you’re a funny little biscuit.

A luna moth (Actias luna) in New York, USA

Sypnosis: They've spent their lives answering everyone else's emergencies. Neither of them expected to become each other's.

Rating: Will become 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Warnings: best friend's dad trope, age gap, forbidden love. **I will add more as I continue**

“Fuck.”

The word slipped out before you could stop it.

You stared down at the growing puddle spreading across the kitchen tile, the steady drip beneath the sink sounding louder with every passing second.

Just what you needed before work.

A few months ago, you'd paid a plumber to "fix" the leak. Looking at the water slowly creeping toward your socks, you were starting to question exactly what he'd fixed.

Apparently not this.

With a resigned sigh, you grabbed your phone and called out of work. There wasn't much choice. The leak wasn't going to magically disappear while you were gone.

Your phone buzzed against the granite countertop before you'd even set it back down.

Sarah Richards.

How's your day going?

You let out another sigh before typing.

Not so great. 😑

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

What's going on?

Where did you even start?

My fucking kitchen sink is leaking so bad. Had to call into work. 😑 Need to find a plumber ASAP.

As soon as you hit send, you opened your browser and started searching for local plumbers.

You hadn't actually called any of them yet.

You knew you needed to.

You just...

You hated talking on the phone.

It wasn't rational. Most people probably wouldn't think twice about calling a plumber, but every time you had to speak to someone you didn't know, your anxiety found a way to make it feel like the biggest ordeal in the world.

Your phone buzzed again.

Wait before you call someone. Maybe my dad can help?

Your stomach dipped.

Her dad?

You'd only met Brett Richards once.

Sarah had stopped by Station 42 before the two of you went to lunch, insisting she needed to drop something off first. You'd spent all of five minutes there—just enough time for quick introductions before the tones sounded and firefighters scattered toward the trucks.

Still...

He'd been hard to forget.

Your dad?

Yeah. He's on call today unless something crazy happens. Let me text him.

While you waited, your mind wandered.

From everything Sarah had shared over the years, she and Brett hadn't always been close. After her mom died, grief had settled between them like a wall neither of them knew how to climb. He buried himself in the fire department. Sarah buried herself in college, friends, and anything that kept her from thinking about home.

Things were better now.

Not perfect.

But better.

Your phone buzzed again.

Dad said he can be there in about an hour. Does that work?

You stared at the message longer than necessary.

It wasn't that you weren't grateful.

You absolutely were.

The problem was... Brett Richards was unfairly attractive.

Salt-and-pepper hair. Broad shoulders. Laugh lines that somehow made him even more handsome instead of older. There'd been something steady about him during that brief meeting—calm, dependable, quietly confident.

Exactly your type.

Unfortunately.

You blamed the daddy issues.

Before you could overthink it any longer, you typed back.

Yeah. Tell him I really appreciate it.

Will do. Text me later.

👍

You set your phone down on the counter and glanced around your kitchen.

Great.

Now you had an hour to clean your house and mentally prepare for Brett Richards to show up at your front door.

No pressure.

He was just your best friend's dad.

And there was absolutely no reason your heart should already be beating a little faster.

You glanced around your kitchen.

The sink was still leaking.

A dish towel you'd thrown down twenty minutes ago was already soaked through, doing little more than delaying the inevitable.

"Great," you muttered.

If Sarah's dad was coming over, the least you could do was make it look like you hadn't been living off takeout containers and laundry piles for the last week.

You sprang into motion.

The dishes disappeared into the dishwasher. The blanket you'd left draped over the couch was folded and tossed over the armrest. Shoes were kicked into the hallway closet, mail stacked into a somewhat organized pile, and by the time you finished wiping down the counters, you were slightly out of breath.

Your eyes drifted down to your oversized college T-shirt and grey sweatpants.

Would it be weird to change?

Probably.

He was coming to fix your sink, not take you out to dinner.

Still...

You disappeared down the hallway and emerged a few minutes later in a fitted sage green T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Casual. Normal.

Definitely not because Sarah's dad was attractive.

You caught your reflection in the hallway mirror.

"You have issues," you mumbled to yourself.

The doorbell rang.

Your heart promptly forgot how to function.

Taking a slow breath, you opened the front door.

Brett Richards stood on your porch with a worn black toolbox in one hand.

