Mental Health One-Shots

The first thing you notice about Station 19 is that it feels too quiet for a firehouse.

You weren’t expecting a parade, but this? A heavy silence hangs in the air like smoke after a structure fire. The kind that chokes you slowly, without warning.

You adjust your turnout gear and knock lightly on Captain Bishop’s office door.

“Come in,” a firm voice says from the other side.

You open the door to find Maya Bishop behind her desk, posture perfect, eyes unreadable.

“Y/N, right?” she says, standing and offering a handshake.

“Yes, ma’am. Y/N Y/L/N, reporting in.”

“Drop the ‘ma’am.’ It’s Captain. You’ll learn that pretty fast.” She gestures for you to sit, but doesn’t.

You nod, stiffly.

“I’m going to be honest with you,” Maya says. “You’re walking into a team that’s... grieving. Vasquez was one of ours. We didn’t always like him, but that doesn’t mean we wanted him gone.”

“I understand.”

“You don’t. Not yet. But you will.”

You’re not sure if that’s a threat or a promise.

Maya stands in front of the assembled crew. Her expression is hard to read—controlled, but there's a tension in her shoulders that hasn't gone away since Rigo's funeral.

“This is Y/N. Fresh out of the academy, assigned to Station 19. She’s with us now.” Maya explains as you stand next to her.

Silence.

You shift your weight, hands behind your back, the academy still clinging to you in the way you stand at attention. You can feel their stares. Some polite. Some not.

Dean mutters softly to Ben. "That’s fast. Isn’t it too fast?"

"Yeah. Way too fast." He nods.

“Bad timing,” Andy interrupts, not looking up.

Vic leans forward where she’s slouched on the bench, elbows on knees, eyes flicking from Andy to you to Maya. She chews the inside of her cheek for a second before speaking, her voice light but laced with edge.

“Okay, ouch, Andy,” she says with a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Maybe let the newbie breathe before throwing shade. Not like she packed Vasquez’s bag herself.”

Andy shoots her a look, but Vic keeps going.

“I get it. Timing sucks. It’s weird. It’s not fair. But none of that’s her fault,” Vic gestures toward you. “She didn’t pick the day Rigo died. Or the day she got assigned here. So maybe let’s not make her feel like she did, yeah?”

There's a pause. No one speaks.

You force a smile, grateful for the attempt—awkward as it is.

Then Vic offers a small, almost sheepish smile your way. “Hi. I’m Vic. Sorry we’re all being awkward little weirdos. You’ll get used to it.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “I’m Y/L/N, nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too. And hey,” she lowers her voice just a bit, mock-conspiratorial, “don’t let the death glares freak you out. We’re all nice people, okay? Just need some time to adjust.”

You manage a small smile. “That’s... reassuring.”

Maya gives a subtle nod of approval but says nothing. The rest of the team exchanges glances—Ben looks like he wants to say something but doesn’t. Travis studies you like he’s trying to figure out your story before you even say a word. Andy walks off toward the lockers, and Dean... Dean doesn’t say anything, but he shifts awkwardly, guilt or annoyance—maybe both—flickering in his eyes.

“Hughes is right,” Maya says. “It’s no one’s fault. The department rotates people fast. We still have a job to do. That doesn’t stop.”

Maya claps her hands once, the sound sharp and final. “Okay. Introductions are over. Hughes, show Y/L/N where her gear goes. Get her situated.”

“Yes, Captain,” Vic says, then flashes you a wink. “Come on, rookie. Let’s go find your cubby and your dignity.”

You follow her through the engine bay, the eyes of the team still lingering on your back like the echo of a fire alarm that won’t shut off.

Vic leads you past the rigs, weaving between the engine and ladder truck with an ease that only comes from years spent navigating tight turns and chaos. You try to match her pace, but your boots feel heavy, your mind still stuck back in that suffocating moment of silence.

She glances over her shoulder at you. “You okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just… first-day jitters, I guess.”

Vic hums. “Try first day after someone died jitters. Totally different genre.”

You almost laugh, but the weight of everything keeps it stuck somewhere in your chest. Vic seems to sense it.

“You’ll be fine,” she says, softer this time. “Just… don’t try too hard. That’ll make them hate you more.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That supposed to be comforting?”

“Nope,” Vic grins. “Just honest.”

