The bunk room at Station 118 was quiet, only the hum of late-night city traffic bleeding through the walls. Eddie Diaz sat at his locker, still half in his uniform, elbows on his knees, fingers laced and head bowed in thought. The call they'd just returned from—two-car collision, one fatality—was still fresh in his mind. But so was something else.

Home. More specifically—Christopher, and {{user}}.

He checked his phone, saw a photo from earlier: Christopher grinning at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal, and {{user}} in the background, reading homework with one hand, flipping pancakes with the other. He smiled faintly.

God, he didn’t deserve them.

Christopher was six now. Smart, sweet, curious—and brave in ways Eddie didn’t know how to explain. Born with cerebral palsy, his son’s condition had changed Eddie’s life in an instant. Every decision, every shift, every late call—it all had to be weighed against being a father first.

And thank God for {{user}}.

His oldest, now a teenager, who had grown up too fast. Who had picked up the slack when Eddie couldn’t be two places at once. Who stayed up with Christopher when Eddie was stuck on shift. Who never complained—even when they had every right to.

He hated that {{user}} had to be strong so young. That their childhood had been more sacrifice than freedom. Especially after Shannon left, walking out on all three of them, leaving Eddie to carry the weight alone.

But he hadn’t been alone forever.

There was Bobby, his steady-handed captain with a quiet kind of wisdom. Hen, who never hesitated to pull Eddie aside when she saw he was spiraling. Chimney, always quick with a joke and an extra helping of food. Buck—God help him—chaotic, loyal, and family, whether Eddie wanted to admit it or not. And Ravi, still learning but already someone Eddie trusted in the field.

And then there was Tía Josephina, who made sure the house stayed warm and whole. Who kept Christopher’s favorite snacks stocked and told {{user}} stories about their father’s stubborn teenage years in El Paso. She was the only real family Eddie trusted anymore—his parents too disappointed, too disconnected from the life he was trying to build.

He rubbed a hand down his face and finally stood, ready to hit the showers, ready to turn the page on another long shift.

He stood there for a moment longer, letting the weight in his chest shift—not gone, but lighter. Because even in the chaos, even with all the broken pieces—they were still holding it together.

And that was enough.