Chapter Text
The light in the house had shifted by the time Athena stepped through the front door. She wasn’t sure how long it had taken her to drive over. Everything lately seemed to exist in a kind of emotional time warp. She’d blink and a day would pass. Or she’d sit down to breathe, only to realize hours had crawled by while she was doing nothing but thinking of him. Some sort of reality she wishes was some kind of dream.
The house. Their house. Smelled like lemon wood polish and faint dust. Barely lived-in. Still too much like Bobby. Still too much loss. Who knows if that feeling could ever be replaced. She spotted Buck in the kitchen, drying one of Bobby’s old mugs. Buck glanced up when she entered but didn’t speak. He’d never been loud in this house. Then again he had barely been in the house. No one has now. There was a weird feeling, it was like something about the space demanded quiet. Or just restraint.
“I’m not kicking you out,” Athena said after a moment, setting her keys gently on the entryway table. “But you know you don’t have to stay here, right?”
Buck gave a small shrug, his shoulders rising like it took effort. “I know.”
“You could go back to Eddie’s,” she said. “I’m sure he’d still want you there.”
“I was starting to feel like a guest,” Buck admitted. “And I know Eddie. He’d never say that. But… I needed more space. Quiet.”
“All this house is just that. Quiet.” Athena moved closer, her eyes scanning the living room out of habit. The furniture she had picked out with Bobby. The half-finished bookshelf he swore he’d stain someday. She hadn’t touched any of it. Not yet. “There’ve been buyers,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Elaine brought over some paperwork last week. A couple from Sherman Oaks is interested.”
“Are you selling?”
She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she looked at the photo on the mantel the one Karen had given her. All of them together all smiling after the vow renewal of Karen and Hen. No one knew what would happen years after that. “I keep saying I will,” she said. “I even cleaned out half the drawers in the bedroom. Put away some of his things. But every time I get close to signing anything, I just… freeze.”
Buck nodded slowly. “Feels final. Like putting him in the ground all over again.”
“Exactly,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Buck’s gaze drifted across the kitchen. “I found a bag of nails in the closet the other day. Labeled in his handwriting. ‘For Athena’s bookshelves.’”
Athena let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sound of pain. “He labeled everything. Bobby was the only man I ever knew who treated a junk drawer like it was sacred.”
Buck smiled faintly, then ran a hand through his hair. “This place is the last thing he built with both hands. That wasn’t about the job. That wasn’t on fire. That was just for him and his family.” He didn’t mean to say it like that, but it sat between them anyway, heavy, painful, true.
Athena looked down at her hands. “He wanted us to grow old here.”
Buck blinked hard. “I think he still might’ve, if-”
The sentence didn’t need finishing. The room grew quiet again. The only sound was the creak of the house settling and a car passing on the street outside. Buck set the mug down a little too carefully, aligning it with the others like order could hold off the grief.
“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” he said finally, his voice barely holding together. “Not really. I didn’t think that it would be it. That by some miracle he would get out fine.’ He swallowed. “I just keep… going on trying to keep my promise to Bobby that everyone needs me.”
Athena stepped closer now, crossing into his space with a kind of quiet gravity. “You don’t have to pretend here.”
Buck nodded once, but his breath caught. “I don’t know where to put it. The feeling of missing him. It doesn’t go anywhere.” His voice cracked at the end. He didn’t try to fix it.
“I know,” Athena whispered. And she did. She reached out and wrapped her arms around him. No hesitation. Buck stood frozen for half a second and then he folded. Shoulders sagging. Breath coming out in a long, shuddering exhale. He leaned into her, clung to her like someone finally letting go of the edge of the pool after treading water too long.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Don’t be,” she said, tightening her hold. “You’re not the only one carrying him.”
He nodded against her shoulder, a quiet, broken sound escaping him. Athena rested her chin lightly against his head, eyes shut, breath steady. Not because she wasn’t grieving but because she knew what it meant to let someone fall apart safely.
“This house is still his,” she said, after a long silence. “And as long as it is… you’re not alone here.”
The paperwork didn’t end. That was the first thing Chim had learned.
