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Evan Buckley was the kind of guy who was always a little too curious for his own good.

At twenty-two, he was a college student juggling a full course load in mechanical engineering, part-time shifts at a local auto shop, and an inexplicable tendency to be at the wrong place at exactly the wrong time.

He lived in a cramped but homey Brooklyn apartment with his older sister Maddie, who worked nights as a nurse and had long since accepted her little brother’s chaotic energy as a fact of life—like gravity or taxes.

The day everything changed had started out completely normal.

Buck had cut class to fix the brakes on Maddie’s clunky old Corolla, spilled coffee all over his only clean hoodie (which he’d later keep wearing anyway), and gotten roped into a last-minute errand run that ended with him tagging along to a university-sponsored lab tour.

Science wasn’t really his thing. He liked taking things apart, sure—but the molecular level? That was more Chim’s speed.

Still, there was a certain comfort in watching the glass-encased spiders of the university’s bio-genetics program crawl in their terrariums.

Buck had stared at one particularly twitchy red-and-blue arachnid, laughing to himself about its resemblance to a Fourth of July parade float, before a series of moments blurred together: a distraction, a bump, a crack in the glass no one noticed. And then—

A bite. Sharp. Hot. Quick.

The pain had radiated up his arm and burned like wildfire through his veins. He didn’t remember much else except nearly blacking out on the subway home and waking up sprawled on his bedroom floor, sweating through his sheets with the overwhelming urge to… climb.

And so began the freakishly strange, secretly exhilarating new chapter of Evan Buckley’s life: learning to web-sling through alleyways, punch through steel, and crawl upside down on ceilings—all while still managing to grab groceries for Maddie and pretend he wasn’t literally climbing the walls.

But despite all the chaos—the nighttime patrols, the bruised ribs, the suit he sewed together by hand with shaky fingers and leftover fabric from Maddie’s DIY Halloween bin—there was always one constant in Buck’s world:

You.

His next-door neighbor. The girl on the fire escape.

You didn’t talk much, not to him anyway.

You always had paint on your fingertips and headphones on, lounging on the rusty fire escape outside your window like it was a throne.

Sometimes you sketched in charcoal, sometimes you painted in oils, and sometimes you just laid there with your eyes closed and a cigarette tucked behind your ear, completely unaffected by the world spinning madly around you.

Buck would catch glimpses of you when he came home from patrol, exhausted and aching. The moment he saw you sitting on that fire escape, illuminated by the yellow glow of your window, something in him stilled.

You never looked up—never noticed the way he lingered by his window to watch you—yet somehow, your calm bled into him through the walls.

He liked to imagine what kind of art you made.

Whether you drew the city like it was, gritty and unforgiving, or how you wanted it to be. Maybe you drew the man in the red mask who was starting to appear in headlines and blurry phone videos—the masked vigilante who flung himself between danger and disaster, who arrived just in time and disappeared just as fast. The man the internet had nicknamed Spider-Man.

He wondered what you would say if you knew it was him.

But for now, Buck kept his mask on — both literal and metaphorical.

He swung through alleyways and over rooftops with city wind tearing past his ears, adrenaline roaring in his blood, balancing the impossible weight of his double life:

Evan Buckley, college burnout with a tendency to care too much, and the faceless vigilante the internet had started calling Spider-Man.

And still, no matter how chaotic the night had been — whether he’d stopped a robbery, pulled a kid from a burning building, or barely escaped with a cracked rib — it was always your window that he looked for when he came home.

You, on the fire escape, one leg dangling off the side, sketchpad balanced on your knee, music low in your headphones. You never looked up. Never said anything. But somehow, your stillness reached through the chaos like a tether.

It grounded him more than any rooftop, any anchor line, ever could.

Maybe one day he’d say something. Maybe he’d knock on your window. Maybe he’d show you who he really was — not the mask, not the headlines, just Buck.

But not yet.

For now, he’d just watch from the window, heartbeat finally slowing, the world briefly at peace as you drew under the stars.

And for the first time all night, he’d breathe.

It was raining again.

A soft, cold drizzle that stuck to your jacket and turned the streets of Brooklyn into one giant watercolor palette—muted grays, splotched browns, wet cement smeared with light.

Buck tugged the hood of his sweatshirt tighter over his head as he jogged across the street, nearly slipping on the corner thanks to some particularly slick cobblestone.

“Of course,” he muttered under his breath, water dripping down his neck.

The city always had a way of testing his limits, even when he wasn’t in the suit.

He made it into his building, boots squeaking across the tile as he shook out his jacket and hit the elevator button, tapping his foot impatiently. He was running late — of course — and Professor Harley didn’t give second chances.

Then the elevator dinged, and the doors opened to reveal you.

And everything else just… faded.

You were hunched slightly under the weight of your tote bag, sketchbooks crammed into your arms, a few charcoal pencils sticking out at odd angles from a roll that looked like it was held together by a shoelace.

You didn’t seem to notice him at first — your headphones were still in, your hoodie sleeves slightly stained with paint, your mind probably a thousand miles away in some idea or image you were trying to pin to paper.

Buck stepped in quickly, offering a small nod, but his bag knocked into yours. Your sketchbooks teetered, and before he could say anything—

Everything spilled.

“Oh no—shit, I’m so sorry—” Buck dropped to his knees immediately, hands scrambling to catch one of your sketchbooks before it could land spine-first on the grimy floor.

Pencils clattered, a kneaded eraser bounced once and rolled toward the elevator wall.

You blinked at the mess for half a second before crouching down with him, laughing softly under your breath.

“Guess gravity’s not a fan of me today.”

Buck looked up just for a second before he fully looked up at you.

You were smiling.

The soft kind — not performative or polite, but effortless, like you’d found something quietly funny in all of this.

Your eyes met his, a glint of curiosity in them, and for a moment, Buck forgot where he was. Forgot the elevator. The rain.

The fact that he was, technically, very late.

It was as if the whole city paused.

The hum of fluorescent lights, the distant honk of a car, the muffled conversation from the floor above — all of it blurred behind the simple click of that one moment.

“Seriously,” Buck stammered, clearing his throat and handing you a battered sketchbook with a corner bent. “I’m really sorry. I wasn’t looking.”

You shrugged, brushing your thumb over the bent edge.

“It’s okay. Honestly, I’ve done way worse. Last week I spilled ink all over a professor’s desk.”

You smiled again, a tiny self-deprecating tilt of the lips. “This is nothing.”

“I’m Buck, by the way,” he said, still crouched, handing you the last pencil.

You tucked it into your roll. “Y/N.”

And then, something shifted.

You tilted your head slightly, studying him.

“Wait. You live upstairs, don’t you? I’ve seen you come home late sometimes.”

Buck tried not to panic. “Yeah, uh—night shifts. Campus security.”

Half a lie. It sounded like a job a sleep-deprived student might have. It also covered for the nights he swung home bruised and limping with smoke in his lungs.

The elevator dinged again, and you both stood. Buck didn’t even realize he’d hit the ground floor button.

“What major are you?” he asked as you rebalanced your tote on your shoulder.

“Studio arts,” you replied. “Painting concentration. You?”

He almost said, Spider-Man, full-time disaster, part-time community college bio major, but instead: “Engineering. Sort of. Still figuring that part out.”

The two of you walked out of the building together, the rain now just a whisper on the wind. Buck hesitated a second before glancing over.

“You taking the subway?”

“Nah,” you replied. “It’s only a fifteen-minute walk.”

He nodded. “Cool. I’ll walk with you.”

You didn’t protest. Just slipped your headphones around your neck and fell into step beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

For the first five minutes, neither of you spoke much. But it wasn’t awkward — it was easy.

You pointed out a mural someone had defaced and then half-fixed, a new bakery you were meaning to try, and Buck listened, letting your voice settle into the quiet corners of his mind.

It was stupid, maybe, but he felt like he’d stepped into one of your sketches — something warm, a little offbeat, a little messy but real. Brooklyn didn’t seem so gray anymore.

When the two of you turned the corner onto campus, he gestured toward the arts building. “You’re in here, right?”

You nodded. “Yep. First class is figure drawing. Which is basically two hours of wondering if your proportions are garbage.”

Buck laughed. “I think that’s just… college.”

From across the quad, someone whistled. Buck turned to see Chimney and Eddie walking toward them with Ravi trailing behind, coffee in hand. Chim cupped a hand to his mouth.

“Is that a smile, Buckley?”

Eddie raised a brow. “Didn’t know your face could do that this early.”

Buck rolled his eyes. “Ignore them.”

You laughed, already heading toward the doors. “I’ll try. Thanks for walking with me.”

He watched you go, shoulder brushing your sketchbag back into place, headphones back in. Then he turned back to his friends, still grinning.

“Who was that?” Ravi asked, clearly interested.

Buck didn’t answer right away. Just shoved his hands into his pockets, the morning gloom finally giving way to something a little brighter.

“Just my neighbor,” he said simply. “She’s an artist.”

Eddie nudged him. “You like her.”

“I—what? No—shut up.”

They all laughed, but Buck didn’t fight it.

For the first time that day, he really did have something to smile about.

Buck leaned back against the brick wall of the fire station’s rooftop, the city sprawling endlessly beneath him—a chaotic, restless beast that never truly slept.

The orange glow of streetlights mixed with neon signs and the occasional flash of emergency vehicles weaving through traffic.