She stops in front of a gear locker—your name already taped on in black marker. A freshly printed label, slightly crooked. Like someone slapped it on last-minute. Which, maybe they did.

“This is you. Bunk room’s through there,” she gestures toward a hallway, “showers on the left, kitchen's where we live when we’re not, you know, saving people. You’ll find it. We run drills in an hour. Captain’s the devil about punctuality, so don’t be late.”

You glance at the empty cubby, the gear neatly stacked like it’s been waiting for someone. It feels too clean. Too untouched.

Vic lingers a second, watching you. “You ever lose anyone before?” she asks, not unkindly.

You pause, then shake your head. “Not like this.”

Vic nods like she expected that answer. “You will. That’s not me being grim, by the way. That’s just the job. One day it hits you like a train. But today—” she hesitates, then shrugs, “—today, it’s not your grief to carry. Just try not to trip on it.”

You let out a slow breath. “Thanks.”

She pats your shoulder. “And hey. If things get weird—and they will—stick with me. I’m good at translating awkward grief vibes into mildly tolerable chaos.”

You smile, genuinely this time. “Noted.”

Vic starts to walk away, then turns back, walking backward now. “Oh, and if Travis offers you one of his welcome smoothies , say no. They taste like sadness and kale.”

You watch her disappear around the corner, and for a moment, the station is quiet again. Not the suffocating kind like before—more like the eye of a storm.

You turn back to your locker and start unpacking your things.

From the other end of the locker, you hear someone clearing their throat.

You glance up to see a tall, bearded white man, his eyes catching on you. 

"You new?" He asks.

You nod. "I’m Y/N Y/L/N. Just got assigned. I—"

He interrupts, his tone clipped. "Right. Rigo’s replacement."

You freeze. 

Jack sees it and sighs, softening. "Sorry. That was... I didn’t mean it like that."

"It’s okay. You probably all feel that way."

He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly looking ten times more tired than he did a second ago. “I’m Jack. Gibson.” He offers a hand, then seems to second-guess himself, pulling it back halfway like he’s not sure you’ll take it.

You do. His grip is firm but quick, like he’s not used to lingering in small talk anymore.

“I know this isn’t exactly the warmest welcome,” he says, glancing toward the direction Vic went, then back at you. “We’re usually not this…” He trails off, searching for the right word.

“Hostile?” you offer with a small, dry smile.

Jack gives a huff of a laugh, surprised. “Yeah. Something like that.” Then quieter, more honest: “You didn’t do anything wrong. Just... wrong place, wrong time. For all of us.”

You nod, unsure what to say that won’t make it worse.

He leans against the wall, rubbing the back of his neck. “He was a jackass, don’t get me wrong. But he was ours. We all... failed him, somehow. Me more than everyone else.”

That lands with the weight of a dropped hose. Heavy. You blink, unsure whether to say, I’m sorry or thank you for telling me or just okay . Jack doesn’t seem to expect a response, though—his gaze is somewhere over your shoulder, lost in memory.

He continues, jaw tightening. “Anyway. We’re still figuring out how to breathe without him. So if people are weird, it’s not about you.”

You nod again, this time with more purpose. “Got it. Thanks.”

Kitchen - Station 19

Ben is the only one in the kitchen and he motioned for you to join him. You hesitated but sat. 

“You hungry? There’s leftover lasagna.” He offers kindly.

Your stomach turns over in a displeased way. The idea of eating with this heavy silence only makes you want to throw up.

“I’m okay. Thank you.”

Ben gives you a knowing look—part dad, part doctor, part seen-it-all-before . He’s got that calm, steady presence, like someone who’s learned how to stand still in the middle of chaos.

“You sure?” he says, nudging the Tupperware across the counter a little. “We’ve got a drill today. Captain’s gonna run us hard—she’s a machine when it comes to training. You’ll need all the energy you can get.”

You let out a quiet breath, trying to summon even the smallest appetite. “I’m okay. Just… a little too much tension in the air to think about food.”

Ben hums, understanding. “Yeah. That’s about right.” He leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “You can relax, you know. We don’t bite. Or at least, we’re not supposed to. Bishop’s the only one with a license to scare people around here.”

You smile, weak but genuine. “She’s... intense.”

“That’s the nice word for it,” he chuckles. “But she’s good. Really good. Just doesn’t leave room for excuses, especially not during drills. If you’ve got a weak link, she’ll find it—and fast.”

