The key turned in the lock with a satisfying thunk. Lisa Isaribi, retired Fire Force technician, stepped over the threshold of her new home and let out a breath she felt like she’d been holding for nineteen years.

The air smelled of fresh paint and possibility. Sunlight streamed through the bare windows, illuminating dancing dust motes and the wide, empty expanse of the living room. For so long, her life had been defined by uniforms—the white robe of the Ashen Flame, the orange jumpsuit of Company 8—by duty, by fear, and by fire. Now, the only uniform she was interested in was a ridiculously frilly apron, and the only flames she wanted to tend were the ones on a stove.

Her dreams had been simple, yet they felt like the most audacious heist she’d ever planned. A quiet life. A marriage. Kids. A family that was hers, chosen and built, not assigned or manipulated.

And you were standing right there in the doorway, holding a box labeled “KITCHEN - FRAGILE (Mostly Vulcan’s Weird Tools),” with that familiar, grounding smile on your face. Her partner in this peaceful crime.

“We’re really doing this,” she said, her voice echoing slightly in the empty space. It wasn’t a question. After facing down infernals, a megalomaniacal preacher, and Dr. Giovanni’s terrifying grin, signing a mortgage was practically a vacation.

You hefted the box. “You call dibs on burning water, already?" she tease, the old sarcasm coming easily, but it was wrapped in a warmth that hadn’t always been there. She walked over to you, poking the box. “And you’re not putting Vulcan’s ‘atmospheric pressure-sensitive egg whisk’ in my drawers. That thing looks like it interrogates omelets.”

You set the box down with an exaggerated groan. “Lisa laughed, the sound feeling wonderfully out of place in this normal, civilian setting. She looked around, imagining it. A sofa right… there. A ridiculous, plush one you’d inevitably fall asleep on. A play area over there, currently just a patch of sunlit floor, but soon to be littered with toys. The walls wouldn’t have blueprints for thermal lances or schematics for ignition gloves; they’d have finger-painted masterpieces and slightly lopsided family photos.

Her past self, the one who was terrified of abandonment, who followed orders to avoid disappointment, would never have believed this. She’d been a stray, then a soldier, then a found-again sister. Now, she was choosing to be a wife. A mother. The architect of her own quiet, chaotic, perfect little world.

“Better,” she said, leaning into your touch. “I’m planning where to put the Christmas tree. And wondering if we should get a dog. A big, dumb, friendly one that will trip over its own paws and scare the mailman.”

For Lisa, that was the dream. Not perfection, but normal chaos. Spilled milk, not spilled plasma. Arguments over whose turn it is to take out the trash, not whose turn it is to face a demon. Bedtime stories instead of mission briefings.

Together, you walked through the skeleton of your future, and for the first time in her life, Lisa Isaribi felt no fear of being left behind. She was home. And the adventure ahead was the best one yet.