"Morning," he said, offering an easy smile.

Up close, he somehow looked even better than you remembered.

His salt-and-pepper hair was shorter than before, a few silver strands catching the sunlight. Light stubble shadowed his jaw, and laugh lines fanned from the corners of warm blue eyes. He wore navy station pants and a charcoal Station 42 T-shirt stretched comfortably across broad shoulders, a portable radio clipped to his belt crackling softly with distant dispatch traffic.

He looked every bit the firefighter.

"You must be..." His smile widened slightly. "Sarah's friend."

You returned a nervous smile.

"That's me."

"Brett."

"I know."

The words left your mouth before you had a chance to think.

Heat immediately rushed into your cheeks.

"I mean..." You let out an awkward laugh. "Sarah talks about you."

He chuckled, thankfully saving you from digging the hole any deeper.

"I hope that's a good thing."

"It is."

You stepped aside.

"Come on in."

"Thanks."

The first thing Brett noticed was the towel spread across the kitchen floor.

"That bad?"

You sighed.

"Worse than it looks."

"Well," he said, setting the toolbox down beside the sink. "Let's see what we've got."

He crouched down, opening the cabinet doors beneath the sink. You bit your lip as you watched his muscles flex under his shirt. 

"You mind turning the faucet on for me?"

"Sure."

You moved beside him, twisting the handle.

Almost immediately, water began spraying from one of the connections.

"There it is," Brett said.

"So... that's bad?"

He laughed quietly.

"It's not good."

You groaned.

"I paid someone to fix this a couple months ago."

"I can tell."

His tone carried just enough amusement that you couldn't help laughing too.

"They replaced the wrong fitting."

"They... what?"

"Mhm." He reached for a wrench inside his toolbox. "Looks like they treated the symptom instead of the problem."

"Sounds expensive."

"Not today."

You blinked.

"Brett—I mean Mr. Richards, I can't let you—"

He looked up from beneath the sink, offering a reassuring smile.

"Sarah would never forgive me if I charged one of her friends."

Your chest tightened just a little.

"You really don't have to do this."

"I know."

He returned his attention to the pipes.

"But I'd like to."

For a moment, the only sounds filling the kitchen were the metallic clink of his tools and the occasional crackle from the radio clipped to his hip.

It was... oddly comforting.

"You called out of work because of this?" he asked after a minute.

"Yeah."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a nurse."

He nodded knowingly.

"Then I definitely want to get this fixed. Last thing you need after taking care of everyone else is coming home to this."

You smiled to yourself.

He had no idea that one simple sentence had completely caught you off guard.

Brett

Brett tightened the fitting another quarter turn before reaching for the shutoff valve.

"Try it again," he said.

The faucet came on.

He watched the connection for a long beat.

Dry.

"There we go."

A relieved laugh escaped her.

"Oh, thank God."

He couldn't help smiling to himself as he slid out from beneath the sink, wiping his hands on an old shop rag tucked into the back pocket of his station pants.

"It should hold now."

She let out a breath that sounded like she'd been carrying the weight of that leak all morning.

"I seriously can't thank you enough."

"You already have."

"No, I mean it."

"I know."

She meant it.

That much was obvious.

Most people would've looked at the finished job, muttered a quick thanks, and gone about the rest of their day. She'd thanked him half a dozen times since he'd walked through the front door, each one sounding just as genuine as the last.

Sarah had always said her friend was sweet.

She hadn't exaggerated.

He packed the wrench back into his toolbox, his eyes wandering around the kitchen for the first time since he'd arrived.

It was spotless.

Cleaner than most kitchens he'd seen.

Almost...

Too clean.

His gaze landed on the damp towel she'd thrown on the floor to catch the leak.

Another sat crumpled near the pantry.

The faint scent of lemon cleaner still lingered in the air.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

She'd panic-cleaned.

He'd seen enough inspection-ready fire stations over the years to recognize the signs.

Something about the thought made him chuckle under his breath.

"What?" she asked.

He looked up to find her watching him with narrowed eyes.

"Nothing."

"No." She crossed her arms. "That was definitely a laugh."

"It wasn't."

"It absolutely was."

He shook his head, fighting a grin.

"I think you cleaned before I got here."

Her eyes widened for half a second.

"I..."

"You didn't have to."

A blush spread across her cheeks so quickly it almost made him feel guilty for pointing it out.