You nod, absorbing every word like you’re still in the academy. “Thanks for the warning.”

Ben softens a bit, watching you with a more thoughtful gaze. “Don’t let all this mess fool you. We’re a family. A complicated one. Little broken right now, but still holding.”

You glance around the empty kitchen, the echo of boots and radio chatter faint in the distance. “Doesn’t feel much like family yet.”

“It won’t,” he says simply. “Not today. Maybe not this week. But it will. When the tones drop and you’re in that rig with us, it all gets real fast. And that’s where it starts.”

You look down at the countertop. “I didn’t expect to be replacing someone. Especially not someone they were still mourning.”

Ben nods slowly. “No one ever does. But we all pick up where someone left off. That’s the job. It’s hard. And it’s constant.”

You look up. He’s not trying to sugarcoat anything, and somehow that makes it easier to trust him.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says with quiet certainty, standing to rinse out his mug. “Just don’t let them scare you off before you get the chance to prove it.”

You nod, finally reaching for the lasagna. “Maybe just a few bites.”

Ben grins. “Smart. You’ll thank me when you’re dragging a charged line across a training yard in full gear.”

You take your first bite just as the tones crackle through the station’s overhead speakers. Not a real call—just the Captain's voice, sharp and commanding.

“All personnel, gear up. Drill starts in ten.”

Ben pats your shoulder lightly on his way out. “Showtime.”

You grab your gear, lasagna forgotten, and head toward the engine bay—your nerves buzzing, boots heavy, but your spine a little straighter.

The silence is fading.

And now… it’s time to work.

Common Room – Station 19

It’s been a week. Just seven days, but in firehouse time? That’s a lifetime.

A lifetime of early mornings and late nights, of drills that push your body to the edge and inside jokes you don’t quite understand yet. A week of being called rookie by pretty much everyone, and yeah—it’s kind of annoying, but you’d rather be noticed than invisible.

Now, at least, there’s banter. Now, Vic steals your coffee and blames Dean, Travis corrects your form with a smirk instead of an eye-roll, and even Andy will grunt something like ‘not bad’ after drills. Jack started throwing you a granola bar before morning runs. It’s something.

You’ve shown them you’re not just Rigo’s replacement—you’re a firefighter. You’ve proved yourself in small ways. Fast turnout times. Sharp instincts. A steady hand on a backboard. You caught a misrouted hydrant line during a drill, and Maya didn’t say anything—just gave you a nod. The others saw it. Felt it. You're not one of them yet, but you're inching closer.

And then Dr. Lewis shows up.

Maya calls everyone into the common room—her voice sharp, leaving no room for negotiation.

“This is Dr. Diane Lewis,” Maya says once you’re all gathered. She stands at the front of the room, posture squared like always, but there’s something softer in her tone. “She’s a therapist with the department. She’s here to talk. About Vasquez. Or anything else.”

A few heads turn, a couple sighs drift into the air. Jack’s already rubbing the back of his neck. Travis shifts uncomfortably. Vic avoids everyone’s eyes.

“It’s not optional,” Maya adds. “You’ll each have some time with her, between calls and shifts. If you don’t go willingly, I’ll make the schedule for you.”

That gets a few dry chuckles. Vic slouches further into the couch. Travis crosses his arms but doesn’t argue. Dean mutters something under his breath about ‘mandatory therapy, cool cool cool.’ Andy looks like she wants to protest but doesn’t. Ben just nods.

You glance at Diane—warm smile, calm energy, like she could talk a grizzly bear down from a tree. You’ve never met her, but you’ve heard things. People actually like talking to her, which is wild for a department shrink.

Then you glance at your captain, slightly intrigued. It’s… unexpected. Most captains wouldn’t push this kind of thing. It’s not the usual tough-it-out vibe you braced yourself for. Of course, Maya Bishop isn’t exactly usual , but you never expect her to be this unusual. Honestly, she seems like the type to toughen it up.

You respect it, honestly. It’s cool to see someone care like that. It's… new.

Besides, it will be good for them. They need to talk to someone, so you appreciate Bishop’s approach to this, however unusual it is. 

You lean back and quietly sip your water. This isn’t for you. You weren’t here when it happened. You didn’t know Vasquez. You never ran into a burning building with him, never shared chili nights, never fought over truck assignments. What could you possibly add?

Let them talk. They need it. They should talk.

And you?

You’re just here to work.