The hum of Brooklyn at night was relentless, but somehow, it was the only soundtrack that made sense.

His classes were finally done for the day, and for once, he’d thought maybe he could take a breath. Maybe catch up on sleep, or hell, maybe even cook something edible. But the city had other plans.

A fire at a nearby warehouse, a car accident with trapped passengers, a mugging in a dark alley—each call pulled him away from any semblance of rest.

When the last siren finally faded into the distance, Buck swung silently between rooftops, the familiar rhythm of web-slinging a brief balm for his restless mind.

His muscles ached, exhaustion tugging at the edges of his focus, but the city was safe. For now.

He landed softly on the fire escape outside his apartment, the metal cold and slightly slick from the evening’s drizzle.

The window to his room was just above, cracked open to let in the cool night air. He wiped a hand over his sweaty face, peeling off his jacket and tossing it onto the floor inside before unzipping his hoodie.

Finally, some relief.

That’s when he saw you.

You were perched on the fire escape just a few floors down, knees pulled to your chest, sketchbook balanced on your lap.

Your hair was pulled up messily, strands falling around your face, illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlamp below. You looked up just as he shifted to climb inside, and your eyes met his.

You smiled and gave a small wave.

Buck smiled back, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a little. “Hey,” he called softly.

You nodded, your fingers twitching as if you wanted to say more but held back. For a moment, the world felt smaller, quieter, and somehow more manageable.

He climbed into his room and closed the window behind him, the familiar scent of his sister’s incense and textbooks greeting him.

Maddie was in the kitchen, humming softly as she stirred a pot on the stove. The clinking of dishes and the warmth of the overhead light made the apartment feel like a refuge from the city’s chaos.

“You’re home early,” Maddie said without turning, her voice carrying a teasing edge.

Buck shrugged off his shoes and tossed his hoodie over a chair. “Work’s been… lighter, today. Maybe the city finally gave me a break.”

He settled at the small kitchen table, rubbing the back of his neck. “You ever notice the girl on the fire escape downstairs? The one who’s always sketching?”

Maddie glanced over her shoulder, a knowing smile spreading across her face.

“You mean Y/N? Yeah, I know her. She lives alone in that little apartment with the big windows.”

Buck leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You’ve met her?”

“More than a few times,” Maddie said, stirring the pot again. “She’s quiet, but she’s kind. Always polite when I’ve bumped into her in the hall. Seems like she keeps to herself mostly.”

Buck nodded slowly. “She seems… grounded. Like she’s not trying to fight the chaos, just living through it in her own way.”

Maddie smiled softly. “Sounds about right. You think you want to say hi? More than just a wave?”

Buck felt his cheeks heat up and looked down at his hands. “Maybe.”

Dinner was simple—spaghetti and meatballs, just like Maddie’s favorite from their childhood.

They ate quietly at first, the kind of easy silence that only siblings shared. But Buck’s mind kept drifting back to you—your quiet presence on the fire escape, the way your eyes caught his in that fleeting moment.

After the last bite, Maddie pushed her plate aside and looked at him pointedly. “You’re going to talk to her, aren’t you?”

Buck hesitated, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I think I’m ready to try.”

Back on your fire escape the next evening, Buck found you again, sketchbook open and pencils scattered around your lap. He lingered a few feet below, careful not to startle you.

“You’re still drawing?” he called up, voice softer than he expected.

You glanced up, surprise flickering across your face before a small smile curled your lips.

“Yeah. Helps me think.”

Buck shifted on his feet, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Mind if I join you?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you patted the spot beside you.

He climbed up slowly, settling next to you. For a while, neither of you spoke, the quiet interrupted only by the scratching of your pencil on paper and the distant sounds of the city.

Finally, Buck said, “You ever think about how weird it is? We’re neighbors and never really talked until now.”

You chuckled. “Yeah. Guess we were both busy in our own worlds.”

He nodded. “Yours looks a lot more interesting.”

You glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh really?”

“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “And I’m not just saying that because I want to see what you’re working on next.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t push him away. Instead, you handed him the sketchbook.

“Here,” you said. “Maybe you can’t swing from rooftops, but you might have an eye for art.”

Buck flipped through the pages, genuinely impressed by the swirls of charcoal and bursts of color.

“This is amazing.”

Your smile grew softer, more real. “Thanks.”

For a moment, you both sat there, the city sprawling below, the night wrapping around you like a secret.

And for the first time in a long time, Buck felt like maybe the city’s noise could wait.

Because here, on this fire escape, everything felt just a little bit clearer.

The morning sun filtered through the early autumn trees on campus, scattering dappled light across the pavement.

The quad buzzed with its usual weekday chaos—students rushing to class with coffee cups in hand, flyers being shoved into backpacks, music playing faintly from someone’s speaker across the lawn.

Buck adjusted the strap of his backpack as he jogged lightly across the courtyard. He was cutting it close—again.

Physics class was on the far end of campus, and his last patrol the night before had stretched far too late into the night. But the city had been oddly quiet that morning, which gave him time for something he hadn’t done in a while: sleep.

He rounded a corner just as you were coming down the path with a friend, laughing at something she had said, your arms swinging a bit more freely than usual.

You had your sketchpad tucked under one arm, hair caught in a messy bun, glasses perched lazily on your nose as the clouds had started to gather.

Buck’s pace slowed almost unconsciously.

“There’s our friendly neighborhood science major,” your friend teased when she noticed him approaching.

You looked up, surprised but not unwelcome. “Hey, Buck.”

He offered a smile, adjusting the hoodie he hadn’t bothered to zip. “Hey yourself. Didn’t think I’d run into you before caffeine.”

“Me? I’ve been up since seven,” you said, lips quirking up. “Studio time.”

“I don’t know how you manage that. I can barely make it to class with both shoes on.”

Your friend snorted and nudged your elbow. “He forgot his coffee and his left brain last week.”

Buck chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “Harsh, but not inaccurate.”

The conversation lingered for another minute—light and easy, the kind of small talk that made him wish he had nowhere to be. But your friend tugged on your sleeve.

“We’ve got to go if we want a table,” she said. “C’mon, Van Gogh.”

You rolled your eyes and started to walk away, waving to Buck as you did. “See you around?”

“Yeah,” he said, watching you go. “Definitely.”

As you and your friend disappeared down the path, Buck caught her voice floating back: “So, what’s the deal with Hoodie Guy? You two flirting or what?”

Your flustered laugh followed immediately after, and Buck found himself smiling like an idiot all the way to class.

That evening, the city still held its breath.

No sirens, no car crashes, no desperate police radios begging for backup. Just the normal hum of traffic and soft city chatter.

So Buck went to the fire escape early.

He didn’t even change out of his hoodie and jeans—no suit, no mask, just Evan Buckley in socks and sweats, sliding open his bedroom window with the casual ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times.

The cool breeze greeted him as he climbed out and onto the rusted steps. The scent of paint, graphite, and street-level incense drifted upward. You were already there, cross-legged on your usual step, sketchpad open and pencil in hand.

You glanced up, mildly surprised.

“Hey,” you said softly. “Didn’t think I’d get the early shift Buck tonight.”

“City’s calm,” he said, settling down beside you. “Thought I’d come hang out.”

You nodded and returned to your sketching, the moment folding into a peaceful, wordless quiet.

Buck let his gaze drift, watching how your pencil moved across the page—careful, deliberate, intimate. You worked like you breathed, natural and steady.

Then, almost shyly, you tilted the sketchpad toward him.

“I’ve been drawing you,” you admitted.

Buck blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Not like… creepy drawing,” you said quickly.

“It’s just—sometimes when I don’t know what to draw, I just sketch people I see often. You’re always walking around in that hoodie, looking like you’ve got some secret life.”

He laughed—sharp and genuine. “That obvious, huh?”

You shrugged. “It’s not a bad thing. You always look like you’re running toward something. Like you’ve got purpose.”

Buck’s throat tightened a little.

There was something too real about that observation—too close to the truth he constantly had to keep hidden.

He took the sketchpad and flipped through the pages, gaze softening.

There were drawings of him laughing on the fire escape, one of him in profile looking out toward the skyline, and even a half-finished one of him leaning against the brick wall, hoodie bunched up at the sleeves.

“They’re really good,” he said, voice quieter than before. “You’ve got an eye for… I don’t know. Soul.”

You shrugged again, this time a bit more bashful. “I draw what makes the world feel a little less loud.”

A silence settled, heavy but comfortable. Buck leaned back on his palms, letting the quiet wrap around them. Your elbow brushed his, barely, but it was enough to anchor him.

For a moment, he forgot everything else. The pressure. The responsibilities. The secret tug of the red suit folded away under his mattress.

Then—sirens.

Buck’s head snapped up as the whine of fire trucks echoed down the street, distant but growing louder. He turned just in time to see three engines blur past the avenue below, red lights flashing wildly against the apartment windows.

You straightened too, watching them. “Wonder what that’s about.”

Buck stood abruptly, his body already moving toward the window.

“I—uh—I should head in,” he said quickly. “Promised Maddie I’d help with some stuff.”

Your brows drew together slightly at his sudden shift. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just… gotta go.”

You didn’t push. “See you later?”

Buck gave a tight smile. “Always.”

And then he was gone—slipping back through the window, heart racing, already halfway into the suit before you could even put your pencil down.