"I didn't."

"Mhm."

"I was cleaning because..." She glanced around the room as though searching for an excuse. "...because my kitchen was a mess."

"So you admit it."

She let out an exasperated laugh.

"You're impossible."

"So I've been told."

Mostly by Sarah.

The thought made him smile.

His daughter.

She'd been relentless when she'd called.

"Dad, please tell me you'll go. She's freaking out."

He'd tried reminding Sarah that he wasn't a plumber.

She'd reminded him that he'd practically rebuilt half their house over the years.

She wasn't wrong.

Silence settled between them for a moment.

Not awkward.

Comfortable.

Unexpectedly so.

He wasn't sure why.

Maybe it was because conversation with her didn't feel forced. She wasn't trying to impress him or make small talk for the sake of filling the room. She was just...

Easy.

His radio crackled to life on his belt.

"Battalion Forty-Two, copy a medical aid..."

Instinctively, his hand went to the volume knob, turning it down just enough to hear without interrupting the dispatcher.

Occupational habit.

Years on the job had conditioned him to always listen with one ear, even when he wasn't actively responding.

"You really are on call," she said quietly.

"Comes with the job."

"Does it ever stop?"

He considered the question.

"Not really."

The words came easier than he expected.

"You learn to live with it."

She nodded, her expression softening.

"I guess nursing's kind of the same."

He met her eyes.

For a second—just a second—something settled between them.

Recognition.

Two people who knew what it was like to spend their lives taking care of everyone else.

Brett looked away first.

She was Sarah's best friend.

Young enough that he should've only ever seen her as another one of Sarah's college buddies.

That should've been the end of it.

Instead, he found himself noticing the way she'd tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear while she listened.

The way she'd smiled every time he'd explained what he was fixing.

The way she looked relieved—not because the sink was repaired, but because someone had shown up when she needed help.

He closed the toolbox with a quiet snap.

Careful.

That was a line he had no business even looking at, let alone crossing.

He'd spent too many years teaching younger firefighters to think before they acted.

It was about time he listened to his own advice.

Brett rested a hand on the handle of his toolbox, lingering longer than necessary.

He should leave.

The sink was fixed.

His job here was done.

Instead, he found himself looking back toward the kitchen.

She was wringing out the soaked dish towel in the sink, completely unaware that he was watching. A few loose strands of hair had escaped her ponytail, falling across her cheek as she worked.

Beautiful. Ordinary.

Brett swallowed hard as he noticed how your jeans hugged your hips, the small of your back showing as you leaned over the sink. 

There wasn't anything particularly remarkable about the moment.

And yet...

He looked away.

Jesus, Brett.

What was wrong with him?

She was Sarah's best friend.

Hell, Sarah would probably kill him if she knew where his thoughts had wandered for even half a second.

Not that they'd wandered far.

He wasn't imagining anything.

Wasn't planning anything.

He'd simply noticed her.

That was all.

He'd noticed the way she'd smiled when he said he wasn't charging her.

The nervous laugh every time she thought she'd said something embarrassing.

The way she'd thanked him like he'd done far more than tighten a pipe beneath her sink.

She was...

Kind.

That was the word.

Genuinely kind.

The realization settled heavier than he cared to admit.

Kindness had become harder to find over the years.

After enough fires.

Enough accidents.

Enough middle-of-the-night calls that ended with someone else's worst day becoming part of his own.

You started expecting the worst from people.

Then someone came along and thanked you six different times for fixing a leaky sink.

His jaw tightened.

It would've been easier if she'd been rude.

Or entitled.

Or spoiled.

Anything that would've made walking away feel simple.

Instead, she was exactly the kind of person he found himself respecting. 

Which was a problem.

A very real problem.

Because respect had a funny way of becoming admiration.

And admiration...

He knew better than to finish that thought.

His radio crackled softly against his hip, pulling him back to the present.

"Battalion Forty-Two..."

He reached down automatically, acknowledging the transmission before turning the volume lower again.

Focus.

He'd spent nearly thirty years preaching discipline.

Think before you act.

Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast.

Don't let your emotions make decisions your head wouldn't.

Apparently, those lessons applied outside the firehouse, too.

"Brett?"

Her voice broke through his thoughts.

He looked up.

She stood a few feet away, drying her hands on a clean dish towel.

