We were a fresh page on the desk

Filling in the blanks as we go

As if a street light pointed in an arrowhead

Leading us home

-"Cornelia Street", Taylor Swift

There's something about the middle-of-the-night stillness at 51 that Matt's always found oddly comforting. It's only a matter of time, he knows, before the alarm pierces the quiet and sends them off in the direction of the next call. For now though, he's content to enjoy the fleeting calm as long as it lasts.

Matt closes the file for his last call report and switches off the lamp on his desk. Pushing out of his chair, he walks quietly past the bunk room where everyone else is sleeping and heads for the kitchen. He's a little surprised once he turns the corner to find that he's not the only one up at this hour. Sylvie's sitting criss-cross on the end of the counter, shoulders slumped, eating ice cream directly from the carton. She doesn't notice his presence, too lost in whatever thoughts put that gloomy, faraway expression on her face.

They haven't talked much since she returned to 51 a couple weeks ago, and a pang of guilt courses through him. Matt tells himself it's because he's been busy training Gallo, but if he truly wanted to get introspective, he knows it's more than that. But ithat/i isn't something he even knows how to define or wrap his head around.

Still, Sylvie is a member of his 51 family, his friend, and right now she's sad. He owes it to her to try and cheer her up.

He clears his throat, and Sylvie startles with a squeak from her place atop the counter, flicking her big blue eyes up to meet his. They're shiny with unshed tears, and Matt's protective instincts flicker to life.

She blows out a breath and swipes the back of her hand quickly under her eyes. "You scared me," she admonishes quietly, focusing her gaze back on the ice cream in her hands.

"Sorry," he replies, walking towards the counter. "Wanna talk about it?"

Sylvie shrugs—a noncommittal answer if there ever was one—and lifts another spoonful of chocolate ice cream to her lips.

It doesn't bother him if she doesn't want to talk, but Sylvie isn't one to keep her cards close to the vest. Matt can wait until she's ready. "Mind if I sit?" he asks, pointing to the space beside her.

She waves her hand over the space in invitation. "Sure, but I'm not sharing my ice cream. Okay, it's Capp's ice cream and I stole it, but I'm going to replace it I promise!"

Matt huffs out an amused breath and hops up beside her. "Secret's safe with me."

They sit in silence for long, drawn-out minutes until he thinks that maybe she isn't going to talk after all. Then, she puts down the ice cream and tucks her hands under her legs. "This place isn't the same as when I left," Sylvie says softly.

Another wave of guilt crashes in his gut. Losing Otis was devastating, and he carries that weight around daily. "No, it's not."

"I never should have left," she admits, her voice tight with the threat of fresh tears. "And I feel guilty for that. Like I abandoned my family in the middle of their grief to go start a new life. One I shouldn't have said iyes/i to in the first place."

Matt's jaw twitches and he stares down at the floor. While it had been Sylvie's decision to make, he feels partly responsible for nudging her back towards Kyle. "You were grieving, too. It isn't a one size fits all process, Sylvie. However you grieve is your choice."

Her blonde head nods slightly. "Yeah." There's a long, quiet beat before she speaks again. "Can I admit something to you?"

He turns his head to face Sylvie and watches her worry her bottom lip between her teeth. "Of course."

Sylvie glances at him, then casts her eyes forward. "I was so relieved when I broke off my engagement and left Fowlerton. It was like I'd had an elephant sitting on my chest, and he finally moved so I could breathe. How messed up is that?

"Kyle's such a good guy," she continues. "I feel like the world's worst person for hurting him."

"Hey," Matt says softly, waiting for her to look at him. Once she does, he notices the pain and guilt reflecting in her eyes. "You can't set yourself on fire to keep other people warm."

An alarm blares throughout the station, calling for Ambulance 61, effectively putting an end to their talk. Matt watches the mask of the job slip back across her face as Sylvie tightens her ponytail and hops off the counter.

"Thanks, Casey," she calls over her shoulder, and runs for the ambo.

"I should've made you get checked out while we were at Med," Foster says as she backs the ambo into the bay at 51. It's the third time in the last half hour she's said as much.

Sylvie refrains from rolling her eyes, but it's a near thing. She loves her friend dearly, and the concern for her well-being is appreciated, but she doesn't need a damn doctor nor the mountain of bureaucratic paperwork to go with it. "You already looked at me," Sylvie reminds her, pointing to the rapidly warming ice pack against her cheek. "I'm fine." She unbuckles and hops out of the rig before Emily can say anything else.

