The city looked different at night. Quieter. Sharper. Like every streetlight was holding its breath.

You sat in the back of the ambulance, legs pulled up on the bench seat, the hum of the engine filling the space between calls. Ian Gallagher stood near the open doors, adjusting his gloves, red hair catching the glow of passing lights.

“You good?” he asked, glancing back at you.

You nodded. “Just tired.”

He smiled faintly. “Yeah. That never really goes away.”

Late-night shifts were strange like that. Long stretches of nothing, then chaos in an instant. You learned each other in those in-between moments—shared coffee that tasted burnt no matter where it came from, inside jokes whispered over radio static, the unspoken trust that came from having someone’s back when everything went wrong.

One night, after a rough call, you sat silently on the curb while Ian handed you a bottle of water. Your hands were still shaking.

“You did good,” he said quietly.

“I don’t feel like it.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he replied. “You still did.”

The words stayed with you longer than they should have.

Over time, it became routine—Ian waiting for you after shifts, walking you home when it was too late to be safe alone, sitting beside you on the ambulance steps while the city slept.

“You ever think about quitting?” you asked him once.

“All the time,” he admitted. Then he glanced at you. “But nights like this? They make it easier.”