"I made coffee." She offered a sheepish smile. "I know you were probably heading out, but... if you've got ten minutes?"

For one dangerous second...

He almost said yes.

Instead, he glanced toward the radio on his belt.

"I probably shouldn't."

The disappointment that flickered across her face lasted less than a heartbeat.

She hid it well.

Too well.

"Right." She nodded with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Of course. You're on call."

"I am."

It wasn't a lie.

But it wasn't the whole truth, either.

The truth was that sitting across the table from her, drinking coffee and talking about nothing at all, sounded entirely too appealing.

And that was exactly why he couldn't do it.

Not today.

Maybe not ever.

She gave him a small nod.

"I understand."

There it was again.

That smile.

Soft.

Grateful.

Without a trace of disappointment, even though he'd caught the flicker of it before she'd tucked it away.

She was good at that.

Pretending she wasn't disappointed.

It reminded him too much of Sarah after her mother died.

His chest tightened.

No.

He shut that thought down immediately.

This wasn't the same.

It wasn't even close.

"Well..." He cleared his throat, lifting the toolbox from the floor. "Take care of yourself."

"You too."

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.

"I'm going to try."

She smiled.

"I mean it."

Their eyes met for the briefest moment.

Too long to be accidental.

Too short to mean anything.

Brett looked away first.

"Have a good rest of your day."

"You too, Brett."

His name.

She'd said it so naturally.

Not Mr. Richards.

Not Sarah's dad.

Just...

Brett.

He wasn't sure why that bothered him.

Or why he liked it as much as he did.

He stepped outside, closing the front door quietly behind him.

The afternoon air was warmer than he'd expected.

He walked across the driveway, every instinct telling him to get in the truck and leave.

So why did it feel like he was leaving something behind?

He frowned.

His toolbox was in his hand.

His radio was clipped to his belt.

His phone was in his pocket.

He hadn't forgotten anything.

Then why...

He climbed into the driver's seat and rested both hands on the steering wheel without turning the key.

Get a grip.

She was a nice woman.

That was all.

A friend of Sarah's.

Someone who happened to make excellent coffee.

Someone who smiled with her whole face.

Someone who'd thanked him like he'd done her the biggest favor in the world over a twenty-dollar plumbing fitting.

He let out a slow breath.

It had been a long time since anyone looked at him the way she had.

Not because he was Battalion Chief.

Not because he could fix something.

Just...

Like she was happy he'd shown up.

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

That was dangerous.

Loneliness had a way of dressing ordinary moments up to look like something they weren't.

He knew that better than anyone.

He'd spent years coming home to an empty house.

Years throwing himself into overtime, training, paperwork—anything that kept the silence from catching up with him.

You started forgetting what it felt like when someone was simply... glad to see you.

He started the truck.

The engine rumbled to life.

Without thinking, his eyes drifted toward the front window.

The curtain shifted.

Just slightly.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it.

She was making sure he'd left.

Or maybe...

He shook his head.

No.

Don't do that.

He put the truck in drive and pulled away from the curb.

By the time he reached the end of the street, he'd already decided he wasn't going to think about her anymore.

...

"Dad?"

Brett looked up from the paperwork spread across his desk in his office at Station 42.

Sarah stood in the doorway, still wearing her scrubs, a paper bag from the bakery tucked under one arm.

He blinked.

"What are you doing here?"

She smiled.

"I brought lunch."

He smiled back.

"To what do I owe the honor?"

"I was in the neighborhood."

She set the bag on his desk before leaning against the doorframe.

"Oh..."

She said it casually, like it was an afterthought.

"I saw her this morning."

Brett's pen stopped moving.

"Who?"

Sarah gave him an odd look.

"My friend."

Silence.

"You know..."

A grin slowly spread across her face.

"The one with the leaky sink."

Brett looked back down at the report in front of him.

"Huh."

He tried to sound indifferent.

It came out just a little too quickly.

Sarah narrowed her eyes.

"Huh?"

"Glad the sink's still working."

She studied him for a moment longer.

Then shrugged.

"Yeah."

Brett nodded once.

"Good."

Sarah smiled to herself.

"Anyway..."

#he's trying his best!!

STAR WARS: THE MANDALORIAN AND GROGU (2026) dir. Jon Favreau

+ BONUS