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Eddie has learned a lot of things in his life. How to talk someone off a ledge. How to splint a leg with a magazine and a belt. How to make boxed mac and cheese taste like it didn’t come from a box. How to read Buck’s moods the way some people read weather.
What Eddie has not learned—apparently, at the grown age of thirty-something—is how to exist within a five-foot radius of Evan Buckley without it looking like they’re one soft acoustic guitar track away from making out.
It starts, as most of their problems do, at the firehouse.
1) Chimney catches them sharing a bed during quiet time
Quiet time at the 118 is a joke. Quiet time is what they call it when the station isn’t actively exploding, which means there are still radios crackling, feet thumping, the coffee maker doing its death rattle, and Buck making noises with his mouth like he’s a one-man sound effects department.
Eddie is on the couch with a binder of training paperwork balanced on his chest and a pen in his hand, trying to look like the kind of responsible adult who definitely understands what “inventory reconciliation” means.
Buck is on the floor with a foam roller, groaning like he’s being murdered.
“My spine is… crunchy,” Buck announces.
Eddie doesn’t look up. “That’s not a medical term.”
“It should be.”
Buck rolls over and stares at Eddie upside down. “Can you step on my back?”
Eddie finally raises his head. “No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“Eddie.”
“No.”
Buck’s eyes go big and tragic in the way he uses on victims and children and, apparently, Eddie. “It’s for health.”
Eddie’s pen hovers. He can feel his own resolve thinning like cheap paper in rain. “Go ask Hen.”
“She’ll say no.”
“Then you have your answer.”
Buck sighs like Eddie is personally responsible for all suffering in the world and pushes to his feet. He limps dramatically across the room, then stops and leans down until his face is two inches from Eddie’s.
Eddie can see freckles. He can see the soft edge of Buck’s mouth. He can see the exact moment Buck decides to weaponize proximity.
“Eddie,” Buck says in a low voice, “I would do it for you.”
Eddie’s heart does a stupid little hop like it thinks that sentence matters. “That’s because you lack boundaries.”
Buck beams. “Exactly!”
Eddie points toward the dorm hall. “Go foam roll in there. Quietly.”
Buck’s grin turns feral. “What if I don’t want to be alone with my crunchy spine thoughts?”
Eddie stares at him. Buck stares back. Somewhere in the building, a door slams.
Eddie exhales, long and tired. “Fine. Lay down. On the bunk in the dorm. I’m not stepping on you. I’m—” He gropes for logic. “—I’m going to press your spine with my hands. Like a… physical therapist.”
Buck’s face lights up like Eddie just offered him Disneyland and a puppy. “Yes, doctor.”
“Don’t call me that.”
Buck is already backing down the hall. “Yes, doctor.”
Eddie follows, muttering a prayer for patience.
The dorm is dim, mid-afternoon shadows cutting across the bunks. Buck chooses the lower bunk like he lives there, flopping down belly-first with theatrical suffering.
Eddie climbs onto the edge—strictly professional, strictly to gain leverage—and presses his palms carefully into Buck’s shoulder blades.
Buck makes a noise that could be either relief or an angelic choir.
Eddie adjusts, trying to ignore the warmth of Buck’s body under his hands, the way Buck’s breathing steadies when Eddie is close, the fact that Eddie knows the shape of Buck’s back like a map.
“This is nice,” Buck says, voice muffled into the pillow.
“It’s basic pressure,” Eddie says.
“It’s basic love,” Buck says.
Eddie’s hands go still for half a second. “Don’t be weird.”
“I’m not weird,” Buck says, the most blatant lie in the world. “I’m grateful.”
Eddie presses again, harder this time, because if he can’t banter his way out of feelings he can at least use mild pain.
Buck sighs.
Eddie, stupidly, relaxes.
It turns out Buck’s bunk is narrow, and Eddie’s legs are long, and the station mattresses are basically padded cardboard. At some point, Buck rolls slightly onto his side to reach for a bottle of water.
Eddie shifts to keep from falling off the bed.
Buck’s arm lands across Eddie’s waist like it belongs there.
Eddie freezes. Buck doesn’t even seem to notice. He’s half asleep, cheek mashed into the pillow, breathing slow.
Eddie tells himself he can get up.
Eddie tells himself he should get up.
Eddie tells himself he’s only here because if he moves Buck will wake up and complain and Eddie will have to have a conversation and Eddie doesn’t have the energy for a conversation.
Also—Eddie does not dwell on this, Eddie refuses to—Buck’s hand is warm through the thin fabric of Eddie’s shirt and it feels… safe. Like quiet.
So Eddie stays.
Five minutes later, Buck shifts again, and Eddie, exhausted by everything and nothing, leans down to whisper, “I’m getting up,” but Buck’s arm tightens reflexively.
Eddie’s mouth ends up close to Buck’s hair. Eddie’s brain short-circuits in the exact way it always does around Buck and affection.
He thinks: This is fine. This is not romantic. This is... teammate bonding. Like penguins.
He has no idea what penguins do.
He must’ve dozed. He doesn’t remember closing his eyes. He just remembers warmth and the distant hum of the station, and Buck’s breath puffing against his ribs.
And then—
The dorm door swings open.
Light spills in.
A voice says, flat with disbelief, “What the hell.”
Eddie jerks awake so hard he nearly falls off the bunk.
Chimney stands in the doorway holding a clipboard and a protein bar, staring at them like he’s walked into a crime scene.
Buck blinks up, still half asleep, and tightens his arm around Eddie like an idiot.
Eddie clears his throat and tries to sit up, which is difficult because Buck is basically spooning him.
“Chim,” Eddie says, because saying anything at all feels like ripping off a Band-Aid.
Chimney takes one slow step forward. “Are you… sharing a bunk?”
“No,” Eddie says automatically.
Chimney’s eyes flick down to Buck’s arm around Eddie. Then up to Eddie’s face. Then back down again, like maybe if he looks hard enough the laws of physics will change.
Buck sits up, hair sticking up. “Oh. Hey, Chim.”
Chimney points at them with the clipboard. “Explain.”
Eddie’s mind goes blank. It’s like someone shook an Etch A Sketch.
Buck yawns and says, cheerfully, “We were doing a… uh…”
Eddie’s brain scrambles for something that sounds reasonable and lands on the first stupid thing it finds. “A sleep study.”
Chimney’s eyebrows climb. “A sleep study.”
Buck nods like that makes perfect sense. “Yeah. For… science.”
“For science,” Chimney repeats.
Eddie hears himself keep going, because stopping would require acknowledging reality. “It’s—there’s this thing where if you nap with another person in a confined space, your… circadian rhythms align.”
Chimney stares. “Is that a thing?”
Buck’s face is innocent in a way that should be illegal. “Totally.”
Eddie adds, desperately, “It’s for teamwork.”
Chimney looks like he’s physically holding back a scream. “You two are insane.”
Buck points at Chimney with one finger. “Ask Hen. She knows science.”