The truck and engine crews are in the bay cleaning, so Sylvie ducks her head to avoid getting the third degree from the guys. She's in a pissy mood after that call. Her cheek and fat lip smart like hell, but there's no way her pride will let her admit that now.

"Why don't you tell the Captain and get his opinion, then?" Foster calls out behind her.

Sylvie whirls to glare daggers at traitorous friend and finds Matt approaching the ambo. iDammit!/i It's not that she's been avoiding him ever since she tearfully spilled her guts the other night—necessarily—but her embarrassment over the whole situation helped successfully shield her from having any more one-on-one conversations with him.

No such luck now.

"Get my opinion about what?" Matt asks. The second his eyes land on her swollen lip his face hardens. "What happened, Brett?"

Sylvie fights off the urge to stomp her foot and tell them both to mind their own business, but the last thing she needs is to wind up in Boden's office for insubordination. "Foster and I responded to a call at a frat house. A couple of drunk meatheads were fighting and getting in the way of our care of the patient and I caught an accidental fist trying to move them. I'm fine."

"That's your third ifine/i in 20 minutes," Foster not-so-helpfully adds.

Her jaw tightens and she bites back the mean retort on her tongue.

"Kidd!" Casey hollers.

Stella walks up, brows raised. "What's up, Captain?" Her eyes flick over to Foster, then Sylvie, and she does a double take. "Oh, Brett! What happened?"

Casey spares her from answering, but the relief is short-lived."I need you on ambo with Foster for the rest of shift. Brett's out."

"You got it, Casey," Stella replies.

Sylvie turns on her heel and storms off, ignoring Casey when he calls her name.

Admittedly, she's being a brat; it's behavior she's not proud of, and may very well result in a reprimand from her superiors. But when other people act like they know better than she does about how she's feeling, she gets riled up, and sometimes that boils over.

A few deep breaths help smooth the worst edges of her anger, then she finally looks in the mirror to assess the injuries. Her bottom lip is red and swollen, but the skin is intact. Turning her head, she sees that her cheek looks worse with bruises already showing. It's tender to the touch, but should heal quickly. She needs more ice and some ibuprofen for her splitting headache.

Sylvie hears footsteps approaching and straightens her spine for the dressing down she's bound to receive. Matt's reflection appears in the mirror, and from the tight line of his lips and the hard set to his jaw, she knows he's pissed. With a sigh, she turns around to face the music.

"Casey, I'm—" she starts, but he cuts her off by taking her hand and dropping a bag of frozen peas into it. "Peas?"

"They stay cold longer than an instant ice pack."

It's a clever hack, and one she's not at all surprised he knows about. The corners of her lips lift in a half smile. "Yeah."

He's calmer than she'd expected him to be, and that unnerves her. "Let me see your face," he says evenly.

Sylvie tips her head up and angles the injured cheek toward him. Matt closes into her space, focused determination in his eyes. He's close enough for her to detect the clean scent of his laundry detergent, and the smell sparks a little tingle low in her belly. Then his hands cup her face, thumbs on her cheekbones, fingers brushing over her ears, and those tingles grow even bigger. iRidiculous/i is the only word to describe her reaction to this. Thirty seconds ago she was seeing red, ready to tear down everyone in her path. Then a stupid bag of frozen peas and a whiff of Matt Casey's laundry detergent has her going weak in the knees.

Maybe she got hit in the head harder than she thought.

Rather than looking at his face, she focuses intently on the bugles of his red Captain's lapel pin. That feels like the safest course of action while he's touching her so she doesn't go and do something stupid. iLike kiss him./i With gentle fingers, Matt palpates the injured skin around her cheekbone. She tries to keep the wince at bay, but the area is tender and sore, and she sucks in a pained breath between her teeth. His hands drop away slowly and he draws her hand holding the peas up to her cheek. The cold bag against her skin snaps her back to reality.

"You're gonna have one helluva shiner, Sylvie," Matt says, taking a measured step out of her space.

She doesn't disagree. "Yeah, well, maybe it'll up my street cred when I tell people they should see the other guy."

Matt chuckles and folds his arms across his chest. "Hold on to that sense of humor because you're going to Med for an x-ray."

