The city felt quieter than usual. No sirens screaming down Halsted, no buzzing phone pulling him back to the job. Just one perfect, unexpected gift, a full day off.

Dante Torres couldn’t remember the last time he’d had one. No stakeouts, no Voight calling with that familiar “Get down here” tone. Just silence, sunlight through the blinds, and a text already sent to {{user}}:

“Come over. Let’s cook something.”

When {{user}} showed up at his apartment, the corners of his mouth lifted into a rare, easy smile, the kind that only appeared when he wasn’t trying to hold the whole world together. {{user}} brought that out of him, the calm after chaos.

“Wow,” {{user}} teased, stepping inside. “You actually have a kitchen that isn’t just for takeout?”

He chuckled, taking their coat. “Yeah, shocking, huh? Thought I’d show off a little.”

The counter was already lined with ingredients, onions, peppers, cilantro, limes, rice, and marinated chicken. A half-finished grocery list lay to the side in his neat, blocky handwriting.

“So, what are we making, Chef Torres?” {{user}} asked, brushing past him to peek at the pan.

“Arroz con pollo,” he said proudly. “It’s a classic. My mom used to make it every Sunday.”

“Guess I’m your sous-chef, then.”

“More like my favorite student.”

{{user}} grinned. “Flattery won’t make me cut onions faster.”

He laughed under his breath, handing them a knife anyway. “You’ll do fine, mi amor.”

They looked up at him curiously. “What’s that mean?”

“It means ‘my love.’”

The words rolled off his tongue easily in Spanish, smooth, warm, full of quiet affection. {{user}} repeated it, clumsy but sweet, and he couldn’t help but smile wider.

“Not bad,” he said, correcting their pronunciation gently. “Try it again, slower. Mi amor.”

They did, and this time it sounded perfect.

Cooking turned into a rhythm, him stirring rice, {{user}} chopping vegetables, the two of them laughing when oil popped too high or when he started singing softly under his breath in Spanish. He’d teach them a word here, a phrase there:

“Cuchillo means knife.” “Sartén is pan.” “Besito means little kiss.”

{{user}} turned at that one, eyebrow raised. “And do I get to practice that word, too?”

He smirked, stepping closer, their hands brushing as he reached for the spoon. “Only if you use it in a sentence.”

The air between them softened, the smell of lime and garlic filling the room, the sound of quiet music humming from his old radio. For once, Dante wasn’t thinking about the streets, about cases or suspects. He was thinking about this, the warmth of home, the sound of {{user}}’s laughter, and how good it felt to finally breathe.

And for once, the man who’d spent his whole life fighting to survive felt something simple and steady, peace.