No one told you that part when you become captain, that your days would sometimes end not with a hose in your hand or a save under your belt, but with a pen wedged between your teeth and a report about a transformer fire that didn’t even make the news. He sat slouched at Bobby’s … no, his desk, squinting at the glow of the computer monitor. There were at least five open documents. Probably more if he dared scroll.
He hadn’t eaten since lunch. Or maybe breakfast.
The station was mostly quiet. Buck had gone home hours ago. Eddie had stayed back to fix a cabinet hinge in the rec room, but Chim could hear the distant sound of tools clattering followed by muttered spanish which was comforting in its own way. It meant someone else was still here.
Chim rubbed at his temples and stared at the stack of forms to his left, each one requiring a different signature. Inspections. Equipment logs. Squad rotation projections. He had to confirm next month’s training schedule by Friday. There was a new departmental policy on body cams for emergency responders he hadn’t even opened yet. And then there was the personnel file he’d been avoiding: a routine performance review on one of the newer guys except Bobby usually handled those with that calm, grounded wisdom that made everyone feel seen. Chim felt like a fraud even opening the file.
A cry cut through the quiet. Chim turned instinctively. He wasn’t at home. Jee-Yun wasn’t here. His newborn baby boy wasn’t here. His heart thudded, then settled. His body still hadn’t adjusted. Every phantom cry twisted something deep in him. The guilt crept in fast. He was supposed to be home. Maddie had said she was fine with him staying late, but he’d heard the fatigue in her voice through the phone. She’d just gone back to work. They were both adjusting. Trying.
He should have left hours ago. But instead, he sat at the desk like the weight of the whole damn station might tip if he moved.
A knock tapped softly at the open door.
Hen.
She didn’t speak at first. Just leaned against the frame with her arms crossed, watching him with that practiced, gentle scrutiny.
“You’re still here?” she asked finally.
Chim gave her a tired smile. “Turns out being captain involves less fighting fires and more fighting formatting issues in outdated reporting software.”
Hen stepped in, eyeing the paperwork. “Jesus, Chim.”
“I know.”
“Have you eaten?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
Hen gave him a look and dropped a granola bar onto the desk. “You need to stop trying to be Bobby and just be Chim.”
“That’s the problem,” he said quietly. “I don’t know if Chim is enough.”
Hen’s face softened. “Chim’s more than enough. You just haven’t figured that out yet. Bobby knew you were more than good enough.”
He leaned back in the chair and looked around the office. It still felt like it belonged to someone else. Bobby’s plaque was still on the wall. So were the blueprints Bobby had insisted on keeping pinned beside the whiteboard. Chim hadn’t moved anything. He couldn’t.
“I keep thinking I’ll walk out there and see him cooking something. Like it was all just a long shift. Like he’s still..” He stopped. The words caught in his throat like too much smoke.
Hen stepped forward, rested a hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing this, Chim. You’re already doing it. Even if it feels like hell.”
He nodded, swallowing the lump that had taken up permanent residence in his throat.
“Go home,” she said gently. “Hug your kids. Let Maddie yell at you for not eating.”
“I can’t. I still have so much to do.”
Hen shook her head. “The paperwork will still be here. It always is. But your kids are not going to be this little forever. And you don’t want to miss that.”
He looked up at her, eyes rimmed red from tiredness he didn’t even recognize anymore.
“I’m scared I’ll mess it up,” he admitted. “Being a dad. A captain. Both.”
“You will,” Hen said without hesitation. “We all do. But that doesn’t mean you’re not doing it right.” Hen gave his shoulder a final squeeze, then walked out.
Chim looked down at the stack of paperwork. Then at the granola bar. Slowly, he peeled it open. One thing at a time.
The front door was already cracked open when Maddie pulled up. First shift back. Eight hours in the chair. Her headset had felt heavier than she remembered. Every baby cry in the background of a call hit her chest like it was her own. Jee-Yun had survived just fine without her. Thrived, even. That didn’t make it any easier. Her thoughts then went towards her newborn son.
Karen was in the kitchen, bottle in one hand, toddler sock in the other. She looked up with a practiced smile.
“Welcome to the madhouse,” she called.
Maddie laughed, then caught sight of Jee-Yun sprinting down the hallway, wearing a crown and absolutely no pants.