She's been duped! "Are you serious?" Sylvie scoffs, brows furrowed.

"As a heart attack. Foster and Kidd are waiting to take you," he says, jerking his thumb towards the door.

The anger she'd tamped down bubbles up and boils over. Her free hand balls into a fist and this time she gives into the urge to stomp her foot. Like a freaking toddler. "You're a—a—you're a butthead!"

Matt bursts out laughing, which throws her for a loop. "Did you just call me a butthead?" he asks, still laughing.

Sylvie straightens, indignant. "I thoughtiasshole/i might warrant a write-up, but in hindsight it might've been worth it." He gives her a warning look to let her know she's walking a fine line. She closes her eyes to keep from rolling them and mumbles a half-hearted, "Sorry."

"How many times have you jumped my ass during calls insisting I need to get checked out on the rig or at the hospital?" he asks.

"Frankly, I've lost count," she retorts. He has the audacity to smirk at her, and she doesn't care one bit for how attractive he is with that expression on his face. Sylvie slumps her shoulders in defeat and her lips turn down into a pout. "Damn you and your logic, Casey," she mutters.

"Face it, Brett. First responders make the worst patients." He pats her on the shoulder and turns to leave. "Update me when you get back. There will be plenty of paperwork for you to fill out."

She hugs Foster, apologies flowing freely from her lips for being an obstinate jerk. Stella wraps her arms around them both, and the rest of the anger and annoyance fizzles out.

Sylvie holds the bag of peas on her face the whole ride to the hospital.

She doesn't breathe a word to her friends about her interaction in the locker room with Matt.

There's a knock at his office door—it's Sylvie. She's got a stack of paperwork in her hand and an apologetic smile on her lips. The bruises mottling her skin have turned purple, but they're going to get worse before they heal. "Hey," he says, turning around in his chair, a smile of his own for her. "What'd you find out?"

Leaning against the jamb, she hands over the paperwork. "No fracture, thankfully, but I do have a mild concussion. I'll be off the next few shifts until I clear protocol. If you need to say iI told you so/i, go ahead. I deserve to hear it."

Matt shakes his head, the corners of his mouth pulling down into a frown. It stings a little that she thinks he'd kick her while she's down. "I didn't insist you see a doctor to be right, Sylvie. I wanted to make sure you were okay."

She casts a furtive glance to the floor, but her big blue eyes are earnest when looks back at him. "No, I know you did, Matt," she says, tucking the stray tendril of sunny blonde hair behind her ear. "I appreciate it. And I wanted to say I'm sorry. My behavior earlier was obnoxious, to say the least, and I lobbed most of that at you. I'll understand if I receive a reprimand for it."

He respects her rule following nature—always has—but she's crazy if she thinks she's earned a mark on her record for this. "Cut it out. I'm not writing you up for being frustrated about this whole thing. Water under the bridge."

"Thanks, Casey. Anyway, you've got all the forms there. I'll see you in a week or two."

Sylvie starts to leave and Matt feels unsettled still, like he needs to say something else before she goes. "Hang on—um—" But he hasn't a clue what that isomething/i is.

"Yes?" she asks, brows raised expectantly.

Matt stands and stuffs his hands into his pockets. Jesus, he's embarrassing. "You once offered to be the person I could call if I needed to talk about anything."

One corner of her mouth twitches up as she glances away. "That offer hasn't expired."

God, she's such a igood/i person. Matt swallows and forces the rest of the words out of his mouth. "I just wanted you to know it goes both ways. If you need to talk, I mean. Anytime. I'll answer."

"Careful what you wish for, Matt. I might just take you up on that." She lifts a hand in goodbye, and walks out of his office.

Sylvie doesn't call.

He doesn't know why he'd expected her to, or why he's disappointed that she hasn't.

iIt's not like you're calling her either/i, he reminds himself.

Matt makes a mental note to call and check on her tomorrow.

The alarm sounds with a call for Truck 81, so he tucks away any distracting thoughts and gets his head in the game.

Being on medical leave a second time within a year sucks.

It's only been a few days, but Sylvie's already bored and restless and eager to get back to work. Her headaches are subsiding, and her lip is back to its normal size. The bruises on her face are still pretty nasty, but she can cover them with makeup easily enough when she's stir crazy and needs to get out in the world.

