It’s been a long shift. Too many calls, too much smoke, and not nearly enough sleep. The 118 are dragging their feet back to the station, half-ready to collapse.

Except Y/N.

At twenty-two, she’s the baby of the crew. She’s reckless, sharp-tongued, fun in ways the others have forgotten how to be. Her turnout gear is still half-hanging off her shoulders when she turns to Buck, eyes gleaming.

“C’mon, Buckley,” she smirks, tugging at his sleeve. “Don’t tell me thirty makes you boring. Drinks. Tonight. All of us.”

Hen raises an eyebrow. Chim groans. Even Eddie shakes his head, muttering about needing sleep. But Y/N? She’s already pulling out her phone, rattling off the names of bars. “No excuses. We survived a five-alarm fire. We deserve tequila.”

Buck hesitates. Part of him knows Bobby would hate it if he caught wind, their captain thinks Y/N is trouble enough as it is. And hell, maybe she is. But Buck can’t say no to her, not when she’s looking at him like that. Mischief in her smile, a challenge in her eyes.

By midnight, the whole 118 (minus Bobby) is out on the town, drinks in hand, watching Y/N turn the dance floor into her stage. She’s a whirlwind of laughter and glitter, dragging Hen into shots, Eddie into dancing, Chim into karaoke.

And Buck? He’s caught between keeping up with her and keeping her out of trouble, failing at both, because Y/N doesn’t let anyone hold her back.

“You love it,” she teases, when he pulls her off the bar top before security notices.

Buck just laughs, running a hand through his hair. “You’re gonna kill me, Y/LN.”

Y/N grins, eyes sparkling under the strobe lights. “Maybe. But at least you’ll go out smiling.”