buck’s smile flickered, dim but warm, like an ember waiting to catch. “Later.”