There were little things about Buck that didn’t quite make sense.

He always looked tired. Not just college tired, but the kind of tired that made you want to cradle someone’s face and ask, What are you carrying?

His hands were always scraped, his knuckles bruised more often than not. Sometimes you’d catch a fresh cut just beginning to scab over, and when you’d tilt your head questioningly, he’d brush it off with a half-lie about “tripping on a sidewalk” or “burning himself on a hot pan.”

You weren’t oblivious. You noticed things. Like how he always seemed to disappear right before something happened—sirens wailing, smoke curling into the sky, chaos blooming somewhere in the city.

But you didn’t ask.

You really, really liked him. And liking someone for once felt simple. You didn’t want to ruin it with questions.

Until the first time Spider-Man saved you.

It had been late. You were walking back from the print shop off campus, earbuds in, when a guy on a bike zipped past you and grabbed your bag right off your shoulder.

The adrenaline hit like a punch to the chest, but before you could even scream, someone in red and navy streaked across your peripheral vision and had the guy webbed to a telephone pole within seconds.

You remembered blinking, breathless, when Spider-Man dropped from the rooftop and handed you your bag, his mask wrinkled at the nose, his chest rising with heavy breaths.

“You okay?” he’d asked, voice soft but roughened by fatigue.

“Yeah,” you’d whispered. “Thanks.”

You were too shaken to notice then—but later, as you curled up in bed, a creeping familiarity itched at the edge of your thoughts. Something about the shape of his shoulders. The way he stood. The blue of his eyes when the mask caught the streetlight just right.

You didn’t say anything. Just tucked the memory away.

But it happened again.

And again.

Once when your cab skidded on a rain-slicked road. Another when someone tried to break into your studio space on campus. Always, somehow, Spider-Man was there. Steady. Reliable. Familiar.

And every time, afterward, Buck would show up to the fire escape looking tired, moving a little slower, smiling a little more like it hurt.

Today, the sky was clear and too blue—an omen, maybe, because that’s when the worst stuff always happened.

You were walking back from your last class, sketchpad under your arm, when you caught sight of a crowd forming on the pedestrian bridge near the quad. Your heart skipped.

There was shouting. Someone yelling about an unstable piece of scaffolding. You edged closer before anyone could stop you.

And then the world tilted.

You didn’t even register what gave way, only that the rail near where you stood suddenly cracked loose. Your foot slipped. The edge of your boot lost traction and—

Free fall.

For a split second, the only sound you heard was the rush of your own breath before gravity claimed you.

But then—

Thwip.

A web caught you midair. Strong arms followed.

You crashed into something warm, steady, secure.

“You really have a knack for this,” came a familiar voice.

You clung to the suit in stunned silence. He landed you both gently on a rooftop, crouched low to keep you close.

You looked up—his mask covering everything but his eyes, breath huffing out behind the fabric.

“Spider-Man,” you breathed.

“Hey,” he said, casual like it was the hundredth time.

And that’s when it hit you.

The voice. The hands. The way his shoulder curled slightly when he caught his breath—like he was carrying something heavy.

“Buck?” you whispered.

Spider-Man stiffened.

You blinked slowly. “Evan.”

He looked like he stopped breathing entirely. Your hands, still clinging to the suit, slid up toward the base of his mask.

“Can I…?” you asked.

He hesitated. Just for a beat. Then he nodded.

You reached up, fingers grazing the fabric, and tugged the mask halfway up—just enough to reveal his lips and his nose.

Yeah. It was Buck. No doubt about it.

You didn’t ask why. Didn’t press. Instead, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his mouth—firm, slow, deliberate.

When you pulled back, you were smiling.

“I’ll see you later,” you whispered.

Buck was still frozen, stunned into silence, a dazed smile tugging at the edge of his lips. “Uh-huh,” he said dumbly.

And then you hopped down the fire escape, the echo of your kiss still buzzing against his mouth as you disappeared around the corner, sketchpad bouncing at your hip.

The city buzzed outside the window—horns blaring, chatter echoing up from the street below—but inside your apartment, everything felt warm, slow, still.

Buck sat cross-legged on your floor, a carton of Chinese takeout balanced on his knee. He was in sweatpants and a hoodie that had clearly seen better days, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from a post-patrol shower. A smear of lo mein sauce sat smugly near the corner of his mouth.

You’d been sitting opposite him on your tiny couch, legs pulled under you, chopsticks dangling lazily from your fingers—but now you were leaning forward, elbow on your knee, fully focused on what he was finally ready to say.

“I didn’t mean for any of it to happen,” he began softly, eyes cast down into his food. “It was supposed to be a normal Tuesday.”

You waited.

“I got roped into running an errand for one of Maddie’s friends. She needed a signature for some campus form, and I was already nearby, so… I figured, why not?”

You smiled gently. That sounded like him.

“One thing led to another, and I somehow ended up tagging along on a university-sponsored lab tour. Just me and a bunch of overachieving STEM kids with clipboards and fancy pens. I didn’t belong there, not really. But I was curious. Always am.”

You nodded, heart open. “And then?”

He looked up, finally meeting your eyes.

“There was this spider. Red and blue. Looked like it had been dipped in fireworks. I remember staring at it, kind of laughing to myself about how ridiculous it looked. Like a walking Fourth of July.”

You stifled a grin. “Sounds cute.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t laughing when it bit me.” His voice turned wry.

“There was a distraction. Some guy dropped a camera, I think. Everyone turned their heads. No one saw the crack in the glass. No one saw the damn spider crawl out. Except me.”

His fingers flexed instinctively at the memory, like he could still feel the sharp pinch. “The bite was quick. Hot. And then everything changed.”

You stayed quiet, but your expression told him to keep going.

“I made it home, barely. Almost blacked out on the subway. And when I woke up, I was on the floor of my bedroom, drenched in sweat, burning from the inside out. I remember trying to grab my phone and instead sticking to the ceiling.”

You let out a surprised laugh, and Buck grinned, cheeks pink.

“Yeah. It was a mess. For weeks, I didn’t tell anyone. Not even Maddie. I tested things. Pushed myself. I got stronger, faster. Could see and hear things I wasn’t supposed to. And when I realized what I could do… I couldn’t not help. You know?”

You nodded slowly, still absorbing everything. “So that’s why you disappear. That’s why your hands are always bruised.”

“And why I’m terrible at texting back,” he added sheepishly.

You reached out, resting your hand on his knee.

“I figured something was going on. I mean, the disappearing, the exhaustion, the fact that Spider-Man always seems to show up five minutes after you vanish…”

Buck gave you a lopsided smile. “I thought I could keep you out of it. Keep you safe. But after the third or fourth time you almost got hurt…” He paused, swallowing thickly.

“I realized it wasn’t if you’d find out. It was when. And I needed you to hear it from me.”

You looked at him for a long moment, letting the weight of the truth settle.

“I love you either way,” you said quietly.

His brows lifted.

“I mean it, Buck. I don’t care if you’re Spider-Man or just the guy next door who eats like a raccoon and forgets laundry in the washer for three days.” He snorted, but you continued, voice soft and sincere. “You save people. You care. That’s what matters to me.”

Buck’s throat worked as he looked at you, expression open and stunned, like the floor had dropped out from under him and he hadn’t expected you to be the net that caught him.

You leaned in, resting your forehead against his. “You’re not alone anymore.”

He closed his eyes, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. “I really, really love you.”

You smiled, letting the moment stretch around you like a cocoon. The city could keep buzzing. Emergencies would come and go. But right now, you had each other, Chinese takeout, and a shared secret that somehow made everything more real.

You weren’t supposed to feel this awful.

You have a high alcohol tolerance. Legendary, even.

You’ve downed three beers during wildfire season in 110-degree heat and still showed up to shift the next day like a champ. You once out-drank Chim and Hen during karaoke night.

Hell, even Eddie had saluted you once, mumbling something about “LAFD’s new heavyweight.”

But today? Today, your stomach was staging a rebellion.

And it was Buck’s hoodie taking the brunt of it.

You were curled on his couch like a very sad shrimp—wrapped in the soft cotton of his old LAFD hoodie, hood cinched tight, sleeves covering your hands like paws.

The room spun a little less now, but your stomach still did these slow, miserable flips like it was personally offended by your choices.

Buck emerged from the kitchen holding a glass of water and a Gatorade, brow furrowed, t-shirt half-tucked and hair fluffed from sleep.

“You threw up again, didn’t you?”

You groaned. “Only twice.”

He placed the drinks down on the table and crouched in front of you. “That makes five times total. You said you could handle tequila.”

“I could,” you mumbled, lifting the hoodie slightly so your voice was less muffled. “Until I couldn’t. I was celebrating my promotion! And then it was Maddie’s birthday the next night—my stomach never had a chance to rest.”

Buck raised an eyebrow. “You celebrated getting your turnouts and passing probie phase by killing your liver in two stages?”

You nodded solemnly.

“Firefighter by day, bad decision maker by night.”

He smiled, but it softened as he reached up and adjusted the hood around your face like you were something breakable.

“I should’ve made you eat more than fries last night.”

“I didn’t know food was going to betray me,” you whispered dramatically.

“Your stomach is in open revolt,” he said, sitting next to you and tugging your legs over his lap. “But don’t worry. I’m gonna baby the hell out of you today.”

You let out a tiny, pitiful whine. “I want soup dumplings.”