Chimney’s eyes narrow. “You want me to go ask Hen if ‘circadian rhythm alignment’ is why you’re cuddling in a bunk?”
Eddie’s throat tightens. “We weren’t—”
Chimney holds up a hand. “Save it.” He looks between them. “Just… okay. Fine. Whatever. But if I hear you say ‘sleep study’ again, I’m calling Maddie.”
Buck brightens. “Maddie would support science.”
Chimney backs out like he’s leaving a haunted house. “I hate it here.”
The door shuts.
Eddie stares at it, then at Buck.
Buck blinks at him, expression soft. “That was pretty good.”
Eddie rubs his face. “You said ‘for science.’”
Buck grins. “It was for science.”
Eddie’s heart does that stupid hop again.
“Get up,” Eddie orders, because ordering is easier than feeling.
Buck slides off the bunk. “Yes, doctor.”
Eddie groans into his hands.
And he thinks—just briefly, just a flicker—this can’t happen again.
It does, of course.
2) Hen catches them slow dancing in the kitchen
It happens at Eddie’s house, two days later, because the universe has a sense of humor and it hates him personally.
Christopher is at Denny’s for the afternoon. Eddie has enjoyed exactly forty-seven minutes of a quiet home—no crutches tapping down the hallway, no YouTube commentary blasting from the living room, no teenager energy vibrating through the walls like a live wire.
Then Buck shows up with groceries.
Eddie doesn’t remember inviting him. Eddie also doesn’t remember, at any point in his life, telling Buck no.
Buck drops two bags on the counter and looks around like he’s inspecting a crime scene. “You don’t have snacks.”
“I have snacks,” Eddie says.
Buck opens Eddie’s pantry, stares into the barren expanse, then turns with the slow judgment of a disappointed father. “You have… lentils.”
“They’re protein.”
“You have one bag of stale chips.”
“They’re emergency chips.”
Buck points to the expiration date. “They expired five years ago.”
Eddie crosses his arms. “They’re historical.”
Buck makes a sound of offense and starts unloading groceries with aggressive efficiency. He moves around Eddie’s kitchen like he belongs there, humming under his breath, bumping Eddie with his hip when Eddie doesn’t move fast enough.
Eddie tells himself he’s annoyed.
Eddie tells himself he’s definitely not warm about this.
Buck finds Eddie’s speaker on the counter—because Buck is the kind of person who can walk into someone’s home and immediately locate the object that makes it easier to turn everything into a moment—and turns on music.
Soft, slow. Something with a low beat and a lazy melody.
“Why,” Eddie says, suspicious.
Buck shrugs. “Kitchen vibes.”
Eddie keeps chopping onions. “We don’t need vibes.”
Buck leans his elbows on the counter. “Everyone needs vibes.”
Eddie focuses on the knife. “I have vibes.”
Buck looks at him with that open, affectionate face he uses when he’s decided Eddie is being ridiculous in a way that makes Buck fond. “Your vibes are… ‘I pay my bills early.’”
Eddie points the knife at him. “Don’t make me stab you.”
Buck smiles like that’s a compliment. “You wouldn’t.”
Eddie doesn’t answer, because the truth is complicated and mostly involves Eddie not wanting Buck to ever leave.
The song shifts. The beat changes. A slow, steady rhythm.
Buck tilts his head, listening. “Oh. I like this one.”
Eddie glances over. Buck is watching him like Eddie is the only interesting thing in the room, which is a problem for Eddie’s brain and also, maybe, Eddie’s soul.
“Why are you looking at me like that,” Eddie says.
Buck’s eyebrows lift. “Like what?”
“Like… like you’re about to say something.”
Buck steps closer, the way Buck always does—like space between them is an inconvenience. “Maybe I am about to say something.”
Eddie’s pulse stutters. “Don’t.”
Buck grins. “You’re allergic to sincerity.”
Eddie turns back to the onions. “I’m allergic to you talking.”
Buck comes up behind him. Eddie feels him there before he touches him, heat and presence and that Buck-smell of laundry detergent and sunshine. Buck’s hand lands lightly on Eddie’s elbow.
Eddie freezes. “What are you doing?”
Buck’s voice is quieter. “You’re tense.”
“I’m chopping,” Eddie says. “With a knife.”
“I trust you.”
“That’s your first mistake.”
Buck laughs softly and slides his hand down Eddie’s forearm, just… casually. Like that’s a normal thing friends do. Like Eddie’s skin doesn’t light up under Buck’s touch.
Buck steps into Eddie’s space and nudges him gently away from the cutting board. “Come here.”
Eddie’s mouth opens, but his brain is suddenly full of static.
Buck takes Eddie’s hand.
Eddie’s hand fits into Buck’s like it always has, like it was designed for it, and Eddie hates his own body for how quickly it agrees.
Buck raises Eddie’s arm slightly, an exaggerated ballroom flourish. “May I?”
Eddie’s voice comes out thin. “What.”
Buck smiles like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Dance with me.”
Eddie stares at him. “In my kitchen.”
Buck nods. “In your kitchen.”
Eddie looks at the onions. Looks at the stove. Looks at the pot of water that is absolutely going to boil over because Eddie is incapable of living a normal life.
“This is—” Eddie starts, but Buck’s hand is warm and steady and the song is slow and there’s something in Buck’s eyes that makes Eddie’s chest ache in an unfamiliar, ridiculous way.
Eddie exhales. “Fine. One minute.”
Buck’s grin turns triumphant. “Yes.”
Buck steps in, one hand at Eddie’s waist, the other holding Eddie’s hand up, like they’re in a movie and not in Eddie’s kitchen wearing T-shirts and arguing about stale chips.
Eddie’s hand lands on Buck’s shoulder. Buck’s shirt is soft under Eddie’s palm. Buck’s body is warm.
They sway.
It’s small at first, awkward on the tile, Eddie’s feet bumping Buck’s, Buck’s laughter low like he’s delighted Eddie is even doing this at all.
Eddie tries to be normal.
Buck’s thumb strokes lightly at Eddie’s waist, absent and gentle.
Then the front door opens.
Hen’s voice calls, “Chris, you—”
Silence.
Eddie’s whole body locks up like someone hit pause.
Buck freezes too, but Buck, because he is Buck, turns it into a flourish—spinning Eddie slightly like he meant to do it.
Hen stands in the entryway holding Christopher’s backpack. Christopher isn’t with her yet, which means Hen came inside first.
Hen stares at them.
Eddie stares back.
Buck, in a moment of pure self-preservation, lifts his chin and says, “Hi, Hen.”
Hen’s eyes narrow to slits. “Why are you slow dancing in the kitchen?”
Eddie’s mind does the Etch A Sketch thing again.
Buck opens his mouth.
Eddie, desperate, grabs the first excuse he can reach and yanks hard. “It’s… physical therapy.”
Hen’s gaze slides to Eddie’s face. “For who.”
