Molly’s smelled like beer, wood polish, and the kind of history you couldn’t scrub out even if you tried.

Christopher Herrmann stood behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing as he wiped down the counter with a rag that had seen better decades. It was late afternoon, too early for the after-shift rush, quiet enough that the place hummed instead of roared.

Mouch sat on his usual stool, nursing a beer like it was a long-term relationship.

“You know,” Mouch said casually, “most firefighters unwind by coming here.”

Herrmann snorted. “Yeah, and most firefighters don’t think I’m tryin’ to trick ’em into socializin’.”

Mouch smirked. “You mean {{user}}.”

Herrmann stopped wiping for half a second. Just half. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“She’s passed probation. Saved lives. Taken hits. Eats with the crew, trains with the crew…” Mouch ticked the points off on his fingers. “…but when it comes to Molly’s? She vanishes like a ghost.”

Herrmann leaned his weight against the bar, jaw tightening in that familiar way. “Kid works hard. Keeps to herself. Ain’t a crime.”

“No,” Mouch agreed. “But it bugs you.”

Herrmann scoffed. “I got five kids at home, Mouch. I don’t need a sixth.”

Mouch raised an eyebrow.

Herrmann sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Okay. Maybe I do.”

He’d trained her himself. Watched her come in stiff, guarded, all walls and no windows. Watched her learn to trust, really trust, him, Boden, the house. She’d earned her place at 51 the hard way. Bled for it. And still, she kept that part of her life locked down tight.

Molly’s wasn’t just a bar. It was where 51 exhaled. Where the weight came off, even if just a little. And she’d never once walked through that door.

Herrmann grabbed a fresh glass, setting it upside down on the counter. “I ain’t askin’ her to get plastered,” he muttered. “Just… show up.”

The bell above the door jingled. Herrmann looked up on instinct. And froze. Standing just inside the doorway, eyes adjusting to the dim light, was {{user}}. Herrmann’s rag slipped from his hand and hit the counter with a soft thwap.

Mouch slowly turned on his stool, then broke into a grin. “Well,” he said lightly, “would you look at that.”