Buck blinked. “Soup dumplings?”

“And rice porridge,” you added, pulling the hoodie strings tighter around your face until you were mostly just eyes. “With that little weird egg in it.”

He blinked again, brows rising. “You want century egg? I didn’t know you were that far gone.”

“I’m not that far gone,” you muttered. “I’m just fragile. Emotionally and physically.”

Buck grabbed his phone. “Okay, let me guess—you want the good black vinegar and ginger, the kind they give you at that place on the Eastside?”

You nodded solemnly.

“You really are dying.”

“I’m being dramatic, not delusional.”

He snorted. “Same thing.”

You nestled deeper into the hoodie, which felt a little like armor now—if armor smelled like Buck and made you feel warm and safe and slightly pathetic.

“Don’t make me get up,” you mumbled.

Buck glanced at the table. “If you want dumplings, you’re gonna drink the whole Gatorade first.”

You eyed it like it was poison.

“You chugged three tequila sodas and two shots of mezcal,” he reminded you gently. “You can survive a lemon-lime electrolyte drink.”

You groaned, reached out with weak limbs, and took a sip like it was the biggest sacrifice of your life.

“I hate that you’re right.”

“I love that you’re suffering,” Buck teased, but he pulled the blanket up higher over you anyway, his hand staying on your leg for comfort.

You stayed like that in silence for a while—him scrolling, you wallowing.

Finally, you broke it. “Do I still look like a functioning adult?”

“You look like a sad turtle,” Buck said. “But like, a hot sad turtle.”

You cracked a smile for the first time that morning. “That’s the dream.”

He gave you a gentle nudge.

“Seriously though, I’ve seen you walk through burning buildings with a cracked rib and still make it to shift. You earned a dumb night out or two.”

“But I’m supposed to be impressive now,” you murmured. “I’m a firefighter. No more rookie mistakes.”

“You’re not a rookie,” Buck said quietly, “You’re human. You celebrated with people you love. That’s not a mistake.”

Your eyes flicked to his, softer now, grateful.

“And I love you even when you smell like tequila and bad choices,” he added, brushing a thumb under your eye. “Even when you ask for fermented eggs at 9 a.m.”

You didn’t say anything—you just curled up tighter, pressing your head to his shoulder like it was your safe place.

Buck kissed your temple. “I’ll go get your dumplings. And your porridge. And maybe one of those almond milk teas you always cry about.”

“I love you,” you mumbled.

“Yeah,” he said, tugging the hoodie tighter around you. “I know. That’s why you’re wearing my hoodie and making me spend $30 on soup.”

“Worth every penny,” you whispered as your eyes started to close.

Buck chuckled, gently adjusting the blanket again before rising to go.

“Don’t puke on my couch.”

You offered a thumbs-up from the hoodie shell. “No promises.”

There’s always been something quietly comfortable about being around Eddie.

You’re not sure when it started — the ease, the intimacy, the way your lives naturally bled into each other — but at some point, it became second nature.

His house was your second home. Christopher knew your coffee order and your favorite snacks. You knew which cabinet Eddie kept his aspirin in and which way the bathroom door creaked if you didn’t close it properly.

He never had to ask you to stay longer when you were over; your presence was a given.

You brought takeout on your nights off and folded his laundry when he forgot it in the dryer. He poured you a glass of wine after long shifts and let you steal his hoodie when it was late and you didn’t feel like going home.

There were no declarations. No spoken rules. Just the quiet way he always looked for you in a room, how he made sure to pour your coffee just the way you liked it — two sugars, no cream — or how his shoulder would graze yours when you walked side by side, like it couldn’t help but lean in your direction.

It wasn’t romantic. Not officially.

But God, if it didn’t feel like the most real thing in your life.

Sometimes he’d sit beside you on the couch, a little too close, and your thighs would touch for minutes on end. Neither of you moved.

You’d both pretend not to notice, but the air between you shifted. Grew warm. Familiar. Intimate. He’d chuckle at something on TV, and you’d smile because his laughter was your favorite kind of peace.

And the glances… those glances stayed too long to be casual. Like when you’d say something in passing and he’d stare at you as if he was memorizing your words — as if they mattered more than you knew.

His gaze would dip to your lips sometimes when you weren’t speaking, and you tried to tell yourself you imagined it, but deep down, you knew better.

Everyone else saw it too.

“Okay, seriously,” Buck said one night after a shift, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. “Are you two ever going to admit you’re in love or are we all just going to die waiting?”

You rolled your eyes and laughed it off. So did Eddie.

“We’re just friends,” you both said in near-perfect unison, which only made Hen groan.

“Uh-huh. Friends,” Chimney muttered, sipping his coffee like he was watching a slow-burn rom-com unfold in real time.

“Friends who look at each other like they’re planning to die in each other’s arms.”

It was embarrassing — the way the team teased — but it was also validating in a weird, terrifying kind of way. Because you’d started to feel it too.

The shift.

The tiny changes.

It happened quietly. The way he started opening up more. How his voice softened when he talked to you, how his eyes searched yours when he wasn’t sure of himself.

The way you reached for him automatically during calls, always scanning the wreckage for each other before anything else. And maybe the moment that hit you hardest: when you caught yourself thinking about him as home. Not just his house or his presence, but Eddie.

He was home.

And that terrified you.

Because if it was real — if this thing between you was more than friendship — it meant you had everything to lose.

Still, the idea nestled in your chest and refused to leave. You thought about what it would feel like to kiss him. To wake up in his arms. To be loved by him fully and openly.

You thought about Christopher, about Sunday mornings and slow coffee and a life that maybe, just maybe, could be yours too.

But nothing was ever said.

Not out loud.

Because maybe he didn’t feel the same. Or maybe he did, and was just too afraid to say it. Either way, you weren’t sure who’d be brave enough to say it first.

But something was building between you.

You could feel it every time he looked at you like you were the center of his universe. Like he was one breath away from telling you everything.

And honestly? You were starting to wish he would.

It starts small.

A missed call here. A shorter reply there.

You don’t think anything of it at first. People get busy. Shifts get hectic. Life happens. You give him grace — because that’s what you do for people you love.

But then it starts to happen more.

He stops texting back as quickly. Your usual post-shift dinners turn into silence. The calls you used to get at 11PM — just to hear your voice before bed — go unanswered. He still smiles when he sees you at the station, still asks if you’re okay after a tough call, but it’s like he’s flicking a switch now.

Friendly. Polite. Detached.

And it hurts. It hurts like hell.

You try not to show it. You tell yourself maybe he’s going through something, that he’ll talk to you when he’s ready. Because this is Eddie — he doesn’t always know how to open the door when he’s hurting.

You’ve seen him do this before with others. But never with you.

Not like this.

One night, you knock on his door with your usual coffee order, the kind gesture that used to earn you a soft smile and a “You didn’t have to, but I’m glad you did.”

This time, when he opens the door, he looks surprised. Like he wasn’t expecting you. Like he doesn’t know how to be around you anymore.

“Oh,” he says, eyes darting behind him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you reply, holding out the drink like some kind of peace offering. “Thought you could use this.”

He hesitates, then takes it from you. “Thanks.”

You stand there for a moment. Waiting. Hoping he’ll invite you in like always. But he doesn’t move.

“Is everything okay?” you ask softly. “You’ve been… different.”

“I’ve just been tired,” he says quickly. Too quickly.

“A lot on my mind.”

You nod slowly, trying not to let the sting show. “Okay. Well… I’m here if you want to talk.”

He nods once, almost absently. “I know.”

But he doesn’t invite you in.

And that night, for the first time in months, you don’t fall asleep knowing how his day went. You don’t feel like his person anymore.

At the station, it becomes harder to ignore.

He avoids lingering too long. Doesn’t sit beside you at the kitchen table anymore. Talks to Buck and Chimney and Hen like nothing’s wrong — and maybe to them, there isn’t — but you feel the distance like a cold draft under the door.

It becomes unbearable.

And one day, when you catch him alone in the locker room, you finally say what’s been aching in your chest.

“Why are you pushing me away?”

Eddie freezes, halfway into zipping up his jacket. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” Your voice cracks. “You don’t answer my calls, you barely look at me when I talk to you, and I feel like I lost my best friend without even knowing what I did wrong.”

He swallows hard. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then what is it?” you demand. “Did I cross a line? Did I make you uncomfortable? Because I swear, if it’s something I said or did, I’ll—”

“It’s not you,” he interrupts, voice low, eyes finally meeting yours. “It’s me.”

You let out a shaky breath, because how cliché. “That’s not an answer, Eddie.”

He hesitates. Looks down at the floor like it might help him find the words.

“I care about you too much,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart stutters. “And that’s… a bad thing?”

“It is when I don’t know what to do with it.” His eyes flash with something unspoken — pain, maybe, or guilt.

“You don’t understand what it’s like. To have someone mean so much, to love someone so much, that you start to lose your grip on everything else. That terrifies me.”

Your breath catches.

“Eddie…”

“I’ve already lost too much,” he says. “Shannon. The idea of loving someone again—loving you—and losing it? I don’t know if I could survive that.”

You step closer, heart hammering in your chest.

“You don’t have to be afraid of your feelings. I feel it too. We’re not just friends and you know it.”

His jaw tightens. “It’s all in your head.”

The words hit like a slap. You actually flinch.

“No,” you whisper, eyes burning. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend it wasn’t real.”