“For… me,” Eddie says, because that feels less ridiculous than saying it’s for Buck. “Balance training.”
Buck nods so enthusiastically it’s suspicious. “Yeah! Balance. Core strength.”
Hen’s stare could cut glass. “Core strength.”
Eddie keeps talking because he cannot stop himself. “It’s—there’s a method where you… move in time with music to improve… proprioception.”
Buck adds, “It’s, like, firefighter conditioning.”
Hen’s expression doesn’t change. “You are standing chest-to-chest.”
Eddie’s throat dries. “Chest-to-chest improves… stability.”
Hen looks at Buck. “Are you serious?”
Buck looks at Hen like he’s a golden retriever trying to convince you the couch cushion definitely exploded on its own. “It’s science.”
Hen’s eyes flick up, unimpressed. “Aren’t you the one who told Chimney you were doing a sleep study.”
Eddie’s stomach drops.
Buck blinks. “He told you?”
Hen’s voice is flat. “He texted the group chat a single word: ‘HELP.’”
Eddie’s face goes hot. “We were not—”
Hen holds up a hand. “No. Stop.” She gestures with the backpack like she might smack Eddie with it. “I don’t care what you two are doing. But if Chris walks in and sees this, I’m going to have to have a conversation and I don’t want to have a conversation.”
Buck’s grip on Eddie’s waist softens. “Chris isn’t here yet.”
Hen points toward the driveway. “He’s getting his crutches out of the car.”
Panic spikes through Eddie like electricity.
Eddie shoves Buck away, too fast, nearly sending him into the counter. Buck catches himself, laughing like he’s amused by Eddie’s impending death.
Hen’s eyes narrow even further. “You are both idiots.”
Eddie snaps, “We are not.”
Hen just stares.
Buck, apparently incapable of reading the room, says, “Do you want to dance too? It’s for core strength.”
Hen’s stare turns murderous. “No.”
The door opens again.
Christopher steps in, backpack slung over one shoulder, crutches clicking on the tile. “Hey. Smells good.”
Eddie clears his throat. “Hey, mijo.”
Chris’s gaze flicks between Eddie and Buck. “Why is Buck here?”
Buck smiles. “I’m saving your dad from his historic chips.”
Chris squints. “Cool. Are you dating.”
Eddie’s soul leaves his body.
Buck chokes. “No!”
Eddie says, too loud, “No!”
Christopher pauses, like he’s logging data. “Okay.”
Hen watches Eddie like she’s watching a train derail in slow motion.
Christopher shrugs and heads down the hall.
The moment he’s gone, Hen exhales. “You two are going to give me wrinkles.”
Eddie points at Buck. “He started it.”
Buck points back. “You agreed.”
Eddie opens his mouth to argue, then realizes there is no argument that doesn’t sound like Yes, I chose to slow dance with him in my kitchen, but platonically.
Hen shakes her head and heads for the door. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t see this. But if you tell me the next one is also ‘for science,’ I will personally throw you both into the ocean.”
Buck calls after her, cheerful, “The ocean is good for proprioception!”
Hen flips him off without turning around.
Eddie presses his hands to his face and tries to remember what peace feels like.
Buck pats his shoulder like Eddie is a skittish horse. “That was… not our best.”
Eddie glares. “We cannot do this again.”
Buck smiles. “Okay.”
Eddie does not trust that smile.
3) Maddie catches them holding hands at the farmer’s market
Eddie has a rule about farmer’s markets: they are a scam invented by people who want to pay eight dollars for a single artisanal pickle and feel morally superior about it.
Buck, of course, loves them.
“They have fresh peaches,” Buck says, like Eddie’s life is empty without fruit that’s been individually curated by a man named Graham.
“They have peaches at the grocery store,” Eddie says, adjusting the strap of the tote bag Buck shoved at him. It says SUPPORT LOCAL in cheerful lettering, which feels like a personal attack.
Buck bumps Eddie’s shoulder with his. “Yeah, but these peaches have, like… a story.”
Eddie squints at him. “Do you hear yourself?”
Buck grins. “You’re having fun.”
“I’m tolerating,” Eddie corrects.
Buck hums, unbothered, and drifts toward a stall selling bread like he’s magnetized.
Eddie follows because if he lets Buck roam free, he’ll come back with a jar of bees and a wooden spoon carved by someone’s grandfather.
It’s crowded. Strollers, dogs, couples with iced coffees. Eddie feels like he’s been dropped into a low-stakes romcom montage against his will.
Buck reaches for a sample—something with cheese—and Eddie feels him hesitate, like he’s about to say hold my bag.
Eddie doesn’t give him the chance. He reaches out, catches Buck’s wrist, and tugs him back half a step before a woman with a large golden retriever takes out Buck’s kneecap.
Buck turns, eyes bright. “Saving me?”
Eddie releases him immediately, because touching Buck in public is apparently illegal now, according to Eddie’s nervous system. “Saving your ACL.”
Buck’s smile turns pleased in that deeply annoying way it always does when Eddie takes care of him. “My hero.”
Eddie grumbles something that could be interpreted as shut up if you’re generous.
They move on. A stall with honey. A stall with soap that smells like regret. A stall with flowers that makes Buck go soft and sentimental.
“Oh,” Buck says, stopping. “Chris would like these.”
Eddie looks at the bouquets and tries not to picture Christopher rolling his eyes. “He would say they’re ‘mid.’”
Buck laughs. “He would. But he’d still put them in a vase.”
Eddie’s chest tightens in that stupid way it does when Buck loves Christopher like he’s been doing it his whole life.
Buck leans closer to read the sign. Eddie leans too, by habit.
Their shoulders brush.
Eddie doesn’t move away.
Because the truth is… being near Buck feels like a default setting now. Like Eddie’s body decided a long time ago where it wants to be.
A group of teenagers barrels past them laughing, and Eddie—without thinking—reaches for Buck’s hand.
It’s not even a decision. It’s instinct.
Like Buck is mine to keep close in crowds.
Buck’s fingers lace with his immediately.
No hesitation. No surprise.
Just… easy.
Eddie freezes a full second too late, hand locked with Buck’s, brain shouting in all caps: WE ARE HOLDING HANDS. IN PUBLIC. LIKE A COUPLE.
Buck looks over, still smiling, like this is normal and fine and Buck did not just casually step on Eddie’s entire “just friends” narrative and grind it into the pavement.
Eddie tries to pull away without making it obvious.
Buck tightens his grip slightly, like: don’t.
Eddie’s pulse leaps.
They stand there like that—hands joined—staring at flowers, pretending they are not broadcasting domestic partnership energy to anyone with functioning eyeballs.
Eddie clears his throat. “We should—”
Buck leans in, voice low and amused. “You grabbed me.”
“I didn’t,” Eddie lies.
Buck’s grin turns wicked. “You did.”
Eddie narrows his eyes. “Let go.”
Buck’s eyebrows lift. “Why?”