She's not cleared for strenuous exercise, so she can't even go to spin class and sweat out her frustrations. The upside? With nothing but free time on her hands, the apartment she shares with Cruz is the cleanest it's ever been.

It still hurts to walk past Otis' old room. Sometimes she'll run across a show or stupid video he would have loved, and she almost calls for him to come watch with her. Then she remembers that he's gone, and that hollow ache of sadness blooms in her chest.

The door to his room stays closed now.

Sylvie thinks about calling Matt.

Truth is, she thinks about calling him a lot, and Sylvie doesn't know what to make of that. They're friends, of course, have been for years. And he's easy to talk to—but the last few times they've talked left her spun up for days, and she'd rather not focus on the reasons iwhy/i. Not yet anyway.

But he'd told her to call anytime. It probably would be rude to inot/i take him up on that offer. She can just give him a quick update on her recovery and ask how everyone is doing, even though Emily and Stella keep her apprised of all the happenings at 51.

iStop being so ridiculous, Sylvie Brett!/i

She puts down her phone and heads for the kitchen to make a cup of tea and grab two of the cookies she baked yesterday.

Joe and Chloe are there in the living room, cuddled up together on the sofa playfully arguing over what to watch on Netflix. They're so cute together, so right for each other, and she's genuinely thrilled that they're engaged. A tiny little niggle of jealousy worms its way into the back of her mind over her own lack of romance. Sylvie hates herself for it, and quickly stuffs down that petty emotion. Being lonely isn't a license for her to be a jerk. Her friends deserve all the happiness in the world.

"Hey guys," she smiles as she shuffles past them into the kitchen.

Chloe flashes a bright smile back. "Hi Sylvie! How're you feeling?" she asks. "I couldn't believe it when Joe told me what happened to you."

Sylvie fills the kettle and shrugs. "I'm feeling better. I promise the bruising looks a lot worse than the injury itself."

"I'm glad. Stupid frat boys!"

Sylvie chuckles and nods in agreement. "The worst!"

"Want to watch a movie with us? Chloe says.

iHard pass./i The last thing she wants to do is be a third wheel. "Oh, no. Thanks for the offer, but I'm just going to read for a while."

"C'mon, roomie," Joe says, "we're gonna watch iEndgame/i and I know how much you love Captain America."

Sylvie mimes swooning and clasps her hands together under her chin. "I really do. Chris Evans is dreamy."

"Mhmm," Chloe agrees.

Joe scoffs in mock offense. Both Sylvie and Chloe level him with arched brows. "Dammit, okay. He is pretty."

The kettle whistles and Sylvie turns off the burner. "You two enjoy the movie," she says after pouring a cup of tea. There's cookies in the kitchen I baked yesterday. Help yourselves!" Grabbing her tea and cookies from the counter, she makes a beeline for her bedroom.

She cozies up in bed, cocooning down into a pile of pillows and her favorite soft blanket. Her phone chirps with a text alert. Grabbing it, she sees a missed call and a new text from Matt.

There's a flutter of anticipation in her belly as she swipes her thumb quickly over the screen.

Matt: Hey! Wanted to see how you're feeling. If you want to talk, I'm here.

It's a simple gesture, but it makes her smile. She reads the message again and screws up the courage to call him back.

It's crisp, clear night, and the familiar sounds of the city below fade into background white noise. Matt zips his coat all the way up to his chin to ward off the cold. He leans back in his chair and takes a generous sip of whiskey, enjoying the warm, satisfying path it burns down his throat.

He'd had to escape the apartment after hearing Severide and Kidd going at it—again—so he'd headed to the roof to be alone.

Jesus, he needs his own place. Severide and Kidd deserve to have their privacy without their sad sack, divorced roommate getting in the way.

He glances down at his phone to see if Sylvie's texted him back. She hasn't.

The unexpected pity party he's suddenly throwing for himself is fucking pathetic; if he could kick his own ass right now, he would.

His phone rings, and he's pleasantly surprised to see Sylvie's name displayed. Matt sits up a little to answer the call, fumbling the damn thing as he hits the answer button. "Hey," he greets, and promptly drops his phone to the ground. "Dammit!" Leaning over, he plucks it from the ground and pulls it to his ear. "Sylvie?"

"Yeah—hi," Sylvie replies.

