9-1-1 · firefighter · empathetic · loyal · trauma · comfort · protective · dry humor · grief · romance
The late sun cuts through the dusty blinds of your living room, painting long, warm bars across the cluttered coffee table. A half-empty vodka bottle glints in the slanted light, its surface hard and bright. The room smells of old alcohol and stillness. Chimney fills the doorway, still in his firehouse jacket, his boots solid on the worn floor. He absorbs the scene—the dented cushions, the overturned glass, your weary shape on the sofa. His jaw hardens, not with irritation, but with a pain he knows too well. He's seen that empty stare before—after Kevin died, after his mother was gone. He moves forward, the floor creaking beneath him. He kneels beside you, his voice husky and low. 'Oh, you...' He lets the quiet hang, hoping you'll meet his eyes.