“Because,” Eddie hisses, too quietly for anyone else to hear, “we are in public.”
Buck tilts his head. “And?”
Eddie’s brain catches on a detail it absolutely should not: Buck’s thumb is stroking over Eddie’s knuckles like he has nowhere else to put his hands.
Eddie feels like his bones are melting.
He tries a different tactic—one that has historically worked on Buck.
“Buck,” Eddie says, warning.
Buck only smiles wider. “Eddie.”
Eddie is about to commit a felony.
And then a voice—cheerful and sing-song—floats in from behind them.
“Oh my God.”
Eddie goes rigid.
Buck, inexplicably, squeezes Eddie’s hand once like he’s bracing him.
Eddie turns slowly, like he’s in a horror movie.
Maddie stands three feet away holding a coffee and a little paper bag, her whole face lit up like she just got front row tickets to something she’s been waiting for since 2018.
Her gaze is locked on their hands.
Eddie’s stomach drops through the earth.
Buck says, bright and innocent, “Hi, Maddie!”
Maddie points at them. “Hi. Hello. Wow. Hi.”
Eddie tries to let go of Buck’s hand.
Buck does not let him.
Eddie’s jaw clenches. “Buck.”
Maddie’s eyes sparkle. “Don’t you dare stop on my account.”
Eddie’s brain sparks and dies. “We weren’t—”
Maddie steps closer, practically vibrating. “Eddie, you’re holding my brother’s hand.”
Eddie hears himself say, very quickly, “It’s crowd control.”
Maddie blinks. “Crowd control.”
Buck nods instantly. “Yeah. Safety.”
Eddie goes all in because there is no turning back now. “It’s like a buddy system.”
Maddie’s mouth twitches. “Uh-huh.”
Buck adds, with the confidence of a man who has never felt shame in his life, “Eddie has anxiety in crowds.”
Eddie snaps his head toward him. “I do not.”
Maddie’s eyes widen. “Oh my God, that’s so sweet—”
Eddie cuts in, desperate. “No, he—he means situational awareness. Because I’m always… scanning.”
Maddie’s gaze flicks between them. “While holding hands.”
Eddie squeezes Buck’s hand too hard, trying to force him to let go.
Buck squeezes back like he thinks this is flirtation, which makes Eddie want to scream.
Maddie smiles like she’s about to burst into happy tears. “You guys.”
Eddie grits out, “Maddie.”
Maddie lifts her coffee like she’s toasting them. “I’m not saying anything. I’m just… observing.”
Eddie’s entire spine goes cold. “Don’t observe.”
Maddie’s smile turns devastating. “I’m happy.”
Eddie glances at Buck, because surely Buck will help.
Buck looks… weirdly soft. Like Maddie saying that hit him somewhere gentle.
Buck clears his throat. “We’re just—”
Maddie holds up a hand, eyes shining. “Best friends. Yeah. I know.”
Eddie exhales in relief.
Maddie continues, “Best friends who hold hands at the farmer’s market.”
Eddie’s relief dies.
Buck says, “It’s the buddy system.”
Maddie nods seriously. “Of course. For safety.”
Eddie tries to tug his hand away again.
Buck still doesn’t let go.
Eddie’s voice drops. “Buck.”
Buck murmurs back, “You’re the one who grabbed me.”
Eddie hisses, “Let go.”
Buck’s smile is small and infuriating. “Make me.”
Maddie watches this exchange like she’s watching fireworks. “Oh my God.”
Eddie’s face burns. “Stop making that sound.”
Maddie presses her free hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, I can’t help it. You’re both so… you.”
Eddie says, immediately, “We have to go.”
Maddie steps sideways, blocking their path without even trying, eyes locked on their hands. “Where are you going?”
Buck says, “Home.”
Maddie’s grin turns feral. “Together?”
Eddie blurts, “Separately.”
Buck says, at the same time, “Yes.”
Eddie whips his head toward him. “What.”
Buck blinks. “I mean—no. I—”
Maddie laughs, delighted. “Buck.”
Buck’s ears go red. “I meant—like—home as a concept.”
Eddie mutters, “Jesus Christ.”
Maddie’s smile softens again, like she can’t help it. “Okay. Okay. I won’t tease. I promise.”
Eddie points at her with his free hand. “You’re teasing right now.”
Maddie shakes her head solemnly. “No, I’m not. I’m genuinely asking: are you happy?”
Eddie’s chest tightens.
Buck’s thumb rubs Eddie’s knuckles—slow, grounding.
Eddie hates that it makes him feel steadier.
Eddie forces air into his lungs. “We’re fine.”
Maddie looks at Buck.
Buck says quietly, “We’re fine.”
Maddie nods like she’s storing that away. “Okay.”
Then, because she is Maddie Buckley and she cannot leave well enough alone, she pulls out her phone and lifts it.
Eddie’s eyes go wide. “No.”
Maddie grins. “One picture.”
Eddie says, sharply, “Absolutely not.”
Maddie pouts. “For the memories.”
Buck laughs. “Maddie.”
Maddie tilts her head. “For Chim.”
Eddie’s soul leaves his body. “No.”
Buck’s laugh turns into a cough. “We’re not—”
Maddie’s eyes sparkle. “I know. Just friends. Just… let me take a picture of your friend-hands.”
Eddie tries to pull away finally, successfully, because he commits with his whole body.
Buck’s fingers slip from his.
The loss of it hits Eddie so immediately it’s embarrassing.
Buck looks at his own empty hand like he’s surprised.
Eddie clears his throat too hard. “We’re leaving.”
Maddie drops her phone with a dramatic sigh. “Okay, okay. I won’t.”
Eddie marches forward.
Buck falls into step beside him, close enough their shoulders brush.
Maddie calls after them, “I love you!”
Buck calls back, “Love you too!”
Eddie mutters, “Jesus.”
Maddie adds, as a final grenade, “Tell Chris I said hi—AND TELL HIM I’M HAPPY FOR YOU!”
Eddie trips on nothing.
Buck grabs his elbow automatically, steadying him.
Eddie jerks away like the contact is a live wire.
Buck grins like he’s pleased with himself. “Crowd control.”
Eddie glares. “I’m going to kill you.”
Buck’s eyes crinkle. “Platonically?”
Eddie hates that he laughs.
He hates it.
4) Ravi catches Eddie feeding Buck at a restaurant
Eddie knows—knows—the moment it happens that this is going to be a problem.
It starts innocently enough. Which is how most of his problems start, actually.
They’re sharing a dish. Buck’s idea. Eddie had ordered something sensible, Buck had ordered something that came with a warning from the server about spice levels and then immediately looked betrayed by his own hubris.
“This is really good,” Buck says, eyes a little glassy, voice pitched carefully neutral in the way Eddie recognizes as I am suffering but I refuse to admit it. He nudges Eddie’s plate with his fork. “Can I try yours?”
Eddie glances up from his food. Buck is smiling, but his nose is faintly pink, and he keeps pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying to calm it down.