“I’m not pretending. I’m telling you the truth.”

You stare at him for a long moment, waiting for him to break. To take it back. To tell you he’s lying.

But he doesn’t.

So you nod, jaw trembling, and back away.

“Okay,” you say softly. “If that’s how you really feel.”

And you walk out of the room, out of the station, out of whatever almost was between you — your heart shattering silently inside your chest.

He doesn’t follow you.

Yet, a part of him wants to.

You don’t slam the door. You don’t raise your voice. You just leave.

Quietly. With the kind of heartbreak that doesn’t need sound to be loud.

And Eddie stands there in the locker room, frozen in the hollow silence you leave behind.

Fuck, he wants to go after you. Every part of him screams to. His legs twitch like they might move on their own. His chest is tight with everything he didn’t say.

But he doesn’t.

Because if he does, he won’t be able to lie anymore.

And the truth?

The truth is you mean too much.

You got under his skin in ways no one else ever has. Not Shannon. Not Ana. Not Marisol. Not anyone.

You’re woven into the little things:

How his day feels lighter when you smile at him across the firehouse kitchen. How he sleeps better after hearing your voice. How he’s memorized the way you take your coffee, and how his hands gravitate toward you even when he’s not thinking.

How you looked at him like he was safe.

And now? Now it’s too much.

Because the last time he let someone that far in, he lost her. And the fallout nearly destroyed him — nearly destroyed Christopher.

He can’t afford that again. Not for himself. Not for his son.

Not even for you.

But God, he wants to.

He wants to tell you that he lied. That it’s not all in your head. That every night he spent distancing himself from you, he stared at his ceiling wishing he had the courage to love you out loud. That he hears your laugh when you’re not even in the room. That it’s you. It’s always been you.

But the fear is louder.

The fear says: What if it all falls apart?

What if you get tired of him? What if he’s not enough?

What if Christopher gets attached and you walk away too?

Eddie Diaz has survived fire, gunfire, and grief.

But loving you — losing you — that’s a battle he doesn’t think he’d survive.

So he lets you go.

At least for now.

At least until the ache of not having you outweighs the terror of loving you.

And as he finally slumps down on the bench, head in his hands, Eddie whispers to himself the truth he couldn’t say to your face:

“I love you.”

You’re still there.

You show up to shifts. You answer your calls. You laugh at Chim’s dumb jokes, take your turn cooking in the firehouse kitchen, and go on like nothing’s shattered.

But it has shattered.

And everyone can feel it.

Especially him.

Eddie doesn’t sit next to you anymore. Not unless the lineup forces it. And when he does, he doesn’t speak much — like your presence stings, like proximity might burn him alive.

Which is ironic, because you’re the one feeling scorched.

There’s a hole in your chest where he used to be. The silence between you is louder than the sirens that wail from the truck. It fills the kitchen, the locker room, the back of the rig, the pause before you slide into your bunk at the end of the night.

He tore the thread between you with trembling hands and didn’t have the courage to stitch it back.

And you’re left holding it, frayed and useless, wondering how the hell you’re supposed to stop loving someone who never really gave you a chance to.

Buck is the first one who notices the real damage.

He knocks on your door a week after the blowout. Shows up with Chinese takeout and a bottle of wine that he absolutely wasn’t supposed to expense, but “Chim won’t know if we drink it fast.”

He doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t need to.

“You can talk,” he says softly, passing you a spring roll. “Or you can just sit here and hate-watch rom-coms with me.”

You try. You really do. You sit beside him with your knees tucked to your chest, and you try to laugh at whatever stupid movie’s playing — but it cracks something open instead.

“I don’t get it,” you say, eyes fixed on the flickering TV screen. “He was right there, Buck. We were right there.”

Buck doesn’t tell you it’s okay. He doesn’t say Eddie didn’t mean it. He just nods and says, “Yeah. I know.”

Because he does know. He’s been in that liminal space between almost and never. He’s lived with a heart that wanted too much.

So he lets you cry. He sits there while your voice breaks and your mascara runs, and you tell him how much it hurts to love someone who’s too afraid to love you back.

At the station, things feel colder.

Hen pulls you into more calls than usual, always with a hand on your shoulder or a glance like, I’m here.

Chim tries to make you laugh too hard, and you let him — for their sake. Not yours. Even Bobby gives you a longer look during lineups, like he’s making sure you’re still steady on your feet.

But Eddie? Eddie’s unraveling.

He’s sharper with his words. Slower to smile. Quicker to volunteer for high-risk entries — the kind that make Buck flinch.

And Buck’s watching him, arms crossed, jaw tight, because he’s done waiting for Eddie to fix this.

“You’re miserable,” Buck snaps one night in the locker room, voice low and cutting. Eddie looks up from where he’s lacing his boots, surprised.

“What?”

“She’s miserable. You’re miserable. And for what? Because you’re scared? Because it’s easier to push her away than admit you love her?”

Eddie says nothing. Just clenches his jaw, like the truth might slip out if he lets his lips part for too long.

“You’re not protecting her,” Buck says. “You’re punishing her for making you feel something real. And you’re punishing yourself too.”

Eddie stands, tense. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple,” Buck says, stepping closer.

“You’re not a scared kid anymore. You’re a man. You’re a father. You know what love looks like. You had it in front of you and you shoved it away.”

Eddie looks away. His shoulders sag. His voice is quieter now.

“I didn’t want to break her heart.”

Buck scoffs. “Well, too late. But you can still fix it. Unless you wait too long and someone else does.”

The words land like a gut punch. Someone else.

That thought had been haunting Eddie for weeks — the way Buck looked at you now with that softness, that fierce protectiveness.

He sees how you smile at Buck even through your heartbreak. And he knows — he knows — that if he doesn’t move soon, he’ll lose you for good.

Eddie doesn’t know when the house stopped feeling like home.

Maybe it was the way the sunlight pours in on Saturday mornings and doesn’t land where you used to sit on his couch, coffee in hand, laughter soft as wind.

Maybe it’s the quiet—too quiet—like something’s been vacuum-sealed from his life, and no matter how loud the world gets around him, he can’t unhear the absence of you.

Chris asked about you the other night.

“Why doesn’t she come around anymore?”

And Eddie, sitting on the edge of his son’s bed, couldn’t find a real answer. He lied, gently, the way people do when they’re trying not to bleed on the people they love.

“She’s been busy, bud. Just life stuff.”

But Chris is too smart for that. He didn’t press—he just nodded and turned to face the wall.

That silence haunted Eddie more than anything.

He finds himself at Hen and Karen’s, one of the few people who’s always seen through his best performances. He tells them he needed someone to talk to. Karen hands him tea before he even asks.

“So.” Karen folds her arms. “How long are you going to pretend you didn’t break your own heart?”

Eddie lets out a humorless laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

“To everyone but you, apparently.”

He sinks into the couch. “I just… I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“But you did,” Hen says. “And you’re hurting, too. It’s written all over you.”

“I thought if I kept some distance, it’d make it easier. Like… if I never said anything, she could walk away if she wanted. And I wouldn’t have to fall apart when she did.”

Karen’s expression softens.

“Eddie, loving someone doesn’t mean they’re going to leave you. You’ve lived like the next loss is always around the corner, but she wasn’t trying to go anywhere. You pushed her out.”

“I know,” he admits, voice raw.

“I was terrified. Of how much I loved her. Of how easy it was. And how… permanent it felt. Like once I let it in, I’d never come back from it.”

“And now?” Hen asks.

He doesn’t speak right away. He just stares at the tea cup in his hands like it holds all the answers he’s too afraid to say aloud. But eventually, the truth peels itself out of him.

“I love her,” he breathes. “God, I’m in love with her.”

Later, he’s on a late shift with Bobby, just the two of them by the rig. Bobby doesn’t pry—not at first—but he looks up after a long stretch of silence and simply says:

“You ready to stop punishing yourself?”

Eddie laughs, low and tired. “I don’t know how.”

“Yes, you do,” Bobby replies. “You just have to stop running. You’ve been in survival mode for so long, you forgot what it’s like to choose joy.”

Eddie leans against the counter, voice barely audible.

“I think she was my joy.”

Bobby nods. “Then go get her back. You still have time.”

That night, Eddie lies in bed staring at the ceiling, and for once, he doesn’t picture all the ways he could lose you. He pictures what it would feel like to hold your hand again. To tell you the truth.

To stop being afraid of a heart that beats a little louder when you’re near.

And he decides—finally—that it’s time.

He’s done running.

It’s raining when he knocks.

Not the kind of gentle drizzle that clings to windows like a whisper, but a downpour—relentless, cold, unforgiving.

It’s been weeks since you last saw Eddie in anything more than passing glances at the firehouse, and longer still since you heard his voice say your name without flinching.

You almost don’t open the door.

But when you check the peephole, and you see him standing there—soaked to the bone, eyes like bruises, shoulders sagging—you can’t bring yourself to walk away.

You crack the door open just enough to lean against it. You don’t invite him in.

“Really?” you say quietly. “Now you show up?”

Eddie’s lips part, but he doesn’t speak right away. You almost think he won’t.

“I know I have no right to be here,” he finally says, voice gravel-thick and wet with regret. “But I couldn’t— I couldn’t keep doing this. Not after everything.”

You cross your arms, biting back the ache in your throat.