—

The day moves on like clockwork. Calls come in. Calls go out.

One by one, they go to talk to Diane.

Sometimes it’s in the middle of lunch or right after a call. Sometimes Diane just sits with someone outside, on the bench near the bay. She’s got that “I see right through you” kind of vibe, but she doesn’t push too hard. 

You hear Vic laughing with her once. Dean comes back looking exhausted but lighter. Andy looks like she’s been holding her breath the whole session and hasn’t let it go yet. Travis disappears for about thirty-five minutes, then Ben. 

Jack takes the longest. When he comes back, he doesn’t speak to anyone for a while, just sits at the kitchen table tapping a pencil until Travis makes him stop.

You train. You clean gear. You keep your hands busy, your boots laced tight, your head down but your eyes open. You don’t avoid Diane, exactly—you just don’t approach her. She’s here for them. You’re just here to do your job.

And maybe, just maybe, earn your spot.

That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.

Until late that night.

The station’s quiet, lights dimmed, half the team asleep, the other half pretending to be. You’re curled up on the common room couch with a blanket and a fire manual you’ve already read twice. You’re thinking about turning in when a voice breaks the silence.

“You haven’t seen Diane yet.”

You glance up.

It’s Captain Bishop.

“Uh, sorry, cap—I wasn’t trying to hog the couch.” You were startled by her sudden arrival, sitting up a little.

Maya shakes her head, stepping into the room with her arms crossed over her chest, casual but alert. “You’re fine,” she says. “That’s not what I meant.”

She walks over, standing just a few feet from you, eyes scanning the room like she’s checking for movement—but you know she’s giving you space to speak first.

You shut the manual, a little embarrassed. “Right. Dr. Lewis.”

“Yeah.” Maya's voice isn’t sharp, but it’s steady—firm in that way only someone used to command can manage without raising it. “You’re the only one who hasn’t talked to her.”

You shift, sitting up straighter, the blanket falling into your lap as you fidget with the corner of the fire manual. “I figured… it’s not really for me,” you admit, trying not to sound defensive. “I wasn’t here when it happened. I didn’t know Vasquez. I didn’t lose anything.”

Maya’s jaw flexes slightly. She walks over and leans against the back of a chair across from you, crossing her arms again, gaze level. Stern. Unwavering.

“I told all of you it’s mandatory,” she says. “I didn’t stutter.”

You blink, surprised at the edge in her voice. 

You nod, quickly. “Yes, I know. I just—”

“And I said it’s not just about Vasquez. It can be about anything. ” She tilts her head slightly. “That includes you.”

You look down, throat tight. “I just… I didn’t think I had the right. Everyone else actually knew him, I—”

“Now tell me—are you, or are you not part of this team?” Maya interrupts.

You look up at her, startled. “I’m sorry, Cap—?”

“Are you or are you not part of this team?” she asks again, sharper now, cutting through your hesitation like a blade.

Your heart skips. You hate how long it takes you to answer.

“…Yes, Cap,” you say. But it comes out smaller than you want. Like you’re not even sure yourself.

“Say it like you believe it,” she adds.

You lift your eyes to meet hers, spine straightening. “Yes, Captain.”

“Then act like it.”

You open your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe to offer some excuse—but she cuts you off, not unkindly.

“You want to earn your spot? Great. That starts with showing up. And talking to Diane is part of showing up.”

You nod slowly. “Okay. I will.”

“Tonight.”

Your eyes widen a little. “Now?”

Maya straightens up again, nodding once like a final command. “She’s still here for another hour. Go talk.”

You hesitate only a second before muttering, “Yes, Captain.”

You rise from the couch, slow but certain, and head toward the kitchen—where a warm light still glows.

And where Diane is waiting.

Kitchen - Station 19

You pause in the doorway. Diane’s sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of tea in her hands, one leg crossed over the other, reading something on her tablet. She looks peaceful—almost like she belongs here, like the chaos of the firehouse moves around her, not through her.

She glances up when she hears you.

“Hello, Y/L/N.” she says, calm as ever. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You offer a small shake of your head, stepping just past the doorway but not too far in. “Captain told me to come talk to you.”

Diane smiles softly and sets her tablet aside. “She tends to be very persuasive.”

You huff a tiny laugh. “That’s one word for it.”

“Sit. No pressure. We can just talk. Or not talk. I’m good at silence too.” She gestures to the chair across from her. “I was wondering when you’d stop avoiding me.”

