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pairings: Edmundo Diaz x reader
genre/warnings; angst, miscommunication, hurt/comfort
Summary: She says she doesn’t want kids to protect herself, not knowing he’s hiding the one thing that might change everything.
Two months isn’t long enough to know everything about someone.
But it’s long enough to start memorizing them.
Eddie knows the way you hum when you’re half-asleep, the way you always steal his hoodies and pretend you didn’t, the way your laugh comes out sharper when you’re trying not to let it. He knows you hate cilantro, love old movies, and always sit with your back to a wall in public without even realizing it.
You know the way he softens around you.
That’s the dangerous part.
Because Eddie Diaz doesn’t soften easily.
But with you, he does it without noticing.
And with him, you forget to be careful.
It’s a quiet night when it happens.
Nothing dramatic. No big lead-up. No warning.
Just the two of you on his couch, a half-empty takeout container between you, some action movie playing that’s all explosions and zero plot. Your legs are thrown over his lap, his hand resting warm and steady on your calf, thumb tracing slow circles like he’s been doing it his whole life.
That’s what makes you say it later.
That’s what makes him ask.
“You ever think about… the future?” Eddie asks, voice low, almost like he’s not sure he should.
You don’t look away from the TV. “Depends. You planning something I should know about?”
There’s a hint of a smile in your voice.
Eddie huffs quietly, but it doesn’t quite land. His thumb slows.
“I mean it,” he says. “Like… where you see yourself. Five years. Ten.”
You shrug, but it’s smaller than usual. “Alive, hopefully.”
“Yeah, well,” he mutters, “that’s a good start.”
You feel it the second he says it.
Your body stills before you can stop it.
Eddie’s thumb pauses against your skin, like he’s hit something fragile and doesn’t know if he should pull away or press harder.
You swallow, eyes still glued to the screen even though you haven’t registered a single thing happening on it.
Eddie’s hand pulls back slightly—not fully, not enough to make a statement, but enough that you feel the absence immediately.
Not judgmental. Not angry.
And maybe a little disappointed.
You hate that you can hear that.
“I mean,” you add quickly, shrugging like it’s nothing, like you didn’t just feel something shift, “it’s just not really my thing.”
God, you almost laugh at yourself.
It was always your thing.
You remember being younger, imagining names, picturing tiny hands wrapped around your fingers, a life that felt so normal, so possible. You remember wanting it so badly it felt like a certainty.
Until sterile rooms and careful voices and words like complications and unlikely and we’re sorry rewrote everything you thought you’d have.
You learned how to smile through it.
How to go home and quietly grieve something no one else could see.
You learned how to stop saying you wanted it at all.
Because wanting something you can’t have feels a lot worse than pretending you never wanted it.
So you sit there, legs still over Eddie’s lap, and you lie like it’s second nature.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s… fair.”
But his voice is tighter now.
He’s staring at the TV, but his focus isn’t there. His jaw’s a little tense, his shoulders just slightly more rigid than before.
“You do?” you ask quietly.
Eddie exhales, leaning back like he’s trying to ease something in his chest.
“Yeah,” he admits. “I always thought I would.”
There’s weight behind it.
You just hear the mismatch.
And suddenly your chest feels tight.
Because now there’s a future—one you didn’t even realize you were starting to picture—that doesn’t line up anymore.
It’s only been two months.
Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.
Eddie rubs the back of his neck, glancing at you briefly before looking away again.
“It’s not like… a dealbreaker,” he says quickly. “I mean—we’re not—this isn’t—”
“Eddie,” you cut in softly, forcing a small smile, “it’s okay.”
You don’t want him to feel bad.
You don’t want this to turn into something heavy.
But he doesn’t look convinced.
The movie keeps playing, loud and pointless in the background, filling a silence that’s grown too thick.
You should say something else.
But how do you explain something like that without breaking yourself open?
Without watching the way someone looks at you change?
Eddie sits there with something caught in his throat.
The name echoes in his head like it’s been waiting for this exact moment.
He should’ve told you already.
Every time he almost did, something stopped him. Timing. Fear. The selfish part of him that wanted just a little more time where things were easy, uncomplicated, just the two of you.
Now you’re saying you don’t want kids.
A son who is his entire world.
A son he hasn’t even mentioned.
Because suddenly this isn’t just about different futures.
It’s about a truth he’s been holding back.
You shift slightly, your legs still resting on him, but there’s distance now. Not physical—just enough space in how you’re sitting, how you’re breathing.
Like something invisible settled between you.
His hand hovers for a second before resting back on your leg, but it’s not the same. The easy rhythm is gone. His touch is more careful now. Like he’s unsure of the ground.
“You sure?” he asks quietly.
The word hits harder this time.
You force a shrug. “Yeah.”
There’s something in his gaze—something searching.
Like he doesn’t fully believe you.
The words sit right there, on the edge of your tongue.
Because if you say it, it becomes real again.
And you’ve spent too long pretending it doesn’t hurt.
But something in his expression falls.
Because he’s got his own truth sitting heavy in his chest.
One he still doesn’t say.
Later, when you leave, Eddie stands in the doorway longer than usual.