“Mommy!” Jee launched herself into Maddie’s arms, little limbs clinging tight, her voice shrill with glee. “Mommy I’m a queen and Baby Bobby is the royal jellybean!”
Maddie blinked. “He’s what now?”
Karen chuckled. “That’s one of her names for him today. Earlier it was ‘Peanut Prince.’ I stopped questioning it around nap time.”
From the living room came a small wail, unmistakably infant in pitch but not distressed. Just impatient. Maddie followed the sound, gently setting Jee-Yun down and rounding the couch.
There he was.
Robert Nash Han. Still so new. His cheeks had that delicate puffiness only babies had like he hadn’t been awake long enough to know the world was anything but warm arms and gentle voices.
Karen followed behind her, scooping him up before Maddie could. “I just changed him, but I think he wants his mom.”
Maddie nodded, arms outstretched, and the moment her son was in her arms, something eased inside her. “Hey, my sweet boy,” she whispered. “Did you miss me?”
He blinked up at her, unimpressed but content.
Karen leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching them.
“How was it?” she asked gently. “Work.”
Maddie shifted Bobby (no, god, maybe she couldn’t call him Bobby) against her chest.
“It was… surreal,” she admitted. “The second I put on the headset, it felt like no time had passed. But it has. Everything’s changed.”
Karen didn’t try to fill the silence. She was good like that. Letting people find their words.
“I kept thinking about them,” Maddie said. “Every time I answered a call. Wondering if they were crying. Or napping. Or if I should’ve stayed home another month.”
“You’re allowed to be both things,” Karen said softly. “A mom and someone who’s really damn good at what she does.”
Maddie smiled. “That’s what Chim said this morning.”
“He’s right.”
She nodded. “I know. But that doesn’t stop the voice in my head that says I should be here every second.”
Karen raised an eyebrow. “You know where that voice comes from?”
“Where?”
“Guilt. Which is useless. Unless you want to train it like a dog and teach it some better tricks.”
Maddie laughed. She bounced the baby a little, humming under her breath. Jee-Yun had returned, now in a tutu, holding a plastic microphone.
“I wrote a song for the baby!” she announced.
“Of course you did,” Karen said.
“It’s called ‘Bobby Bobby Jellybean.’”
Maddie winced. “Okay, I think we’re officially ruling out that nickname.”
Karen grinned. “You sure? It’s catchy.”
“Too catchy.”
She glanced down at him again, the name still settling.
Robert was strong. Formal. A legacy name. For Bobby Nash.
But something softer was trying to take shape. R.J., maybe. Or Bo. Even Roro, if she was feeling whimsical. She didn’t know yet. Maybe he’d tell her in his own way, when the time was right.
Bobby would’ve had something to say about all of it probably with that quiet certainty of his, like the answer was always just waiting for you to stop talking long enough to hear it. Maddie looked at her son, at her daughter twirling just beyond reach. She hoped, wherever he was, he knew the name lived on not just in letters, but in love.
The air was cold, but his skin burned.
Bobby woke to the hiss of recycled air and the sharp antiseptic sting that hung in the back of his throat. The brightness above him was fluorescent like a morgue masquerading as a hospital. A white-tiled ceiling loomed over him, the kind that looked clean only because it had been scrubbed of all evidence of life. His eyes opened slowly, sluggish from medication. Everything ached from his ribs, his back, to his head. His skin felt like it didn’t quite belong to him. When he moved, the weight of the IV line tugged against his arm, grounding him in the present. In the fact that he was still alive.
Alive.
That wasn’t supposed to be possible. He remembered collapsing. Praying. The fever like wildfire in his blood. His knees giving out. His vision tunneling into black. And then voices. Not the ones he loved. Not Athena. Men in white coats. Gloves. Clinical commands.
“White coat protocol. Bag him.”
He hadn’t imagined it. He had been declared dead. He had been zipped into a body bag. And yet? Here he was.
The door opened with a soft click. A woman stepped inside, clipboard in hand, hair pulled back tight, expression blank. She wore no name tag. No identifying markers.
“You’re awake,” she said, almost to herself. She didn’t smile.
Bobby’s voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper. “Where… where am I?”
