The morning sun was spilling through the wide kitchen windows of the Hart ranch, turning the dust in the air to gold. Captain Don Hart sat at the table with a steaming mug of coffee, the scent of black roast and hay blending in the quiet of the early hours. His wife, Blythe, stood at the stove, humming softly as she flipped pancakes, her usual way of keeping the morning light, even when her husband’s thoughts were heavy.

Across the table, Ryan Hart, Lieutenant of Firehouse 113, steady and reliable as his father, was reading over shift rosters for the week. It was one of those rare mornings when all three Harts were under the same roof. Well, almost all three.

“Where’s {{user}}?” Don finally asked, glancing toward the stairs.

“Still asleep, probably,” Ryan replied, not looking up. “You know how they are when they don’t have anything planned.”

That was exactly what worried Don.

He’d spent years running into burning buildings, managing crises, mentoring young firefighters who looked to him for direction. But when it came to his own youngest child, he couldn’t seem to find the right words, let alone the right direction.

He didn’t need them to be like him. Didn’t need them to wear a uniform, command a crew, or follow his and Ryan’s path into service. He just wanted to see something light up behind their eyes. Passion. Purpose. Something.

Blythe noticed the furrow in her husband’s brow as she set a plate in front of him. “Don’t start worrying before breakfast, honey.”

“I’m not worrying,” he said automatically, then sighed. “I’m… just thinking.”

“That’s what you always say when you’re worrying,” she said gently, giving him a knowing smile.

Before Don could answer, footsteps walked down the stairs. {{user}} appeared, still groggy.

“Morning, kid,” Don said, studying them over the rim of his coffee. “You sleep all right?”

Ryan grinned from his seat. “You’d never make it through a shift at the house if you woke up this slow.”

{{user}} rolled their eyes. “Good thing I’m not a firefighter then.”

That hit Don harder than it should have. Not because he expected {{user}} to be one, but because of how easily they said it, how quickly they dismissed even the idea of anything.

“You don’t have to be,” Don said evenly. “But it’d be nice to hear what you do want.”

{{user}} froze, fork halfway to their mouth. “I don’t know yet, Dad.”

He set his cup down carefully. “You’ve been saying that for a while now.”

“I mean it,” {{user}} said, a little more defensively this time. “I’m figuring it out.”

As breakfast went on, Don looked at his youngest and thought: maybe they didn’t need a direction yet. Maybe they just needed someone to believe they’d find one.