It's good to hear her voice, the cadence somehow both familiar and new all at once. "Sorry, I dropped my phone. Let's try this again. Hello?"

Sylvie huffs out a low laugh. "Hey, Matt. It's Sylvie!" Her voice is warm and friendly, and he can almost hear the smile on her lips.

Matt grins into the night air, and his bad mood begins to recede. "How are you? How's your face?"

"Eh, still pretty evident that I got punched, but at least it doesn't hurt as much anymore."

A spike of anger prickles up his spine at the thought of her taking a fist to the face while she was just trying to do her job. They put their lives on the line every shift to help others. She's tough, and he knows she'll heal soon enough. He's still pissed about it though. "Well, it'll be good to have you back soon. Foster hates anyone but you and Kidd on ambo."

She laughs again. "Oh, I've already heard about the temp from last shift. The nicest thing Foster had to say about him was, iAt least he wasn't Chad!/i"

Matt barks out a laugh. "Yeah, Chad really was the worst." He lifts his glass and drains the rest of his whiskey. "You're damn good at your job, Sylvie. We're lucky to have you."

"Well, gosh—this phone call is a shot in the arm for my ego. I'll have to call you more often if this is the standard treatment."

He's not typically comfortable with praise either, so he can understand her flip response. But she deserves to hear how competent and respected she is at 51. "You know you're a badass, Sylvie Brett. Take the compliment."

"Okay, I will," she murmurs. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"So, what's Matt Casey up to tonight?" she asks, changing the subject. He likes the sound of his full name rolling off her tongue.

"Currently freezing my ass off on the roof and drinking whiskey."

Sylvie scoffs, and he can picture that pinched line she gets between her eyebrows when she's confused. "It's 30 degrees outside! Why are you on the roof?"

He debates telling her the reason, but she's well aware of all the players involved. "Truth?" he asks.

"Always," she counters.

"Severide and Kidd are having sex and I don't want to listen."

Infectious laughter erupts on the line. "Oh, my god! From what Stella shares with me, it sounds like their sex life is rather...active.

"Like rabbits," he says dryly. Sylvie straight up cackles, and he can't help but laugh along with her at the absurdity of this conversation.

"If it makes you feel any better, I overheard Joe and Chloe earlier, too. Then they wanted me to watch a movie with them. Hard no from me after hearing your sex noises!"

The baser corner of his mind wonders—for a split second—what kind of noises Sylvie makes in bed. iJesus Christ./i He blames the whiskey and the cold for being an asshole.

Time to change the subject.

"I need to move out of this apartment. 'M gettin' too old for roommates." She'd helped him once before; maybe she'd take pity and help him again. "Would you consider helping me look—"

"Yes!" she exclaims, cutting him off. "I'll update my spreadsheets from when I helped you last time. I saw some great listings earlier today on Zillow!"

He's not surprised. From what he knows, she's obsessed with HGTV—her words—and constantly looking at available real estate during downtime around the station. It's cute, really. iShe's/i cute. "You're a delightful nerd, Brett."

"I take that as a compliment."

Matt chuckles. "It was meant as one." Sylvie yawns, and he knows it's time to wrap this up. He honestly can't take much more of sitting in the cold anyway. Talking to her, however, has been the highlight of his evening. "I guess I should let you get some rest."

Sylvie lets out a little ihmm/i in response. "Yeah, I am sleepy and already cozy in my bed."

Despite the internal warning not to, his dumbass brain immediately tries to imagine Sylvie lying in bed. He's screwed. "Sleep well, Sylvie."

"Matt?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really glad I called. Goodnight," she says softly, before ending the call.

So is he.

A small red gift bag appears on his desk midway through the next shift. It's sitting atop a blue file folder with a sticky note attached. There's no guessing who it's from. He's read enough shift reports to immediately recognize Sylvie's neat handwriting.

iA list of potentials to get you started. In the meantime, maybe this gift will help. :)

-S

P.S. Obviously I'm going with you to see these places. Don't spoil my fun!/i

Matt smiles as he reads the note again. He'd already planned on asking her to tag along to see potential apartments, but it's nice knowing she wants to. Picking up the bag, he pulls away the tissue paper. Inside is a dozen or so packs of yellow Sound Blocker ear plugs. He huffs out a laugh and opens up the folder, finding a spreadsheet of available listings color-coded by neighborhood.

A delightful nerd indeed.