“You’re currently in a government isolation and research facility,” she replied, already checking his IV drip and vitals. “You were transferred here after exposure to Crimean-Congo hemorrhagic fever.”
“CCHF,” Bobby croaked, the memory of the outbreak punching through the haze. “The virus… we couldn’t stop it.”
“You collapsed in the facility while displaying advanced symptoms,” she continued. “Declared unresponsive. En route to morgue containment, your vitals returned spontaneously. Core body temperature began to stabilize. Your immune system began producing an unexpected antibody response. You’re now considered a viable case study for immunological replication.”
Her tone was calm. Detached.
Bobby stared at her, unblinking. “I was alive and they put me in a body bag?”
“Your vitals were undetectable at the time of triage. The virus mimicked post-mortem signs. Protocol required containment. You weren’t expected to resuscitate.”
He didn’t respond. His fingers curled into fists under the blanket.
“You’re extremely valuable to our study,” she added clinically. “Your recovery was unique. The kind of immune response you’re showing, people have died from less exposure. We believe your system is producing neutralizing antibodies in a way we haven’t seen before. With your blood, we can generate treatments. Maybe a vaccine.”
Bobby’s jaw clenched. “I don’t care about any of that. I need to see my wife.”
She paused. “You’ll have the opportunity to contribute to something bigger than yourself. You could save hundreds, maybe thousands of lives.”
“I want to see my wife.”
“Captain Nash.”
“I want to see my wife,” Bobby said, louder now, his voice rough and shaking. “Where is she? Where am I?”
The woman didn’t move. “You’re under observation for now. Further contact will be discussed during your debriefing.”
“You’re not answering me,” Bobby growled, struggling to sit up. “You’re not even telling me the truth. Where am I really? What kind of facility is this?”
She gently placed a hand on the bed rail, almost rehearsed. “You’ve survived something most people don’t. We need you to focus on your recovery. Contact with outside individuals would compromise-”
“No,” he said sharply. “You don’t get to compromise me. You don’t get to make me disappear. I have a life. A family. A wife who watched me die. You don’t get to erase that.”
A long silence followed. The woman scribbled something on her clipboard without responding. Then she turned and headed for the door. Bobby’s voice cracked behind her. “Please. Just tell her I’m alive. Tell Athena.”
The door clicked shut. Silence. The IV kept dripping. The light kept buzzing. The room, once again, became a box of quiet, pressed in at all sides. But Bobby didn’t lie down.
His eyes stared at the ceiling, wide open. Awake now. Fully. The fear was real but so was the fire burning beneath it. He wasn’t supposed to survive.
Hen’s car idled at the curb in front of Eddie’s apartment complex, her travel mug steaming faintly in the cupholder. She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel as she glanced at the clock.
7:06.
She reached for her phone, already halfway through a text when the front door swung open and Eddie stepped out with a backpack slung over one shoulder, coffee in one hand, and Christopher trotting beside him, still zipping up his hoodie.
Hen smiled as they approached. Christopher climbed into the backseat with practiced ease, offering a cheery, “Morning, Hen!”
“Morning, Chris,” she said warmly, reaching back to fist-bump him before Eddie slid into the passenger seat with a quiet exhale.
“You’re lucky your kid is cute,” she told Eddie as she pulled away from the curb.
“He’s always cute,” Eddie deadpanned, sipping his coffee.
Hen snorted. “You’re also ten minutes late.”
“I had to help him with a last-minute science fair project idea,” Eddie said, tilting his head toward the back. “We’ve landed on…volcano, which, I know is basic, but it’s also functional and non-explosive.”
“You sure? Last time I helped Denny with a ‘non-explosive’ project, we had baking soda in places baking soda should never be.”
Christopher laughed behind them. “I promise we won’t make a mess.”
Hen glanced at Eddie with a smirk. “See, at least one Diaz knows how to keep a promise.”
Eddie rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m still looking for a car, okay?”
“Should’ve thought of that before moving back without wheels. You know you’re officially that guy now, right? The one everyone has to drive around.”
“Don’t worry, I’m milking it for all it’s worth,” Eddie said. “Christopher gets shotgun next time, though.”
“Nice try,” Hen replied. “Shotgun rules are sacred. He’s gotta call it fair and square.”