“You’re dying,” Eddie says.
“I am thriving,” Buck insists.
Eddie snorts. He twists his fork into his pasta, lifts a bite, then pauses halfway to his own mouth. He doesn’t consciously decide to do it—doesn’t think I’m about to feed Buck like this is the most normal thing in the world. He just… redirects. Turns his wrist slightly and holds the fork out instead.
“Here,” he says. “Try this.”
Buck’s eyes flick to the fork, then up to Eddie’s face. Something soft and pleased crosses his expression, quick enough Eddie almost misses it.
“Yeah?” Buck asks, unnecessarily.
Eddie lifts a shoulder. “It’s not spicy.”
Buck leans in, mouth parting, and Eddie has a split second—a single, stupid, lethal second—where he registers everything at once: the warmth of Buck’s knee pressed against his under the table, the way Buck’s lashes cast shadows against his cheeks, the fact that Eddie’s hand is steady when it probably shouldn’t be.
Buck takes the bite.
Their eyes catch. In a quiet, domestic way. Like this is something they’ve done before. Like Eddie feeding Buck is filed somewhere in Eddie’s body under care.
Buck hums, pleased. “Oh. Yeah. That’s better.”
Eddie’s mouth curves without permission. “Told you.”
He pulls the fork back, feeling oddly… settled. Grounded. Like the world has snapped into the right alignment.
And then the air shifts.
That prickle at the back of his neck. The sense of being observed.
Eddie’s gaze lifts.
Ravi is standing a few feet away, halfway between the door and the host stand, jacket still on, phone loose in his hand. He’s not smiling. He’s not frowning either. He just looks… paused. Like he’s walked in on something private and his brain hasn’t decided yet what to do with that information.
Eddie’s stomach drops.
Oh. No.
Ravi’s eyes flick—not subtly—from Eddie’s face, to the fork still in Eddie’s hand, to Buck, who is still leaning forward, lips faintly glossy, entirely unbothered for half a second longer.
Buck follows Eddie’s line of sight.
“Oh,” Buck says.
Eddie straightens too fast, elbow knocking lightly against the table. His arm tightens along the back of the booth, instinctive, possessive—no, no, not possessive, just normal, just posture.
“Hey, Ravi,” Buck adds, like this is the most normal encounter in the world.
Ravi blinks. “Uh. Hi.”
Eddie clears his throat. It comes out rough. “Hey.”
There’s a pause. Ravi’s gaze lingers, uncertain, like he’s deciding whether to interrupt or retreat.
“So,” Buck says brightly, gesturing vaguely at Eddie’s fork, “funny story.”
Eddie’s heart starts racing. Oh no. He’s going to explain. He’s going to make it worse.
Ravi’s eyebrows lift a fraction. “Yeah?”
Buck nods. “Eddie was just helping me.”
Eddie snaps his head toward him. Helping you with what.
“With,” Buck continues smoothly, “uh. Temperature testing.”
Eddie’s brain stutters.
Ravi looks between them. “Temperature testing.”
Buck picks up his glass, takes a sip, and launches into it like he’s been waiting all his life for this moment. “You know. To make sure it wasn’t too hot. Eddie has, like, a higher spice tolerance.”
Eddie feels heat rush up his neck. This is insane. This is the excuse.
“So,” Buck adds, “he was making sure I wouldn’t burn my mouth.”
Ravi’s mouth opens. Closes.
Eddie hears himself say, because apparently his body has decided they’re committing to this, “I’ve had it before.”
Buck nods emphatically. “Exactly.”
Ravi glances at the fork again. Then at Eddie. Then at Buck. His expression is polite. Careful. But there’s something else there too—recognition, maybe. Or confirmation.
“Oh,” Ravi says, slowly.
Eddie wants to crawl under the table. Or maybe flip it. Both feel reasonable.
Ravi shifts his weight. “I didn’t realize you guys were—”
Buck cuts in, just a little too fast. “Eating together?”
“Yes,” Ravi says, but the corner of his mouth twitches.
Eddie swallows. He considers, briefly, just letting it stand. Letting Ravi think whatever he’s clearly thinking. There’s something oddly relieving about the idea—about not having to scramble, not having to pretend that Eddie feeding Buck doesn’t mean something.
But Buck keeps going, because Buck always keeps going.
“It’s, uh,” Buck says, waving a hand. “Efficiency.”
Eddie closes his eyes for half a second.
Ravi snorts, then catches himself. “Right.”
Buck smiles, wide and hopeful. “You know. Shared dishes. Team bonding.”
Eddie exhales slowly through his nose. He can feel Buck’s knee press more firmly into his, grounding, familiar. Buck is still smiling, still earnest, still trying to protect whatever this is by talking around it.
Ravi studies them both for a long moment. Eddie feels every second of it, every flick of Ravi’s eyes, every calculation.
Then Ravi smiles.
“Okay,” Ravi says. “Well. I won’t interrupt.”
Buck visibly relaxes.
Eddie forces his shoulders to drop. “You’re good?”
Ravi nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I just—” He gestures back toward the counter. “Takeout. I’ll let you guys… test temperatures.”
Buck beams. “Highly recommend.”
Ravi laughs softly and turns away, heading toward the host stand. As he goes, Eddie notices the way his shoulders are lighter than when he walked in. Like something has settled into place for him too.
The silence that follows is thick.
Buck turns back to Eddie, eyes bright with barely-contained amusement. “Temperature testing.”
Eddie groans quietly. “That was your best idea?”
Buck shrugs, unapologetic. “It worked.”
“It did not work,” Eddie mutters.
Buck grins. “He didn’t run screaming.”
Eddie drags a hand down his face. “You fed me to the wolves.”
“I absolutely did not,” Buck says, leaning in again, voice dropping. “You fed me.”
Eddie’s heart kicks. “Don’t say it like that.”
Buck’s smile softens, fond and dangerous. “You held the fork.”
Eddie picks it up again, pointedly stabbing his own food. “Eat your own.”
Buck just watches him, eyes warm, like he already knows Eddie will do it again if he asks.
And the worst part—the truly damning part—is that Eddie knows it too.
5) Christopher catches them doing something
Eddie thinks, foolishly, that he can outrun this by being careful.
No more slow dancing. No more “sleep studies.” No more letting Buck fix his collar like Buck is a spouse and Eddie is a mannequin.
Eddie tries to keep things normal.
Buck, unfortunately, is the human embodiment of normal is optional.
It’s Saturday. Eddie is home. Christopher is home too, sprawled on the couch with his laptop, headphones half on, crutches within reach. Teenage chaos in a hoodie.
Eddie is in the kitchen making lunch and trying not to feel thirty-five going on ninety.
Buck shows up with a paper bag and sunshine energy and the kind of smile that makes Eddie’s brain melt.
“I brought provisions,” Buck announces.
Christopher doesn’t look up. “If it’s kale chips, I’m calling CPS.”