You take the seat slowly, unsure where to put your hands, finally settling on folding them on the table. 

“Okay, it’s not like I was actively avoiding you, okay?” You explain.

Then she slightly tilted her head, waiting for you to continue.

“I didn’t think I needed to be here, talking to you,” you admit after a beat. “I wasn’t even around when Vasquez died. I figured this was more for the people who… felt it.”

Diane nods like she’s heard that a thousand times before. “You know grief doesn’t always need to be yours directly to affect you, right?”

You frown slightly, folding your hands on the table. “I didn’t lose him. I just got here.”

“And now you’re trying to build something on ground that hasn’t settled yet,” Diane says, gently. “That’s not easy. You walked into a house mid-funeral. That disorientation? That feeling that you don’t belong? That’s real.”

You glance down, swallowing hard. “I didn’t want to take up space that wasn’t mine.”

“You already do.”

“What?”

“You take up space,” Diane says calmly. “You train with them. You sleep under the same roof. You ride in the same truck. You show up. That makes this your space, too.”

You want to argue. You want to say you’re still just the rookie, still earning your place, still finding where your boots fit in the lineup. But nothing comes out. Not because you disagree—but because, deep down, maybe you do want this to be your space. Maybe you’ve wanted it since the moment you walked in.

“And from what I’ve heard,” Diane continues, “you’re doing a damn good job pulling your weight.”

You don’t know what to say. The praise sinks in slower than the guilt ever did.

She lets the silence sit for a moment before adding, “So let’s talk. Not about Rigo. Not unless you want to.” Her voice is the kind that doesn’t push—but still somehow moves you. “Let’s talk about you. ”

She holds your gaze.

“About what it’s like being here in Station 19. A place that’s still grieving. What that feels like.”

You stare down at the table for a second, your fingertips brushing over the grain in the wood. It’s easier than meeting her eyes. Easier than saying something out loud that might sound stupid or dramatic or wrong.

But Diane just waits. Like she always does. Like silence doesn’t bother her.

Finally, you say, low and unsure, “I don’t know what the feeling’s name is… but it kind of reminds me of my childhood. It’s different, but almost the same.”

Diane leans back just a little. Not away from you—just giving the words space to breathe. “How so?” she asks, still soft, but with genuine interest threading through her voice.

“When I was a kid, maybe nine-ish, my sister passed away,” you start, hesitant but already halfway in. “She was my hero, my whole world. When I found her in that bathtub with all of that blood…”

Your breath hitches, and you lower your voice, almost like the memory might hear you and crack open all over again.

“My whole world was gone just like that.”

You swallow hard, eyes still on the table. You don’t see Diane’s reaction, but you feel her presence—quiet, grounded.

“But my parents?” you continue. “Their whole universe died that day. My sister was their most cherished kid. A straight-A student. A cheerleader. Heading for this really great future. And I get it. I do. She was incredible.”

A faint smile ghosts across your face, not happy, but practiced. A mask you’ve worn before.

“And after that… they started looking at me like I was supposed to be her. Like if I tried hard enough, maybe I could bring her back somehow.” You let out a shaky breath, almost a laugh, but it’s hollow. “And I understood. I do understand. That kind of grief—losing your golden child—it’s… unmeasurable.”

You pause, running your thumb along the table’s edge.

“And in some sense, it feels almost the same as what I’m feeling here. I get that Station 19 lost someone— their someone. They’re grieving. And I’m just the person who showed up after the funeral. It’s like—I don’t know. Like I’m a stand-in. A fill-in rookie wearing a uniform that doesn’t quite fit yet.”

You let the truth settle for a second before you add, softer, “So, just like then, I’ll take the punch. I’ll carry the expectations. I’ll try to be whatever they need me to be. I’m used to that.”

There’s a moment of silence. Not the heavy kind—just stillness, like Diane is giving the weight of what you said a place to land.

Then, suddenly self-aware, you let out a short, awkward chuckle.

“Sorry,” you murmur, shaking your head a little. “I must’ve talked too much. I don’t know what came over me.”

But Diane smiles—kind and knowing.

Diane shakes her head slowly, voice still calm but firmer now. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t talk too much. You told your truth. That’s the bravest thing anyone can do.”

You glance up at her, surprised.