They coasted down residential streets, quiet in the soft light of morning. A few kids stood with backpacks near corners, parents lingering in pajamas at doorways. The world was just beginning to stir.
“How’s Chim?” Eddie asked, more serious now, shifting gears.
Hen paused before answering. “Overwhelmed. But pretending he’s not.”
“That sounds like him.”
“Yeah. He’s trying to carry being captain and being a dad like they’re just…two weights on the same barbell. But you can see it in his eyes. He’s not sleeping much.”
Eddie nodded. “And Maddie?”
“She went back yesterday. First shift. Karen said she was anxious but solid.”
Eddie’s voice softened. “Good.”
They pulled up to Christopher’s school. The boy unbuckled and leaned forward between the seats.
“Bye, Hen! Bye, Dad!”
“Have a good day, mijo,” Eddie said, leaning back to give him a fist bump.
“Don’t blow up the science lab,” Hen added with a wink.
“I won’t!” Christopher grinned, then disappeared through the gates with a wave.
As Hen pulled back into traffic, Eddie let out a breath.
“I’ve missed this,” he said, mostly to himself.
Hen looked over. “What, morning drop-offs?”
“No. This. Routine. People. Feeling like I’m…where I’m supposed to be.”
Hen didn’t say anything right away. Just reached over, tapped the side of his coffee cup.
“Then hold on to it. Because life in this city? It doesn’t stay still for long.”
The locker room at the 118 still smelled like steel, sweat, and disinfectant. That mix never changed. No matter how many captains came and went, how many boots walked through it. The place held its history like it had lungs.
Eddie stepped inside and paused.
Chimney stood at the far end of the row, completely still, one hand resting on Bobby’s locker. The metal looked colder than usual in the fluorescent light. Like a grave no one wanted to approach. Chim wasn’t dressed for the day. His duty jacket sat crumpled on the bench behind him, and his shoulders were stiff, his body caught in some kind of quiet tug-of-war between movement and stillness.
Eddie stayed back, not wanting to intrude, but then he walked forward anyway. Quietly.
“He used to hum,” Chim said, not looking up. His voice was raw in a way Eddie hadn’t heard from him in weeks. “Every morning. Some dumb song he made up. I never knew if it was real or if he just liked messing with us.”
Eddie gave a soft smile. “He hummed all through the brush fire season. I asked him once what it was he said it helped him breathe slower.”
Chim chuckled under his breath, but it cracked halfway through. “Of course he did.”
Eddie stepped up beside him and leaned against the neighboring locker. Not too close. Just close enough. “You okay?”
Chim shrugged. “I don’t know. I keep thinking I’m supposed to be. That it’s been long enough. That people are waiting for me to captain-up and stop lingering in front of a locker.”
“Nobody’s timing you.”
“I am.”
Eddie was quiet. “You think Bobby never stood here before shift, second-guessing everything?”
Chim finally looked at him.
“I watched him do it,” Eddie said. “Especially after calls that went sideways. He’d run his hand over this locker like he was trying to ground himself.”
“I keep hoping if I stand here long enough,” Chim said, voice breaking, “I’ll know what the hell I’m doing.”
Eddie nodded. “You already do. You just don’t believe it yet.”
There was silence. Chim dropped his hand from the locker but didn’t step away. Then, from behind them, came the sound of boots and the soft murmur of a familiar voice.
Hen.
She came into view slowly, her expression careful, reading the scene like the medic she was taking in Chim’s posture, Eddie’s quiet closeness, and the energy in the room. Buck followed just behind her, arms crossed, still holding the same protein bar from earlier.
Hen stepped forward. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not,” Eddie said.
Buck hovered in the doorway for a second, then walked over, standing beside Hen. His gaze dropped to Bobby’s locker, and for a moment, no one said anything.
“He’d hate this, you know,” Buck said quietly. “Us standing here like this. Mourning in the most dramatic spot in the building.”
“He’d hate it,” Chim echoed. “But he’d let us do it. Just once.”
Buck unwrapped the protein bar he was holding, chewing it quietly before offering a bite to Hen, who waved it off like he’d offered her a worm. They fell into silence again not uncomfortable, but thick with knowing. This team had lived through fire, through floods, through grief that never really ended. And yet…they were still here.