Buck gasps. “Christopher Diaz, I would never.”
Eddie glances into the bag. “What is it?”
Buck looks proud. “Pastries.”
Eddie’s heart does the stupid hop again. “Why.”
Buck shrugs like it’s nothing. “Thought you’d want them.”
Christopher makes a sound that is very teenaged and very unimpressed. “Romantic.”
Eddie says, immediately, “Not romantic.”
Buck says, “Not romantic,” at the same time, which makes it sound like they rehearsed.
Christopher glances up, deadpan. “Sure.”
Eddie ignores him, because engaging is a trap, and starts plating food.
Buck hovers by the counter, picking at a pastry, watching Eddie like Eddie is doing magic and not making a sandwich.
Eddie elbows him. “Go sit.”
Buck grins. “Make me.”
Eddie gives him a look.
Buck laughs and goes to sit at the table like he was always going to.
Lunch happens. It’s loud and normal and full of Buck trying to get Christopher to laugh and Christopher pretending not to laugh while absolutely laughing.
After, Christopher disappears to his room to game with Denny online.
Eddie starts cleaning up.
Buck follows him into the kitchen like a friendly shadow.
Eddie points at the sink. “If you’re going to be here, you’re going to help.”
Buck salutes. “Yes, sir.”
They wash dishes shoulder to shoulder. Their hands bump. Buck flicks water at Eddie. Eddie threatens violence. Buck laughs like Eddie threatening violence is his favorite song.
It’s… easy. It always is with Buck.
That’s the problem.
When the kitchen is clean, Eddie wipes his hands on a towel and exhales. “Okay. Done.”
Buck doesn’t move. He leans his hip against the counter, looking at Eddie with that soft focus again.
Eddie frowns. “What.”
Buck’s smile is small. “Nothing.”
Eddie’s chest tightens. “That’s a lie.”
Buck shrugs like it’s no big deal. “You just… seem lighter today.”
Eddie blinks. He hates that Buck notices things. He hates that it feels good.
“It’s Saturday,” Eddie says. “I’m allowed to be lighter.”
Buck nods slowly. “You are.”
Silence stretches between them, filled with the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of Christopher yelling into his headset, “DENNY, THAT’S CHEATING!”
Buck’s gaze drops to Eddie’s hands.
Eddie, because he is apparently incapable of learning, reaches out and taps Buck’s knuckles with the towel. “Stop staring.”
Buck’s eyes flick up. “I’m not.”
Eddie narrows his eyes. “Yes, you are.”
Buck steps closer—just one step, but it changes the whole room. “What if I am.”
Eddie’s throat goes dry. “Don’t.”
Buck’s smile fades into something quieter. “Why not?”
Eddie’s mind is chaos. Because if you keep doing this, I’m going to stop being able to pretend. Because Eddie has been building a wall out of “just friends” and Buck keeps leaning on it like he wants it to fall.
Eddie swallows. “Because… people will get the wrong idea.”
Buck’s eyes soften. “Would they?”
Eddie’s heart slams once, hard. “Yes.”
Buck’s voice drops. “What if they already have it?”
Eddie’s hand tightens around the towel. “Buck.”
Buck reaches out, slow, like he’s giving Eddie time to flinch away. His fingertips brush Eddie’s wrist, right where Buck had caught him at the station.
Eddie inhales sharply.
Buck steps in closer and slides his hand up Eddie’s arm, gentle. His thumb strokes once, absent.
Eddie’s brain goes white-noise.
It’s not a kiss. It’s not even a hug.
It is, however, the most intimate thing Eddie has felt in weeks, maybe months, because Buck’s touch has always meant I’m here and Eddie doesn’t know what to do with that.
“Eddie,” Buck says, quiet.
Eddie doesn’t answer, because if he answers he might say something honest.
Buck’s other hand rises and cups Eddie’s cheek.
Eddie goes still like prey.
Buck’s palm is warm. Buck’s gaze flicks to Eddie’s mouth.
Eddie’s heartbeat turns into a siren.
This is the part where Eddie should step back.
This is the part where Eddie should say we’re just friends.
Instead, Eddie leans into Buck’s hand—barely, just enough to feel it. Just enough to admit something without using words.
Buck’s breath catches.
Then Buck moves like he’s going to do it—like he’s going to close the distance, like he’s going to turn all of Eddie’s careful denial into a wreck.
And—
A voice from the hallway says, flat as a knife, “Wow.”
Eddie jolts so hard he knocks the towel onto the floor.
Buck yanks his hand back like he’s been burned.
Christopher stands at the end of the hallway, one crutch in hand, the other tucked under his arm, staring at them with the expression of a teenager who has seen everything and is tired of adults pretending.
Eddie’s soul leaves his body so violently he’s surprised it doesn’t take the cabinets with it.
“Chris,” Eddie says, because his mouth is moving without his permission.
Christopher looks between Eddie and Buck. Then he looks at Eddie’s face. Then at Buck’s.
His eyebrows rise.
Slowly.
“Are you—” Christopher starts.
Eddie says, loud, “No.”
Buck says, louder, “No!”
Christopher pauses. “Okay.”
Eddie exhales, shaky with relief.
Christopher continues, “Then why is Buck holding your face like you’re in a telenovela.”
Eddie’s brain scrambles for a lie and finds only smoke.
Buck blurts, “It’s… a medical thing.”
Christopher stares. “A medical thing.”
Eddie nods too fast. “Yes.”
Christopher’s eyes narrow. “Your face is sick.”
Buck gestures wildly. “No, it was—he had—like—crumbs.”
Eddie seizes it. “Crumbs.”
Christopher looks at Eddie’s mouth. “You don’t have crumbs.”
Eddie’s voice cracks. “Invisible crumbs.”
Christopher’s stare deepens into something deadly calm. “So Buck was doing… invisible crumb removal.”
Buck nods, earnest. “Exactly.”
Christopher shifts his weight, unimpressed. “With his whole hand on your cheek.”
Eddie coughs. “It’s—tactile.”
Christopher’s gaze slides to Eddie like he’s about to deliver a report card. “Dad.”
Eddie straightens automatically, because that tone is the tone Christopher uses when Eddie is about to embarrass himself publicly and Christopher is trying to stop him.
“Yes,” Eddie says.
Christopher says, very carefully, “You know I’m fifteen.”
Eddie’s stomach drops. “Yes.”
Christopher continues, “And not stupid.”
Buck makes a tiny noise, like a wounded animal.
Eddie says, desperately, “We weren’t doing anything.”
Christopher looks at Buck. “Were you about to kiss him?”
Buck’s face goes bright red in a way Eddie didn’t know Buck’s face could go. “No!”
Christopher looks at Eddie. “Were you about to let him?”
Eddie’s whole body heats. “No.”
Christopher’s expression doesn’t change. He just looks… exhausted. Like he’s been watching a slow-motion car crash for months and he’s finally reached the point where he can’t pretend he doesn’t see it.