“Sounds to me like you’ve spent most of your life trying to measure up to a ghost,” she adds gently. “At home. Now here. Living in someone else’s outline.”

You nod once. You hadn’t thought of it that way, not in so many words. But yeah. That’s exactly what it feels like—like your entire life has been an attempt to color inside the lines someone else left behind.

“I’m not saying what you’re doing isn’t admirable,” Diane continues. “You work hard. You show up. You take the hits and don’t flinch. That takes strength. But the version of you who gets to stay in this team—the one who belongs here—she doesn’t have to be anyone’s replacement.”

You look up slowly, meeting her gaze for the first time in minutes.

“She just has to be you,” Diane finishes.

The silence that settles now is different. Not heavy. Not awkward. It’s… still. 

“And just so we’re clear,” she continues, “you’re not a stand-in.  Not here. And you weren’t one back then either. You’re a person. You’re you . That’s enough.”

Your throat tightens again, but this time, it’s from the swell of something unfamiliar.

Validation.

Warmth.

Maybe even a little hope.

“You’ve got a right to take up space, Y/N,” Diane adds. “Even here. Especially here.”

You blink hard. “I don’t really know how to believe that yet.”

“You don’t have to yet,” Diane replies, her voice almost a whisper. “But I’ll believe it for you. Until you can.”

Diane nods slowly, like she was expecting that. Not disappointed—just… understanding.

“That’s fair,” she says simply. “You don’t have to believe it today.”

You glance at her, eyes still clouded with a mix of exhaustion and disbelief, but she’s steady. Unshaken. A quiet force.

“But here’s the thing,” she goes on. “Just because you don’t believe it yet doesn’t mean it’s not true. Sometimes our hearts take longer than our heads to catch up. And sometimes our heads are so used to lies, they can’t recognize truth even when it’s sitting across the table from them.”

You huff out something like a laugh, but it’s hollow. “Yeah, well... I guess my head’s just really loud.”

She smiles, not in pity but in understanding. “Then we’ll start there. With the noise. And we take it one shift at a time.”

You nod again, slowly this time. Still uncertain, but something in you softens.

“Okay,” you say, voice low.

“Okay,” Diane repeats, as if sealing it into place.

She stands, gathering her notepad and mug. “Same couch, same time next week?”

You blink. “You want me to come back?”

“I want you to want to come back,” she says with a warm shrug. “But yes. I think it’d be good for you. We’ll keep talking. Not about your sister. Not about Rigo. Just… about you.”

And then, without another word, she steps out of the kitchen and leaves you there in the soft glow of overhead lights.

The walk back to your bunk feels longer than it should. Maybe it’s the weight of what you said—words you haven’t said in years, maybe ever. Maybe it’s Diane’s voice still echoing in your head, gentle but unshakable. 

We’ll keep talking. Not about your sister. Not about Rigo. Just… about you.

You push open the door to the bunk room as quietly as possible. A few of your teammates are already asleep, soft breathing and rustling sheets the only sounds in the dim space. You climb up into your bed, moving slowly, like every motion feels too big.

The mattress feels foreign tonight, too soft and too loud all at once. You tug the blanket up to your chin and stare at the ceiling, letting your eyes blur.

You think about your sister. About the blood. About your parents and their silent expectations. About this station, this new family you’ve been dropped into—grieving someone they lost while you try to figure out how to even belong .

You want to cry, but your eyes stay dry. You’re not sure if that’s a win or a loss.

Eventually, your body gives in to the exhaustion, but sleep is fragmented. Flashes of water, red, voices you don’t recognize. You wake up sometime around 3 a.m., heart pounding, sweat sticking your shirt to your back. You sit up slowly, pressing a hand over your chest, grounding yourself in the dark.

Across the room, someone shifts in their bed. A rustle, then a whisper.

“You okay?”

It’s Jack. He doesn’t get up, just stays where he is, his voice low but laced with real concern.

You pause, caught off guard. “Yeah,” you whisper back. “Just a dream.”

He’s quiet for a second, then: “You wanna talk about it?”

You shake your head even though he can’t see it. “Not right now.”

“Okay.” A beat. “But if you change your mind… I’m here.”

You blink hard again, swallowing down a lump in your throat.

“Thanks,” you murmur and lie back down.

Jack doesn’t say anything else. But he stays awake for a while longer, just in case.

And for the first time since you got to Station 19, you don’t feel like just a stand-in. You feel… a little seen.