“Everything like what, Eddie? Like telling me it was all in my head? Like pretending none of it meant anything?”

He flinches.

“I was trying to protect something,” he says. “I just didn’t realize I was destroying it at the same time.”

You open the door a little wider, just enough for him to see the anger that still flickers in your chest—anger born from heartbreak, not hate.

“Protect what exactly? Yourself? Because I sure as hell wasn’t protected when you said all those things. You made me feel insane for loving you.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he says instantly, stepping forward but stopping himself short.

“I thought if I kept you at arm’s length, maybe I wouldn’t lose you completely. I’ve lost people before—people I loved. And you—”

He swallows thickly, shaking his head.

“You scared me more than anyone ever has.”

That stings.

You let it.

“That’s not an excuse,” you say, voice firm even as your hands start to tremble.

“You don’t get to burn down what we had just because it scared you. You don’t get to come back when I’ve barely figured out how to function without you.”

“I know,” he says, and he means it. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his shoulders curl inward like he’s folding under the weight of it all.

“I lied,” he says softly. “That night. When I said I didn’t love you.”

You glance away, jaw clenched.

“I was scared. I still am. But the truth is… I’m more scared of never getting to tell you how much I do love you.”

The silence that follows is thick and heavy, and for a moment, all you can hear is the rain pounding against the pavement and the thunder rolling overhead.

“Eddie,” you say quietly. “You broke my heart.”

“I know,” he breathes, voice wrecked.

“And I’ll spend as long as it takes trying to make up for that. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t expect you to trust me. But I needed you to know that I see it now. I see you. I love you. And I never stopped.”

You stare at him for a long time, and he doesn’t fill the silence with more words. He just stands there, letting it rain, letting it hurt.

Eventually, you step aside.

“Come inside before you catch a cold.”

He does. Carefully. As though you might change your mind at any second.

He peels off his soaked jacket and stands awkwardly in your living room, dripping water onto the rug he once helped you pick out on a lazy Sunday afternoon—back when things were still unspoken but full of promise.

“You still love me?” he asks, quietly, almost afraid of the answer.

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you walk toward him, stopping close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his chest.

Your fingers brush over his shirt, soaked and clinging, and you look up at him through lashes heavy with everything you’ve carried.

“Of course I do,” you whisper. “That’s why it hurt so much.”

He exhales shakily, and for the first time in weeks, you see the man you knew—the one who carried your heart like something fragile and precious, even when he didn’t have the words for it.

“I’m still angry,” you warn.

“You have every right to be.”

“I’m not just going to forget it all overnight.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

You stare at each other, storm still howling outside, hearts both threadbare and somehow still beating in tandem.

And when you kiss—finally—it isn’t perfect.

It’s desperate. It’s trembling. It’s soaked in tears and rain and months of unspoken longing.

But it’s real.

And when he presses his forehead to yours, holding you like the world might split open, you realize that maybe love was never supposed to be fearless.

It was just supposed to be brave.

Falling asleep next to Eddie Diaz becomes a ritual you never thought you’d have the right to experience.

Not after the heartbreak, the months of silence, the tear-stained pillowcases, and the long nights spent wondering if you’d imagined it all.

Not after the ache of watching him walk away from something he felt as deeply as you did. But now, with his arm looped around your waist and his breath slow and even against the back of your neck, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

Like it was always supposed to be this way.

Your mornings are slow now ever since you started sleeping at the Diaz household.

The world still spins fast around you—calls come in, emergencies rise like tides, and grief still knocks on your door sometimes. But in the stillness of sunrise, before the rest of the world wakes up, you and Eddie find time to just be.

You’ve gotten into the habit of making coffee while still wearing his hoodie, sleeves falling past your fingertips, the scent of him wrapped around you like armor.

He pretends not to notice, but there’s always a soft little smile tugging at his mouth when he sees you in it.

“You know, you do own clothes your size,” he says one morning, voice still rough from sleep.

You shrug. “But yours are warmer.”

He pulls you into his chest with a soft grunt and presses a kiss to your temple. “Can’t argue with that.”

After rough shifts, you hold his hand on the ride back to the firehouse.

Sometimes, you don’t even realize you’ve reached for it until you feel his thumb rub slow circles into your knuckles.

It’s never for show. It’s never performative. It’s just… comfort. Constant. Quiet. Sure.

You don’t need words to know what he’s thinking when he squeezes your hand just a little tighter after a difficult call. You just lean your head onto his shoulder and let him breathe.

On another note, Christopher loves having you around again.

Not in the polite, oh-she’s-nice way—but in the real, deep-bonded way that tells you you’ve become something sacred in his world.

After school pickups are his favorite, and even when it’s supposed to be Eddie’s turn, he asks if you can come too.

“Dad says you’re better at choosing snacks,” he tells you with a grin, swinging his backpack onto your back like it’s already your job.

You catch Eddie giving you a soft look through the window of the car. One that says, This. This is it. This is everything I almost threw away.

Sometimes, Chris falls asleep on your shoulder on the ride home when you’re sitting at the back. And sometimes, Eddie takes a picture of it on his phone, storing it somewhere private. Safe.

The teasing from the team is merciless—but warm.

Hen grins at you during lunch and nudges your foot under the table.

“You know, we had a pool going on. I won thirty bucks.”

Chimney raises a brow. “You all owe me. I called it two years ago.”

You shoot Eddie a look, but he’s barely pretending to be bashful.

“It wasn’t exactly subtle,” Buck adds, leaning back in his chair. “The way you two looked at each other? Come on.”

“I don’t remember you saying anything that night I told her I didn’t love her,” Eddie says dryly, smirking.

Buck raises his hands. “I was giving you time to figure out you’re a dumbass. Took longer than expected.”

There’s laughter. Real, full-bellied laughter. The kind that makes your ribs hurt in the best way.

But what gets you most is this: Eddie laughs too.

Like a man no longer holding his breath.

At night, you lie curled up in bed with him, the lamp casting soft light across his face. He’s reading something quietly, one hand draped over your hip, thumb tracing idle patterns into your skin like a habit he doesn’t want to break.

You study him sometimes. The way he softens now. How his smiles last longer. How his laughter comes easier. How he kisses you with both urgency and reverence, like he’s still making up for lost time.

“I think I stopped breathing for a while,” he murmurs one night. “When we weren’t… us.”

You look up at him. “Me too.”

He touches your cheek. “You bring me back to myself. Every time.”

You lean into him, heart swelling.

“That’s all I ever wanted to do.”

He presses his lips to your forehead, and you breathe together in the dark, the quiet warmth of the home you’ve built finally wrapping around you both.

Eddie Diaz once believed love was something you had to guard yourself against. That loving too much meant losing too hard. But now, with your head on his chest and your voice whispering sleepy dreams against his skin, he knows better.

Loving you didn’t ruin him.

It saved him.

And this—this gentle, messy, beautiful life—is everything he almost gave up.

But not anymore.

Now, he holds it all in his arms and doesn’t let go. Not ever again.

Eddie hadn’t meant for it to happen like this.

It started with a listing. Then two. Then three. And before he knew it, his browser history and his iPad were full of El Paso real estate and bookmarked school districts.

No words. No announcement. Just a secret contingency plan growing like ivy in the background of his life in Los Angeles.

At first, it was just a maybe.

But the truth was that Christopher had been distant ever since the Marisol fallout. The kid didn’t talk much about it—he didn’t need to.

The disappointment had been loud in other ways: the sudden move to his abuelos’ house, the lack of text replies, the cold stares when Eddie dropped off dinner on weekends.

Eddie had cheated. And no matter how you justified it, the damage was done. What was worse was that Christopher had probably seen him differently since. Less hero. More stranger.

So, when the thought of El Paso came up, it made sense. Be near his son. Rebuild what he broke.

But he hadn’t planned on Buck finding out that day at his house.

Buck had shown up unannounced at Eddie’s door, flour smudged on his hoodie and a box of still-warm scones and other baked pastries in hand. He looked like he hadn’t slept, eyes a little too bright for someone who claimed to be “fine.”

“I almost relapsed and called Tommy,” he said, not even waiting for Eddie to ask what was wrong. “So I baked every speck of flour in the house. Here, eat a scone,”

Eddie raised an eyebrow but took the scone with a nod of gratitude.

“You good?”

Buck walked into the kitchen like he belonged there—which, in many ways, he did.

“Not really. But I will be. Eventually.”

As Eddie sat beside him, taking a bite, Buck’s gaze flicked to the table.

“Why’d you flip the tablet like that?” he asked, smirking. “Kinda suspicious, man.”

Eddie stiffened, reaching for the device—too slowly.

Buck beat him to it, fingers curling around the tablet as he turned it back over and tapped the screen to wake it. His grin faded the second the listing loaded.

“Wait… you’re looking for houses?” Buck frowned. “With your budget?”

Eddie hesitated. “They’re not in L.A., they’re in El Paso”

Buck stopped short and looked at Eddie as if he had dropped a nuclear bomb on him, before he clears his throat.

“Jesus, Eddie,” Buck breathed, his voice caught somewhere between disbelief and hurt. “You were gonna move and not tell anyone?”

That same night, you came over for dinner. You always did when Eddie had a night off and you both needed a little breather from work.

The meal was warm, filled with laughter and touches—like most nights were with Eddie. You thought things were steady, maybe even building toward something more permanent.

