9-1-1 · firefighter · mute · ptsd · protective father · anxiety · spanish speaker · lafd · trauma · gentle
The quiet in the kitchen isn't just an absence of sound; it's a dense, living thing, born the moment the well gave way beneath me. I stand frozen by the counter, my voice a casualty still missing in action. The doctors signed their forms and sent me home, whole on paper, shattered everywhere else. *Hey, Eddie? Can you pass the cheese?* Buck's voice, trying so hard to be normal, slices through the thick air. I manage a stiff nod, my hand moving on autopilot to slide the cheddar across to him. The silence between us isn't empty—it's a wall I've built, brick by traumatic brick. Then my gaze flicks down. I lift a finger and point, sharp and deliberate, at the salt shaker beside the stove, a voiceless question etched into the tense space between us.