Watching you walk to your car.
Waiting for something—anything—to feel normal again.
Inside, the apartment feels too quiet.
His phone buzzes in his pocket.
Christopher’s asking if you’re coming by tomorrow.
Then back at the door you just walked out of.
Neither of you sharing the one thing that matters most.
And somewhere in the middle—
Something good starting to crack.
Lies there staring at the ceiling, one arm thrown over his face like that’ll block out the thoughts, like that’ll stop the replay of your voice—I don’t want kids—on a loop that won’t shut up.
It shouldn’t hit this hard.
Two months isn’t long enough to be losing sleep over someone.
Because it’s not just what you said.
The name sits heavy in his chest, like guilt with a pulse.
He turns onto his side, reaches for his phone, reads the message again.
Christopher’s asking if you’re coming by tomorrow.
“Yeah, mijo,” he murmurs to no one. “I’m coming.”
He just doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do about you.
You spend most of the night staring at your ceiling, replaying the moment over and over again, every word, every shift in his expression, every tiny change in the way he touched you after.
You shouldn’t care this much.
You know him in the quiet ways. In the spaces between conversations. In the way he looks at you like you’re something steady.
Maybe you just delayed the inevitable.
Because what were you supposed to do?
Hey, I actually want kids more than anything, I just physically can’t have them, hope that’s not a dealbreaker.
You huff out a bitter laugh into the dark.
Yeah. That would’ve gone great.
So instead, you chose the easier lie.
The one that protects you.
The next few days feel… off.
Eddie still texts you good morning.
Still asks if you’ve eaten.
Still sends you random pictures—his lunch, something dumb he saw at work, a blurry shot of a dog he passed on the street.
But there’s a layer missing.
Like everything’s just a little more careful now.
You notice he hasn’t asked to see you again.
Eddie notices you haven’t either.
It’s four days later when it finally snaps.
You’re at his place again.
It almost feels like before.
You’re sitting at the kitchen counter this time, watching him cook, stealing pieces of whatever he’s making when he’s not looking.
“You’re gonna get sick,” he mutters, swatting your hand away without any real force.
“You say that every time,” you shoot back, grinning.
“Yeah, and one day I’m gonna be right.”
“Then you can take care of me.”
Your smile fades slightly.
“Nothing,” he says too quickly, turning back to the stove.
It’s starting to piss you off.
“Eddie,” you press, “what?”
He exhales, setting the spatula down harder than he means to.
“It’s just—” He stops. Runs a hand over the back of his neck. “That whole… taking care of you thing.”
He turns to look at you fully now.
And there’s something different in his eyes.
“You say you don’t want kids,” he starts slowly, “but you talk like—like you do.”
Your chest feels like it drops.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” you deflect quickly.
“It kinda does,” he says, not harsh, just… honest.
You shake your head. “You’re reading into it.”
The way he’s looking at you like he’s trying to figure you out, like you’re something that doesn’t add up.
You hop off the counter, crossing your arms.
“Why does it even matter?” you snap, sharper than you intended. “I said I don’t want kids. That should make things easier, right?”
“Yeah,” you say, voice tightening. “You said you wanted them. Now you don’t have to worry about that with me.”
“That’s not—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching. “That’s not how that works.”
“Then how does it work, Eddie?” you fire back. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like a problem for you.”
“It’s not a problem,” he says, but there’s frustration bleeding in now. “It’s just—”
“No, say it,” you push. “What is it?”
Eddie looks at you, something shifting behind his eyes.
The words hit like a shockwave.
His shoulders drop slightly, like the weight of it finally slipped out.
“I have a son,” he says quieter now. “Christopher.”
“You didn’t tell me,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.
Guilt flashes across his face immediately.
“You didn’t tell me,” you repeat, louder now, disbelief creeping in. “Eddie, that’s not—small. That’s not something you just—forget to mention.”
“I didn’t forget,” he says quickly. “I just—”
“Didn’t what? Trust me? Think I’d stick around?”
“No, what’s not fair is you letting me sit here and—” you gesture between you both, frustration spilling over, “—build something with you while hiding something that big!”
Eddie runs a hand down his face.
“I was going to tell you.”
“I don’t know!” he snaps, then immediately softens. “I just… I wanted more time.”
“For this,” he says, voice rough. “For it to just be us for a little while.”
God, you get that more than you want to.
“You don’t get to do that,” you say, shaking your head. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
The honesty in it throws you off.
“I know,” he repeats quieter. “I messed up.”
Silence crashes in again.
You swallow hard, trying to process everything all at once.
A whole life you didn’t know about.
That conversation from days ago shifts.
Becomes something else entirely.
“You asked me about kids,” you say slowly.
“And you already… you already have one.”
A bitter laugh slips out of you.
“No, you don’t,” you shake your head, emotions tangling up in your chest. “You don’t get it.”
“Then help me understand,” he says, stepping closer.
You’re so tired of carrying it alone.
“You think I don’t want kids?” you whisper.
Eddie’s expression shifts instantly.
“I said I don’t,” you continue, voice cracking slightly, “because I can’t.”