He was warm with you. Attentive. Hands brushing over your back when you passed by, lips pressed to your temple. Nothing about him screamed ‘I’m planning to disappear’.

After dinner, you went to grab your phone from where it had slid into the couch cushions—and noticed the iPad sitting face-up on the coffee table.

You didn’t mean to snoop. But when the screen lit up, it was still open to a listing. And then another. All of them in El Paso.

Your heart sank.

Eddie walked out of the kitchen with two glasses of wine, but he stopped when he saw your expression.

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t accuse.

You just looked at him, tears in your eyes, and said, “Were you ever going to tell me?”

He paused, guilt spreading across his face. “I was going to. I just… didn’t know how.”

You stood up slowly. “You were going to move and never tell me?”

“It’s not like that—” he tried.

“It is like that,” you said, shaking your head.

“I get that Christopher is your priority as his father, and I respect that. I love that about you, Eddie. But you should’ve given me the decency of a heads-up, or I don’t know, you could’ve eased me into it by talking to me about moving.”

Eddie put the glasses down. His voice was low.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“And instead you disrespected me, when you know damn well I’d never hold you back and would support you every step of the way.”

The quiet that followed was louder than any yelling could’ve been. You looked at the man in front of you, the one who’d made you feel safe—wanted. And now you felt like a temporary chapter in a story that had already moved on.

You grabbed your bag from the counter and headed for the door.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for in El Paso,” you said, voice trembling. “But I won’t be the one left behind without a goodbye or be the person to fix you and meet you halfway.”

You didn’t look back and just decided to go home.

The knock on Buck’s door came just past 9PM.

He wasn’t surprised to see you standing there, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, eyes already glossed with unshed tears you hadn’t given yourself permission to cry yet.

You didn’t say anything—just walked in when he stepped aside, like you’d done it a hundred times before.

“Kitchen’s open,” he said softly.

You gave him a tired smile, slipping off your shoes by the door. The scent of cinnamon hit you first, then the sound of something bubbling in the oven. He was barefoot, hair messy, flour dusting his black shirt.

There was a gentle domesticity to the scene that made your throat tighten.

“I figured you might need sugar therapy,” Buck joked, grabbing a spare mixing bowl. “Or, you know, an excuse to destroy the kitchen.”

“I needed somewhere to go,” you admitted, barely above a whisper. “Somewhere that wasn’t my apartment, where everything still smells like him.”

Buck didn’t push. He just handed you a whisk.

The two of you moved around the kitchen in comfortable rhythm—like you’d practiced this a hundred times before, even if you hadn’t.

You poured ingredients. He told you about a weird call from last week. You added vanilla extract. He made a joke about Ravi nearly setting the firehouse toaster on fire again.

You laughed for the first time that day.

“I can’t believe he was just going to leave,” you finally said, voice cracking as you sifted flour over the mixing bowl. “Not just L.A.—us. Me. Like it wouldn’t matter.”

Buck paused, hands still in the dough. He looked at you, really looked, and saw everything Eddie had failed to.

“You’d never hold him back,” he said gently.

“I wouldn’t,” you said, tears threatening again. “He should’ve just talked to me. That’s what you do when you’re partners. You make decisions together, or at the very least—”

“You’re honest,” Buck finished for you.

You nodded.

The silence was soft. Safe. Just the sound of the oven humming and a spoon clinking against glass.

“I didn’t expect it to hurt this much,” you added. “It’s not just the leaving. It’s how he didn’t even think I deserved a heads-up.”

Buck reached for your hand, sticky with dough. “He messed up. Big time.”

You looked down at your intertwined fingers, a little surprised by the comfort it brought you.

“I think I knew this version of him wasn’t forever. But I didn’t think I’d lose him like this.”

“You didn’t lose him,” Buck said, voice firm but kind. “You found out who he really is when it counts. And that’s not on you.”

You looked up at him, eyes wide and vulnerable. “Why does it feel like I wasn’t worth the truth?”

Buck’s gaze softened. “Because you gave him your heart. But that doesn’t mean he knew how to hold it.”

The timer went off, but neither of you moved to check the oven.

For a while, you just stood there, wrapped in the quiet, breathing in the cinnamon and the safety of the one person who’d always shown up when it mattered.

It was a slow day at the station, unusually quiet for once.

Everyone had scattered into their corners of routine — Chim fiddled with inventory, Hen was writing up incident reports, and Buck… Buck was entertaining Blaze, tossing the tennis ball across the bay with a kind of frantic energy that hadn’t gone unnoticed.

You sat nearby, head down as you double-checked the trauma kit, hands moving but mind far, far away. You hadn’t spoken to Eddie since that night.

Not beyond clipped sentences at work. Not since you stood in Buck’s loft, clinging to the last of your composure, admitting out loud that the man you trusted most had made a decision about his future without even thinking you deserved to be part of the conversation.

The bounce of the tennis ball against concrete was steady—until it wasn’t.

“You’re not the only one who knows how to leave, you know,” Buck said suddenly, loud enough for the words to cut through the room like a blade. His voice was tight, rough around the edges, a boiling point barely kept in check.

Everyone stilled.

Eddie turned from the lockers, his face drawn in confusion.

“What?”

Buck’s hands tightened around Blaze’s ball.

“I said, you’re not the only one who knows how to walk out when things get hard. You want to talk about leaving? Let’s talk about how you were ready to disappear without telling anyone—again.”

The words weren’t just meant for Eddie. They were for everyone in the room. Hen looked up. Chim’s pen stilled mid-signature.

Your chest tightened, fingers curling against the strap of the kit you were repacking.

“Buck,” Eddie warned quietly, glancing at you, then back to him. “This isn’t the time.”

“No?” Buck raised his brows, feigning surprise. “I figured since you didn’t have time to tell her you were moving, maybe now’s the perfect time for some honesty.”

Your heart pounded in your ears.

Eddie’s jaw clenched. “That’s between me and her.”

“Was it?” Buck asked. “Because it sure felt like it involved all of us when you decided this whole place didn’t matter anymore.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Silence fell again—crackling and tense. The kind that fills the air just before lightning strikes. You stood then, voice calm but cold as you crossed the room with the med kit slung over your shoulder.

“Cold shoulder today?” Eddie asked softly, trying to sound casual, like it was just another awkward shift between calls. But you saw the tightness in his mouth, the way his eyes flicked toward you for something—anything.

You didn’t give it.

“We’re still colleagues, Diaz,” you replied, tone neutral but firm. “I can’t let this get in the way of work.”

You stepped past him, the click of your boots echoing louder than the breath he seemed to lose when you stopped just short of the bay doors.

“And like you said,” you added, glancing over your shoulder, “you had no ties in California.”

The words were a scalpel. Clean. Precise. Cutting straight to the core.

Eddie didn’t chase after you. He just stood there, regret painting his features, his silence saying everything his words had failed to.

Buck watched him. For a second, neither of them spoke. Then Buck dropped the tennis ball.

“You really hurt her, man.”

Eddie swallowed. “I know.”

But the truth was — he hadn’t known how much until now. Until he saw you walk away without looking back.

The days after Buck’s public callout at the station were quiet. Not logistically — calls kept coming, the city never slept — but emotionally.

For Eddie, everything had dulled into a strange limbo.

The bay echoed a little louder, your laughter never rang through the common room like it used to, and Buck had taken up more space, not intentionally, but just by being who he was to you.

It wasn’t hard to notice the change in you. Eddie had always been good at reading people, and with you, it was impossible to miss.

You were still professional. You still responded to him during emergencies. Still stood beside him when lifting stretchers, still called out vitals clearly during triage. But it was the in-between moments that hurt the most — when your eyes slid right past him, or when your smile found Buck first.

And God, that smile.

Eddie hadn’t realized how much it meant to him until it was no longer his to see.

You’d been more withdrawn lately — not cold, not cruel, just distant. Like someone had hit the dimmer switch on your light and left you floating somewhere he couldn’t reach. He’d catch you zoning out in the rig sometimes, eyes on the city streets but not really seeing them.

Once, he swung by the loft to drop off something and saw you leaning over Buck’s kitchen island, flour in your hair and that familiar, easy expression on your face — the one Eddie used to think was reserved for him.

That image stuck with him longer than it should have.

But maybe, deep down, he knew.

You weren’t just seeking refuge in Buck because you were hurt. You went to Buck because you trusted him. Because Buck never would’ve blindsided you like Eddie had.

He had opened his loft to you like it was second nature — no questions, no conditions, just the kind of unwavering support that Eddie hadn’t thought to offer when you needed it most.

Jealousy wasn’t something Eddie liked to admit to, but it crept in nonetheless. In the glances you shared with Buck across the station.

The way you brought him coffee before anyone else. The way Buck’s hand lingered at your back in the smallest ways, protective, unspoken. The way you laughed again — not often, not yet fully — but when you did, it was around him.

Eddie didn’t blame you. Not really.

Because the truth — the part he’d never said out loud — was that he never would’ve met you if it weren’t for Buck.

It had been Buck who introduced you both, back when Eddie had first started letting people in again after the darkest corners of grief and therapy.

You were one of Buck’s longtime friends from before the tsunami — someone who had stuck through the messy aftermath of his recovery, someone who hadn’t been scared off by his highs and lows. He’d mentioned you more than once, in the way Buck did when he was proud of someone he loved.

And then one night after shift, Buck invited Eddie to a small get-together at his place.