“Let’s get upstairs,” Hen finally said. “Coffee’s on.”
They all hesitated. Then Chim stepped back from the locker. Buck gave it one final glance before turning. Eddie stayed behind for just a moment, pressing his fingers against the cool metal Bobby had once opened every day with calloused hands.
Then he whispered, barely audible: “Still holding the line, Cap.” And followed the others out.
They moved him again. No one said why.
Two guards flanked him one ahead, and one behind silent and grim-faced, their uniforms devoid of insignia. The hallway they walked through looked identical to the others: pale grey walls, linoleum floors that echoed with every step, surveillance cameras blinking like unblinking eyes. No windows. No sense of day or night.
Bobby didn’t ask questions this time. He saved his strength.
The room was smaller. No medical equipment, just a cot, a table, and a chair. A bottle of water. A tray of food. The door shut behind him with a metallic hiss and the unmistakable click of a lock sliding into place. He sat on the edge of the cot, heart pounding. Something was different. The air felt… looser here. Less monitored.
He noticed it almost immediately on the desk across from him, built into the wall like an afterthought: a phone.
Not a smartphone. Not a secure comms system. Just a landline. Beige and clunky. One of those institutional models with ten digits and no caller ID. It could have been a mistake. Or a trap. Bobby didn’t care. He was on his feet in an instant. Crossed the room. Picked up the receiver. His hands trembled. He didn’t know what state he was in. What jurisdiction? Whether this thing even had an outside line. He just pressed 9-1-1 and held his breath.
A few seconds of dead air. Then… “911, what is your emergency?”
He swallowed hard. “My name is Robert Nash,” he said, voice gravel and fire. “I’m the Captain of the 118 at the Los Angeles Fire Department.”
“Sir, I’m having a hard time hearing you, can you repeat that?”
“I need you to get this message to LAFD dispatch. There’s a woman there her name is Maddie Han. M-A-D-D-I-E H-A-N. Tell her I called.”
“Sir, can you confirm your location?”
“I don’t know where I am,” Bobby said quickly. “Some kind of government facility. I was declared dead. But I’m not.”
The line crackled. “Okay, I’m going to flag this call and notify-”
“Just tell her,” Bobby said, urgency curling into his voice like smoke. “Tell Maddie Han.”
A pause. Then, Bobby closed his eyes, steadying his breath. And he hung up. The dial tone was deafening in the silence that followed. He gently placed the phone back on its cradle. Turned away before the adrenaline wore off. Before the panic could come rushing in. He didn’t know if the call would make it out. If it would be believed. If anyone would come for him.
But now… someone knew. And sometimes, that was all it took.
The kitchen was half-lit by the sun pouring in through the high windows, casting long shadows across the counter. The coffee pot was half full, probably the same bitter batch from two hours ago. A box of protein bars sat open beside a bag of trail mix someone had spilled and never cleaned up.
Eddie leaned against the far counter, nursing his coffee. Buck was perched on a stool by the island, spinning his empty mug slowly in one hand.
The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable.
“Are you really not leaving?” Buck asked, glancing up.
Eddie looked at him. “LA?”
Buck nodded.
“Nah,” Eddie said. “Tried that already. Didn’t stick.”
Buck gave a weak smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“You really were gonna leave the 118?”
Eddie’s tone was casual, but the question sat heavy.
Buck exhaled. “Yeah. I really was done.”
“Because of Chim being captain?”
“Because of Bobby being gone,” Buck corrected gently. Eddie looked down at his cup. Buck kept talking, quieter now. “It just felt like… it wasn’t ours anymore. Like the family part of it left with him. All that stuff he built? The rhythm, the trust, the way we looked out for each other? It didn’t feel the same.”
“It’s not the same,” Eddie said, honestly. “But that doesn’t mean it stopped being family.”
Buck didn’t respond right away. Just turned the mug again, thumb tracing the rim.
“I get it,” Eddie added. “Everything feels sideways. Like we’re still here, doing the job, but the gravity’s off.”
Buck gave a faint, tired laugh. “Yeah. Like I’m floating. Can’t tell if I’m supposed to come back down or just drift away.”