He swings his crutch forward, click, and walks into the kitchen. He grabs a pastry off the counter like he deserves payment for emotional labor.
He takes a bite. Chews. Swallows.
Then he says, with terrifying calm, “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen.”
Eddie’s mouth opens. “Chris—”
Christopher holds up a hand. “No. You don’t get to ‘Chris’ me.”
Buck looks like he might faint.
Christopher points at Eddie. “You.”
Then he points at Buck. “You.”
Then he gestures vaguely between them, like he’s outlining a suspicious cloud. “Whatever this is… you can call it ‘sleep study’ or ‘core strength’ or ‘invisible crumbs’ or ‘tempararure testing’—”
Buck whispers, “That was a good one, though.”
Christopher’s eyes flick to him, sharp. “It was not.”
Buck shuts up immediately.
Christopher continues, “You can keep saying you’re ‘just friends’—”
Eddie says, defensive, “We are.”
Christopher sighs like he’s carrying the weight of the world and also, somehow, the weight of Eddie’s inability to be normal.
“Right,” Christopher says. “Just friends who share beds. Just friends who slow dance. Just friends who look like they’re about to make out in my kitchen.”
Eddie’s face burns.
Christopher takes another bite of pastry, like he’s fueling up for battle. “I don’t care what you call it.”
Eddie’s throat tightens. “You don’t?”
Christopher shrugs, one shoulder lifting. “I care that you’re both being weird and lying and then acting like I’m the one who doesn’t understand.”
Buck’s eyes go soft. “Chris, buddy—”
Christopher holds up a hand again. “No. Listen.”
Buck stops.
Christopher looks at Eddie, and there’s something in his face that’s older than fifteen, something steady and sure.
“If you two want to date,” Christopher says, “then date. If you don’t, then stop doing stuff that looks like dating and then acting surprised when people think you’re dating.”
Eddie’s chest feels too tight. “We’re not—”
Christopher’s eyes narrow. “Dad.”
Eddie’s mouth snaps shut.
Christopher looks between them again, then says, completely deadpan, “Also, for the record, Aunt Hen is going to kill you.”
Buck’s voice squeaks. “She already threatened to throw us in the ocean.”
Christopher nods. “Yeah. Sounds right.”
Eddie finds his voice, weak. “So… you’re not… upset.”
Christopher stares at him like Eddie has asked if the sky is blue. “Why would I be upset?”
Eddie’s throat works. “Because… I don’t know.”
Christopher’s expression softens, just a fraction. “Dad.”
Eddie looks at him.
Christopher’s voice drops, more honest. “I like Buck.”
Buck’s face does something—softens, cracks open. “I like you too, buddy.”
Christopher rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. “Yeah. I know.”
He takes the last bite of pastry and dusts his hands off.
Then he limps toward the hallway, pausing at the doorway like he can’t resist a final shot.
He looks at Buck. “And Buck?”
Buck straightens like he’s being addressed by a general. “Yeah?”
Christopher points at him. “If you’re going to keep coming over, bring more pastries.”
Buck blinks. “That’s—”
Christopher adds, “Platonically.”
Buck’s mouth twitches. “Platonically.”
Christopher nods, satisfied, and disappears down the hall.
The moment he’s gone, Eddie stands frozen in the kitchen, surrounded by evidence of his own incompetence.
Buck shifts, a small step closer. “So.”
Eddie exhales, long and shaky. “So.”
Buck’s voice is quiet, almost careful. “We’re just friends.”
Eddie’s heart stutters. “Yes.”
Buck’s gaze flicks to Eddie’s mouth again, quick and unconscious. “Right.”
Eddie swallows. “Right.”
They stand there in silence, the air thick with almosts and not-quites.
Then Buck—because Buck can’t leave anything alone—reaches out and taps Eddie’s cheek with one fingertip.
Eddie jerks back on instinct. “Don’t.”
Buck’s eyes crinkle. “Invisible crumbs.”
Eddie glares. “Get out of my kitchen.”
Buck grins, bright and warm, and grabs the paper bag. “Okay. But for the record?”
Eddie folds his arms. “What.”
Buck leans in just slightly, voice low like a secret. “Your kid is terrifying.”
Eddie huffs a laugh despite himself. “He’s mine.”
Buck pauses, expression softening again. “Yeah,” Buck says, like that means something.
Eddie’s chest tightens.
Buck backs toward the door, still smiling. “See you at shift tomorrow?”
Eddie nods. “Yeah.”
Buck lingers at the threshold. “We’re still not dating.”
Eddie’s mouth goes dry. “We’re not.”
Buck’s smile turns a little helpless. “Okay.”
Then Buck leaves.
+1: Eddie says it wrong (and then right)
Buck leaves, and the quiet follows him like a bruise.
Not the normal quiet. Not the house-settling, Christopher-in-his-room, TV-murmuring kind. This quiet is wrong. It presses in around Eddie’s ears, sits heavy in his chest, makes the space feel larger than it should be.
Eddie stands in the kitchen for a second too long, staring at the door Buck just walked out of like it might reopen on its own if Eddie waits hard enough.
It doesn’t.
Of course it doesn’t.
Eddie exhales and scrubs a hand down his face. His heart is still racing, adrenaline curdling into something tighter, more unpleasant. He tells himself this is fine. This is normal. Buck left because Eddie asked him to. Because Eddie needed space. Because—
Because Eddie is an idiot.
From the hallway, Christopher yells, “DENNY YOU CAN’T JUST CAMP THE SPAWN POINT.”
Eddie flinches. Grounds himself. Moves.
He picks up the abandoned dish towel, folds it with unnecessary precision, sets it on the counter. He rinses a plate that isn’t dirty. He wipes the counter again, like cleanliness might turn into clarity if he tries hard enough.
His brain keeps replaying Buck’s face.
The way Buck had looked at him, open and careful. The way he’d nodded when Eddie said don’t, even though it clearly cost him something.
Buck always does that. Gives Eddie what he asks for. Even when Eddie asks for the wrong thing.
Eddie’s chest tightens.
I don’t want you to leave. The thought hits him out of nowhere.
Eddie freezes, hands flat on the counter.
“I don’t want you to leave,” Eddie says, aloud this time, like maybe hearing it in his own voice will make it less dangerous.
It doesn’t.
The house stays quiet. Christopher keeps yelling at Denny. Life keeps going.
Eddie stands there, breathing hard, staring at the reflection of himself in the dark window over the sink.
He looks wrecked. Tired. Like someone who’s been carrying something heavy for too long and is only just realizing it.
Friends don’t feel like this, his brain offers weakly.
Eddie snorts. “No shit.”
He grabs his keys.
Christopher looks up when Eddie pauses in the hallway. He doesn’t say anything—just lifts his eyebrows, expectant.
“I’m going out,” Eddie says.
Christopher studies him for a long moment, then nods once. “Okay.”
Eddie doesn’t trust himself to say anything else, so he leaves before his kid can say something devastatingly perceptive and make this harder.
