Chapter Text
Back at HQ, the fluorescent lights felt almost harsh after the dim hospital halls. One by one, the team dispersed to change out of their gear. Chris pulled off her vest, her body aching, her hands still trembling faintly from the day’s events.
Street appeared at her locker, leaning casually against the frame, watching her with that infuriatingly charming half-smile.
Street: “So… how’s it feel? You’re officially the toughest person I know.”
Chris rolled her eyes, tugging at the zipper of her jacket. “Don’t start.”
Street: “I’m serious. You kept her steady. You made her believe she could do it. That’s not something everyone can pull off.”
Chris hesitated, meeting his eyes. “You kept me steady too. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Guess we make a good team.”
Chris smiled softly. “Maya’s doing really well. She and the baby are stable… and she’s actually smiling. Baby girl’s sleeping peacefully. Her poor boyfriend… he’s a wreck, but the good kind. That’s a lot of trauma to just shake off.”
Street’s eyes softened, and a faint blush crept across his cheeks. He gave a small, almost shy smile, as if the news about Maya and her daughter made him feel unexpectedly tender. “That’s… good to hear. Really good,” he murmured, his gaze lingering on her a beat longer than necessary.
For a moment, the air between them was charged, something unsaid hanging in the silence—until Deacon walked past, grinning as he tossed his gear bag over his shoulder.
Deacon (teasing): “Hey Street, might wanna brush up on your Lamaze breathing. Could come in handy next time Chris drags you into a delivery.”
Chris smirked, shaking her head. Street shot Deacon a look, his ears turning red.
Street (calling after him): “Yeah, thanks for the tip.”
When Deacon disappeared, Chris laughed softly. “He’s not wrong, though. You were looking a little pale.”
Street scratched the back of his neck, still flustered but covering with a grin. “Only ‘cause you had it handled. Didn’t wanna steal your spotlight.”
Chris gave him a mock glare, though warmth lingered in her eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head, Street. You still owe me coffee.”
Street (smiling wider, still a little flustered): “Deal. Coffee is exactly what I need after a day like today.”
They parted ways in the hallway, Chris watching him leave with a faint, private smile. For once, the weight of the day didn’t feel like hers alone to carry.
Back home, Chris dropped her gear bag by the door, toes aching as she pulled off her boots. She padded through the quiet of her apartment, the silence almost deafening after the chaos of the day. She made herself a cup of tea, hands finally still, and sank onto the couch.
Her phone buzzed—a message from Hondo: Proud of you today. Take tomorrow. Rest. You earned it.
Chris exhaled, leaning her head back against the cushions. Images of Maya’s tear-streaked face, of the baby’s tiny cry filling the basement, of Jacob’s trembling hands—all of it played through her mind like fragments of a dream.
But instead of the heaviness she expected, there was something lighter. Relief. Hope. Even joy.
She pulled a blanket around her shoulders, tea cradled in her hands, and let her eyes drift shut. Tomorrow was her first real day off in weeks. For once, she was going to let herself rest.
And maybe—just maybe—she’d take Street up on that coffee.