Eddie pushed off the counter and came to stand across from him, hands braced on the island. “You didn’t have to move out, you know.”
Buck glanced up.
“There’s always room at my place. Chris keeps asking when you’re coming back.”
Buck smiled at that, real one this time, softened by something deeper. “Athena offered me the house. Said she wasn’t ready to sell it.”
“That’s generous.”
Buck nodded. “I think she just didn’t want it empty. And maybe I didn’t either.”
Eddie studied him. “Still doesn’t mean you have to go.”
“I know,” Buck said. “But I think I needed the distance. Just to figure out how to stand on my own again.”
Eddie’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re allowed to figure that out without disappearing.” Buck looked away, swallowing down whatever response had come up too fast. Eddie grabbed a fresh mug from the cabinet, poured himself more coffee. Then, quietly: “You’re still family, Buck. Nothing changes that.”
Buck’s voice was low. “Even if I don’t always feel it?”
“Especially then.”
The precinct had thinned with the shift change, the kind of lull where everything felt suspended, neither day nor night. Athena stepped through the glass doors with slow, deliberate steps, her jacket slung over her shoulder and her badge already unclipped from her belt. She passed the front desk with a nod, exchanged a silent look with one of the night officers, and moved deeper into the station. Her boots made soft thuds against the tile. She didn’t need directions; her body knew the path to her office better than she knew the words to explain how she was doing.
Elaine was still there, somehow, seated at a nearby desk sorting through what looked like a stack of transfer requests.
“You’re still here?” Athena asked, surprised, setting her jacket down on the back of a chair.
Elaine glanced up with a knowing smile. “Right back at you.”
Athena gave a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. “Yeah, I guess that’s fair.”
Elaine nodded toward Athena’s office. “I left something for you.”
Athena tilted her head. “That so?”
“The corporate housing paperwork. Signed, sealed, and delivered. Keys are on your desk.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in.
“That fast?” Athena asked, not accusing, just stunned.
Elaine shrugged, setting the last file in a drawer. “You’ve given this department twenty years. Didn’t seem right for you to sleep at your daughter’s apartment any longer.”
Athena smiled faintly. “May’s got room.”
Elaine arched an eyebrow. “I’m sure she does. But couches are for guests. You deserve space to breathe.”
Athena sat down in the chair beside her, letting her body rest into it with the kind of exhaustion she’d trained herself to ignore. “It’s weird,” she said quietly. “I’ve looked at apartments, condos, even townhomes. Nothing felt… right. Like I was forcing myself into someone else’s life.” Elaine nodded, listening. “And I know it’s temporary. But something about signing my name on anything permanent just…” She paused, pressing her lips together. “Felt like admitting it’s over. That I’ve really let him go.”
Elaine didn’t offer a silver lining. Just sat there with her, respectful of the silence that followed. “I’m not ready to sell the house,” Athena added. “Not yet. May and Harry keep asking, but I can’t even go back in there without feeling like I’m trespassing on a life that doesn’t exist anymore.”
Elaine reached into the desk drawer, pulled out a manila envelope, and handed it over gently. “You don’t have to explain yourself to anyone. Not to your kids. Not to the department. Not even Bobby.”
At that, Athena froze. Her eyes stung, but nothing spilled over.
“I just thought it’d feel easier by now,” she admitted, voice a notch above a whisper.
Elaine didn’t push. “Sometimes the hardest part isn’t saying goodbye. It’s all the moments after when the world keeps turning and expects you to do the same.”
Athena stood slowly, taking the envelope in hand. Her fingers brushed the cool metal of the keys inside.
“Thanks, Elaine.”
“Anytime.”
Athena turned to leave but hesitated at the doorway to her office. Through the glass, she could see the keys sitting neatly on her desk, the attached tag already labeled with her name in clear block print.
Athena Carter Grant-Nash.
She hadn’t had the heart to change it yet and she doubts she ever will. She stepped inside, closed the door behind her, and stared at the set of keys like they were someone else’s life waiting to be lived. She reached for them slowly, the metal cold in her hand. Beneath them was the housing folder TEMPORARY HOUSING in black capital letters. A reminder that even this wasn’t real. Not permanent. Not home.