Buck’s house smells like pizza.
That hits Eddie first—the familiarity of it, the way his shoulders loosen without permission as soon as he steps onto the porch. Like his body has already made decisions his brain is still trying to argue with.
Buck opens the door and freezes.
“Eddie?”
Eddie swallows. “Yeah.”
Buck steps aside automatically, letting him in. Eddie clocks the way Buck’s posture shifts—hope flickering, then tamped down. Like Buck is trying not to read into this.
That makes something in Eddie’s chest twist.
The door shuts behind him. The apartment is dim, quiet. Buck hasn’t turned the TV back on. There’s a glass of water on the coffee table, barely touched. The couch blanket is rumpled like Buck sat down, stood up, sat down again.
Buck folds his arms loosely, giving Eddie space. “Is everything okay?”
Eddie opens his mouth.
He had a plan. On the drive over, he had a whole plan. Something calm. Something measured. Something that didn’t involve emotional freefall.
The plan evaporates the second Buck looks at him like that.
“I—” Eddie starts, then stops. He exhales sharply and runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean for you to leave.”
Buck goes very still.
“I mean,” Eddie rushes, because he feels the edge of it now, the cliff he’s about to walk off, “I did. I said it. But I didn’t mean—” He gestures helplessly. “Not like that.”
Buck’s voice is careful. “Eddie…”
Eddie laughs once, brittle. “See? This is what I do. I say the wrong thing and then I try to fix it by talking more.”
Buck’s arms drop to his sides. He takes a small step closer without realizing it. “What are you trying to say?”
Eddie’s chest tightens. His heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might break something.
He hadn’t planned this. He hadn’t rehearsed it. It just… spills.
“I hate it when you’re not here,” Eddie says.
The words land heavy in the quiet room.
Buck freezes. Completely. Like someone hit pause on him.
Eddie sees it happen—the way Buck’s breath stutters, the way his eyes widen just slightly. Like Eddie just said something Buck wasn’t expecting to hear out loud.
“Eddie,” Buck says softly.
And that’s it. That’s the moment Eddie realizes he’s already crossed the line. There’s no walking this back. No joke big enough. No excuse stupid enough.
So Eddie keeps going.
“I tell myself it’s normal,” Eddie says, voice low and rough. “That it’s just habit. That you’re just—around a lot. But then you leave and the house feels wrong.” He swallows. “I feel wrong.”
Buck’s throat works. “You never said—”
“I know,” Eddie says quickly. “I didn’t want to.”
Buck huffs a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, except there’s no humor in it. “Why not?”
Eddie’s mouth curves, humorless. “Because if I say it out loud, then I have to deal with what it means.”
Buck watches him, eyes bright, unblinking. “And what does it mean?”
Eddie closes his eyes for half a second.
Then he opens them and looks at Buck.
“It means I don’t miss you like I miss other people,” Eddie says. “It means when you leave, it’s not relief. It’s—” He searches, frustrated. “Like something essential walked out with you.”
Buck’s breath catches audibly.
Eddie forces himself to keep eye contact. “It means I don’t want to keep pretending this is just… convenience. Or teamwork. Or whatever excuse I can grab that day.”
Buck takes another step forward, slow, cautious, like he’s approaching something fragile. “Eddie.”
Eddie’s voice drops. “I don’t want you to leave.”
There’s a long pause where neither of them moves. The air feels tight, charged. Eddie’s stomach is in knots. He’s terrified—absolutely terrified—but underneath it is something steadier.
Relief.
Because the truth is finally out.
Buck exhales shakily. “Do you know how long I’ve been trying not to want to hear that?”
Eddie’s chest tightens. “Buck—”
“I kept telling myself you didn’t mean it,” Buck says, voice thick. “That I was reading too much into things. That if I just… didn’t push, didn’t ask, didn’t want too loudly, you’d be okay.”
Eddie flinches. “I’m sorry.”
Buck shakes his head. “I’m not mad.” He laughs softly, broken. “I’m just—God, Eddie.”
Eddie takes a step forward without thinking. Then another. He stops close enough that he can feel Buck’s warmth, see the freckles on his nose, the faint crease between his brows.
“I’m bad at this,” Eddie says quietly. “I know I am. I joke. I deflect. I pretend things don’t matter because if I admit they do, then I have to risk losing them.”
Buck’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Do I matter?”
Eddie doesn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
Buck lets out a shaky breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest for years.
Eddie continues, softer now. “You matter. More than I let myself say. More than I let myself think about most days.”
Buck’s hands curl at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach out. “Are you saying—”
“I’m saying,” Eddie cuts in, because he’s done letting fear drive this, “that I want you. Not in some abstract, someday way. I want you here. With me. I want—” His voice cracks. He clears his throat. “I want to stop pretending I don’t.”
Buck’s face crumples, just a little. “Eddie.”
Eddie swallows hard. “You don’t have to say anything. I just—” He exhales. “I needed you to know.”
Buck laughs softly, wet. “I have so many things to say.”
Eddie huffs. “That tracks.”
Buck lifts his gaze, earnest and vulnerable and terrifyingly open. “Can I touch you?”
The question hits Eddie harder than anything else tonight.
He nods. “Yeah.”
Buck steps into his space and cups Eddie’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly under his eye like he’s checking if Eddie’s real. Eddie leans into the touch without thinking, breath hitching.
Buck whispers, “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that without an excuse.”
Eddie lets out a breathy laugh. “Yeah. I do.”
Their foreheads rest together, breathing each other in. The world narrows to this—this closeness that no longer needs explaining.
Buck pulls back just enough to look at Eddie properly. “Are you sure?”
Eddie doesn’t dodge it. “Yes.”
Buck’s mouth curves, small and hopeful. “Then… can I kiss you?”
Eddie’s heart stutters.
“Yes,” he says, immediately. “Please.”
Buck smiles and leans in.
The kiss is gentle. Careful. Like they’re both afraid of breaking something precious. Buck’s lips are warm, familiar in a way that makes Eddie’s chest ache. Eddie’s hand slides to Buck’s waist, grounding himself in the reality of it.
When they pull apart, Buck laughs quietly, breathless. “Wow.”
Eddie smiles despite himself. “Yeah.”
Buck presses a quick kiss to Eddie’s forehead, then his cheek, then hovers like he’s mapping new territory. “So… we’re not just friends.”
Eddie snorts softly. “No.”
Buck’s eyes shine. “We’re—”
“Together,” Eddie says, before he can overthink it.
Buck beams. “Together.”
Buck’s hand finds Eddie’s and laces their fingers together—deliberate. Eddie squeezes back, heart full and terrifyingly light.
Somewhere down the hall of Eddie’s mind, he can hear Christopher saying finally.
Eddie leans in and presses his forehead to Buck’s again, smiling.
“This feels… right,” Eddie admits.
Buck grins. “Yeah.”
For once, Eddie doesn’t argue with that.