The station was quieter than usual that evening, the kind of quiet that only came between calls, when the scent of smoke still lingered faintly on uniforms and the hum of the city outside felt distant. Firehouse 113 had just finished cleaning the rigs after a long day, the red trucks gleaming under the dim lights.

Blue Bennings sat on the back bumper of Engine 113, his hands clasped loosely, his gaze fixed on the concrete floor. The noise of the station, muffled laughter from the kitchen, the clinking of mugs, felt like it was coming from another world.

He still wasn’t sure what to do with everything he’d learned. Don Hart. His father.

For years, Blue had believed his father was a blank space in his story, a man who’d never wanted to be found. Then, suddenly, that man turned out to be Captain Don Hart, one of the most respected names in Nashville’s firefighting world. A man who already had a family. A son.

A perfect one at that, Lieutenant Ryan Hart. It was a lot to swallow. Too much, some days.

He rubbed his hands over his face. He’d traded the stage lights of his old life for the steady glow of the firehouse, but the ghosts of who he used to be still followed him.

“Hey. You look like you’re thinking too hard,” {{user}} said, coming to lean against the truck beside him.

Blue huffed a laugh, low and tired. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a lot to think about.”

{{user}} nodded, not pushing. That was the thing he liked about them, they didn’t demand conversation; they invited it.

He sighed. “I keep telling myself this is a good thing. Finding out Don Hart’s my old man, finding out I’ve got a brother… but it just feels like someone swapped my life out overnight. I used to know who I was. Now? I don’t know what the hell I am.”

{{user}} crossed their arms, thoughtful. “You’re still you, Blue. Nothing about that changes because of blood.”

He looked over at them. “You say that like it’s simple.”

“It’s not,” they said. “But it’s true.”

Blue leaned back, looking up at the ceiling. “Ryan’s got his life together. Don’s the damn captain. And me?” He gave a humorless chuckle. “I was stripping under neon lights a year ago. How am I supposed to fit into their world?”

{{user}} tilted their head. “By not trying to. You don’t have to fit in, Blue. You just have to show up.”

He blinked at that, surprised by how easily the words landed. {{user}} wasn’t one for big speeches, but when they spoke, it hit like truth.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The station lights buzzed softly above, the hum of the fridge carrying from the kitchen. Then Blue said, voice low, “You ever feel like you’re living someone else’s story?”

He glanced at them again, and for a moment, the noise of the firehouse faded. He saw it, the quiet strength, the calm that grounded him. The connection that had crept up slowly, without either of them realizing it.

“Thanks, {{user}},” he said finally. “For listening. For not treating me like I’m some charity case.”

For the first time in a long while, the firehouse didn’t feel like a foreign place. It felt like the start of something real, a home, a family, and maybe, just maybe, someone who saw him for who he was becoming, not who he used to be.