You laugh again, but it’s hollow this time.
“Doctor’s words, not mine,” you say, blinking rapidly. “It’s not happening. Not for me.”
His face softens immediately.
“Yeah,” you cut in, shrugging like it doesn’t rip you open to say it out loud. “So it’s easier to just say I don’t want them. Saves everyone the awkward conversation.”
The way you said it too fast, too final.
“Hey,” he says gently, stepping closer. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” you interrupt, backing up slightly. “I know I don’t have to. But I do. Because people hear that and they look at you different, and I don’t—” your voice wavers, “I don’t want that.”
Eddie’s heart cracks a little.
“Hey,” he says again, softer this time.
You shake your head, wiping at your eyes quickly.
“So yeah,” you breathe out. “There’s your answer. I don’t want kids… because I don’t get to.”
Eddie looks at you like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time.
You look at him like you don’t know what this is anymore.
Because now everything’s out.
And neither of you know what to do with it.
The silence doesn’t suffocate this time.
Different. Heavier. Real.
Eddie doesn’t move right away. Like if he does, he might do the wrong thing—say the wrong thing—and you’ll slip right through his fingers.
Your arms are still crossed, like you’re holding yourself together. Like if you let go, everything you just said might spill out even worse.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, softer now.
You let out a humorless laugh.
“I’m not—” he stops himself, shakes his head, recalibrates. “I mean… not like that. I just— I wish you didn’t have to carry that alone.”
And it’s worse than if he’d judged you.
There’s no pity twisting his face, no discomfort, no pulling away.
And that almost breaks you more.
“I didn’t want you to look at me like that,” you admit quietly.
“Like I’m missing something.”
Eddie’s brows pull together immediately. “You’re not.”
“You don’t know that,” you push, voice tightening again. “People say that until it actually matters.”
“It does matter,” he says, stepping closer again—but slower this time, giving you space to back away if you want to.
“It matters because it hurt you,” he continues. “Not because it makes you… less.”
You hate how easily he cuts through the walls you spent years building.
“You don’t get it,” you whisper.
There’s no pressure in it.
Like he’s offering, not forcing.
You don’t know what to do with that.
Because you’re used to handling things alone. To shutting it down before anyone gets too close to the truth.
So what’s the point in pretending now?
You exhale shakily, looking down at the floor.
“It’s not just… the kids thing,” you admit. “It’s everything that comes with it. The questions. The looks. The ‘have you tried this’ and ‘maybe someday’ and—” your voice cracks, “—and knowing they don’t get it.”
“I got tired of explaining,” you say. “Tired of hoping. Tired of… wanting something that’s not gonna happen.” You shrug weakly. “So I stopped wanting it. Or at least… I act like I did.”
Eddie’s jaw tightens slightly.
“That’s not the same thing,” he says quietly.
You finally look up at him again, eyes a little glassy, but steady.
“So yeah,” you say. “That’s why I said I don’t want kids.”
Eddie nods slowly, absorbing it.
“My son has cerebral palsy.”
The words come out just as quietly.
But they hit just as hard.
Eddie shifts his weight slightly, like this part is just as hard for him to say out loud.
“Christopher,” he adds, softer now. “He’s eight.”
You feel something twist in your chest.
“You didn’t tell me,” you say again, but there’s less bite in it now. More… understanding.
“I was scared,” he admits.
That catches you off guard.
“That it would be too much,” he says honestly. “For you. For… this.” He gestures lightly between you both. “Single dad isn’t exactly easy to sign up for.”
That you understand too well.
The things that might make someone leave.
“You don’t get to make that decision for me,” you say again, but softer this time.
“I know,” he says immediately.
Silence settles again, but it’s not as sharp now.
“You love him,” you say after a moment.
Eddie’s entire expression shifts.
Softens in a way you haven’t seen before.
And it does something to you.
“I don’t regret him,” Eddie adds quietly. “Not for a second.”
“I didn’t think you did,” you say.
“But I regret not telling you,” he continues. “You deserved to know.”
“What happens now?” you ask.
It’s the question sitting between you.
The one neither of you can avoid anymore.
Eddie exhales, running a hand through his hair.
“I don’t know,” he says honestly.
Not what you want to hear.
Because you don’t know either.
You’ve got a future you thought was impossible.
He’s got one that already exists.
“I don’t want to walk away,” Eddie says suddenly.
“No,” he says firmly. “I just… don’t know how to do this right.”
You huff out a small, shaky breath.
There’s a faint, almost-smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re not… against kids,” he says carefully.
You shake your head slowly.
“No,” you admit. “I’m just… not able to have them.”
“And you’re not… just a guy who wants kids,” you add.
He lets out a quiet breath.
“No,” he says. “I’m already a dad.”
It doesn’t feel like something that pushes you apart.
Just something that changes the shape of things.
“You gonna tell me about him?” you ask softly.
Eddie looks at you, surprised.
A small, genuine smile breaks through.
When he starts talking about Christopher, about the way he laughs, the things he loves, the stubbornness, the sweetness—
This isn’t where things fall apart.
Maybe this is where they finally start being real.