She sat down at her desk and turned the keys over in her palm, trying to imagine what the new place might smell like. What silence would sound like without Bobby’s footsteps in the next room. What it would mean to make dinner for one, again. She could still see him there, sometimes in flashes. Laughing with May in the kitchen, reading something in the paper with those glasses perched too low on his nose. Humming under his breath while doing the dishes like it was a private concert only she had tickets to.
Her throat tightened. The apartment might be temporary, but the ache of absence was not.
The dispatch center buzzed with its usual controlled chaos voices weaving in and out over radios, phones ringing in rhythm, the relentless tapping of keyboards filling the room. Maddie sat back at her station, the soft glow of the computer screen illuminating her tired but focused face. Returning from maternity leave had been a whirlwind, but the familiarity of her post was comforting. Then Sue appeared beside her, holding a slim folder, her expression more serious than usual.
“Maddie,” Sue said quietly, drawing Maddie’s full attention. “We got a flagged 911 call… the caller asked specifically for you.”
Maddie’s heart thudded erratically. “What? Why me?”
Sue shook her head. “No clue. I haven’t listened to it myself. It got flagged for follow-up. The recording is on your computer. You should listen.”
With a shaky hand, Maddie slid on her headset. Her fingers trembled as she clicked the audio file, the dispatch center noises fading behind the crackling static that preceded the call.
Dispatcher: “911, what is your emergency?”
Caller: “My name is Robert Nash, I’m the Captain of the 118 at the Los Angeles Fire Department.”
Dispatcher: “Sir, I’m having a hard time hearing you, can you repeat that?”
Caller: “I need you to get this message to LAFD dispatch. There’s a woman there, her name is Maddie Han. M-A-D-D-I-E H-A-N. Tell her I called.”
Dispatcher: “Sir, can you confirm your location?”
Caller: “I don’t know where I am, some kind of government facility. I was declared dead. But I’m not.”
Dispatcher: “Okay, I’m going to flag this call and notify-”
Caller: “Just tell her, tell Maddie Han.”
The line abruptly went silent.
Maddie’s hand froze over the mouse, eyes wide, heart pounding so hard she was sure it echoed through the room. She swallowed hard, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.
Sue’s voice was low. “Maddie, are you okay? Do you want to step away for a bit?”
Maddie shook her head, voice barely a whisper. “No… I need to listen again. I have to hear it again.” She clicked replay, the voice echoing in her mind with every word more real than before. The weight of the message settled deep inside her chest. It was impossible, yet it had to be true. Her hands trembled as she removed the headset. “Bobby… that was Bobby?”
Sue didn’t answer immediately, only gave her a slow, understanding nod. Maddie’s breath hitched again, eyes filling with tears she no longer tried to hold back.
“It can’t be..” Sue said out loud, however, she assumed that thought was just in her head.
Maddie’s steps were hurried but unsteady as she climbed the stairs to May’s apartment. Her mind replayed the call over and over. The unmistakable voice, the desperate message, the truth she couldn’t ignore. Bobby was alive. Against every assumption, every whispered goodbye, he was still out there. She knocked sharply, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway. The door swung open, and there stood May, her eyes wide with surprise.
“May,” Maddie said, catching her breath. “Is your mom here? I need to talk to her. It’s important.”
May hesitated a moment but stepped aside, letting Maddie in. Inside, the apartment was warm, cluttered with signs of home and childhood. Moments later, Athena appeared, her face tired but steady.
“Maddie? Is everything ok?”
Maddie’s voice trembled as she looked Athena in the eyes. “Athena, I think… I think Bobby is alive.”
Athena’s eyes darkened, a shadow crossing her face. She shook her head slowly. “Maddie, he’s not.”
“But,” Maddie said, swallowing hard, “I know how crazy this sounds. But I heard his voice.”
Athena’s breath hitched, and for a moment, the walls she’d built around that grief seemed to crack. “Is this some joke?”
“He’s alive,” Maddie whispered, voice soft but fierce. “And he’s asking for help.”
Athena stared blankly at Maddie, caught between hope and pain, the impossible now a fragile thread pulling them both toward an uncertain truth.