Christmas Eve isn’t loud.

It’s the pause before the world exhales. The glow of porch lights. The hush that settles just before midnight. It’s the moment where everything feels held together by warmth and hope and the promise that someone, somewhere, is standing watch.

I think about that a lot when I write.

Firefighters don’t always get holidays off. Neither do first responders, dispatchers, nurses, or the people whose job it is to show up when everything goes wrong. While many of us are gathered around tables tonight, men and women are pulling shifts, running calls, and eating cold leftovers between alarms. They don’t do it for praise. They do it because someone has to.

That sense of quiet strength, of chosen family and shared purpose, is the heart of my upcoming Fireline Hearts series.

At the center of it is Station 12. Not just a firehouse, but a home. A place where sarcasm passes for affection, where trust is built call by call, and where people who’ve seen the worst of humanity still choose to protect it. It’s where heroes take off their gear, tease each other mercilessly, and stand shoulder to shoulder when it matters most.

Tonight, as Christmas Eve settles in, I’m thinking about the moments between the chaos. The meals are shared after midnight. The laughter echoes through a quiet bay. The people who become family not because they have to, but because they choose each other.

Those moments are coming to the page soon.

For now, I hope your night is gentle. Whether you’re surrounded by loved ones or finding your own version of peace, may this evening remind you that you don’t have to be loud to be brave—and that sometimes, the strongest hearts are the ones that simply stay.

Merry Christmas Eve. 🎄