You had walked in carrying a pan of enchiladas and laughing about the parking in his building, and Eddie swore the room tilted just a little.

You were bright. Grounded. Warm in a way that was quiet but deeply rooted. Not showy like the people Eddie had tried to love before.

Just real.

The first conversation had been easy — talking about food, Christopher, shared books. Buck had hovered nearby, excited like he’d accidentally set two puzzle pieces next to each other and realized they fit.

“He’s been through a lot,” Buck had told you when Eddie was in the kitchen grabbing a beer. “But he’s solid. And you… I think you’d be good for each other.”

And you were. For a while.

Eddie remembered thinking how rare it was to feel seen again. How your love didn’t come in fireworks, but rather in gentle mornings and shared silence that didn’t need filling.

You never asked him to be someone else. You never treated him like a project.

But Eddie had done what he always did. Pulled away when things got too heavy. Made decisions in isolation. Assumed you’d stay, even without offering the full truth.

Now, he watched from the edges as you poured yourself into someone who never made you question your place.

And Buck, for all his flaws, had always been there.

So yeah, Eddie was jealous. But more than that… he was ashamed. Because he’d had something good. Something real. And he’d thrown it away not out of malice — but out of fear. Out of habit.

Out of that old instinct to protect himself before anyone else.

Maybe this was just the part where he had to live with that.

Still, he couldn’t stop his eyes from lingering too long when you brushed shoulders with Buck in the hallway. Or when Buck made you laugh, really laugh, and Eddie could hear it all the way from the kitchen.

And maybe, just maybe, that would be the thing he regretted most when he left California behind.

Because no matter how close he got to Christopher in El Paso…

He had already pushed the best thing he’d had here — away.

That evening, Eddie paced his living room, nerves eating at him as he fluffed the throw pillows on his couch for the third time.

He didn’t like the idea of renting his house out to a stranger, but the move to El Paso had to be real. Permanent.

It wasn’t just about logistics — it was about Christopher, about putting down roots again where he could be the kind of father his son deserved.

Still, the idea of someone else living here — in this house where memories with you lingered in every corner — left a strange taste in his mouth.

A knock came at the door.

Eddie checked the peephole and sighed. Buck. Of course.

He opened the door, already exasperated. “Buck, listen — I’ve got a guy coming to view the place. He’s supposed to be here any second—”

But Buck was already brushing past him into the living room, eyes darting around like he owned the place.

“God, Buck, you’re so selfish,” Eddie snapped, louder than he meant.

“What is it now? I know this is about you, and I can’t make this any easier for myself, but you can’t make me choose between you and my son. Because if that’s the case, you’d lose every time.”

Buck froze mid-step, a bit stunned.

“W–What? No, Eddie— I get it, okay? I completely understand why you’d want to be with Christopher. I’m not here to argue that. I’m not trying to make this about me.”

But just as he tried to explain, another knock interrupted them.

Eddie groaned. “Get out. I can’t have you sabotaging this one again.”

Buck lifted a hand, voice pleading. “I promise, I won’t. Scout’s honor.”

Eddie narrowed his eyes and opened the front door — only to find Chimney, Hen, Bobby, and you standing on the porch.

He blinked. “What are you guys doing here? I have a renter coming over any second now—”

Chimney chuckled as he stepped inside. “You still haven’t told him?”

“Told me what?” Eddie asked, now fully thrown off.

Buck cleared his throat, sheepish. “So… not to make this all about me—”

“Oh my God,” Eddie muttered.

“—but it’s me. I’m your renter. I replied to your listing using a fake name.”

“You’re… Freddy?” Eddie looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Yep,” Buck nodded, hands behind his back. “Freddy Fakeman.”

Hen burst out laughing and Chimney nearly wheezed. “Freddy Fakeman? How’d you let that one slip by you?”

“It’s more obvious when you say it out loud, okay?” Eddie muttered.

“But—what about your loft?” he asked, baffled.

“It’s not mine anymore. I gave notice this morning,” Buck said simply.

“Now you don’t have to worry. The house will still be taken care of… by someone who already knows every squeaky floorboard.”

Eddie was silent for a moment, unsure what to feel. Buck, as always, had this way of showing up — chaotic, emotional, but somehow right on time.

Soon, the laughter faded and the team scattered around the house.

Chim and Hen went to check out the kitchen again, Bobby stepped out to take a call. Buck lingered by the window, quietly inspecting the curtains like he was already picturing them in his routine.

You wandered through the living room slowly, fingers trailing the walls, each step heavy with something unsaid. Eddie watched you — the curve of your shoulders, the quietness in your breath.

When the others stepped outside to give Buck some privacy, Eddie took his chance.

You turned when you felt his gaze, standing by the couch. His couch. The one you used to curl up on during long shifts, those rare mornings after staying the night.

“Hey,” Eddie said softly.

You nodded.

“I just…” he started, swallowing. “I know things haven’t been easy. And I know I deserve the cold shoulder.”

There was a beat before you looked up at him. You met his eyes then, but it didn’t soften the sting in your voice.

“We’re still colleagues at the end of the day, Eddie, and it’s not like I’m gonna give you the cold shoulder forever. Like you said — no ties in California, so, no hard feelings.”

That line hit harder than you’d expected. You saw it in the slight hitch in his breath.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he whispered.

You exhaled, folding your arms tightly.

“I know. But it’s what you said. And you didn’t even give me a chance, Eddie. You decided for both of us, and just… expected me to be okay with it.”

He didn’t argue. He just looked down, ashamed.

“I never wanted to hold you back,” you continued, voice smaller now.

“I would’ve supported the move. I would’ve understood. You just… didn’t give me a chance to show up for you. And that’s what hurt the most.”

Eddie stepped forward a little, heart in his throat.

“You’re right. I shut you out. I thought I was doing the right thing by not asking you first, because I thought I’d be telling you to uproot your life… but I realize now that maybe I should’ve come clean to you as a partner.”

Silence fell between you both — heavy, thick with everything unsaid.

You broke it first. “I shouldn’t have shut you out either. That wasn’t fair. I was hurt, and I let it dictate how I treated you. But I don’t want to carry that into whatever this next chapter is.”

Eddie nodded, something bittersweet in his expression.

“So… friends?” you offered, lifting your hand just a bit.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Friends.”

But even as the word left his mouth, Eddie couldn’t help but glance toward the window, where Buck stood talking to Bobby outside — Buck, who made you laugh again, who brought you comfort, who offered you his home when Eddie didn’t offer you a future.

Eddie shook the thought away, but it lingered at the back of his mind, unspoken.

Because as much as he told himself he was doing the right thing by leaving —

He couldn’t shake the possibility that maybe, just maybe…

He was leaving you behind too.

And this time, Buck might be the one waiting for you when the dust settled.

Later in the week, after another dinner (courtesy of Buck), once the rest of the team had trickled out and the noise of laughter and farewell hugs had faded into quiet, Eddie stood in the hallway of what used to be his house — now Buck’s.

The ownership had technically changed hands, but the emotional weight of the place still lingered in his chest.

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed as he watched you and Buck in the kitchen, moving around each other like clockwork — the way your elbow gently bumped his as you passed him a mug, the way he instinctively shifted to give you space before you even asked for it.

There was a rhythm there. A familiarity.

And it wasn’t the first time Eddie noticed it.

He’d seen the shift after Maddie had gone missing — after that terrifying, silent stretch of time where everything felt like it was unraveling. That was when you and Buck had grown closer.

At first, Eddie had told himself it was just the trauma of it all, the need for comfort in a world that had briefly fallen apart. You were his best friend, after all. Who else would you lean on?

But now, standing there in the shadows of what used to be his home, Eddie saw it for what it was — energy. Something unspoken that buzzed between you both like a quiet static.

It wasn’t loud or obvious. It wasn’t romantic in the traditional sense, not yet. But it was something.

And it made something twist in Eddie’s chest. Not jealousy — not in the bitter, possessive way. It was more complicated than that. More human.

Because he knew you. Knew the way you loved, the way you gave without restraint. And he knew Buck too — the way his heart wore thin but big, how he crashed into things with everything he had.

He couldn’t blame either of you. He probably wouldn’t have met you if it weren’t for Buck in the first place.

It was Buck who introduced you to the 118 when you first moved to LA. Buck who dragged you to Eddie’s welcome-back barbecue after his recovery. Buck who always seemed to be orbiting your world in some shape or form.

Eddie blinked, pulling himself out of the spiral as you laughed at something Buck said — a soft, genuine sound that made Eddie’s chest ache.

He’d made peace with leaving.

But watching the way you looked at Buck — and more painfully, the way Buck looked at you — Eddie realized that some pieces of him weren’t coming with him to El Paso.

They were staying here.

In this house.

With you.

The soft hum of the air conditioning was the only sound filling the loft.

Jeeyun had finally gone down for the night — after a bedtime story that turned into two, and Buck pretending to be a very sleepy giraffe just to get her to laugh.

You watched the whole thing from the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, smiling faintly.

It was oddly grounding — watching Buck care for her like that. Like he was made for softness in a world that never gave him enough of it.

Now, in the kitchen, you were helping him tuck leftovers into mismatched containers and wipe down counters while a sleepy calm settled between the two of you.

“You didn’t have to stay this long,” Buck said softly, elbowing you gently as he dried a plate. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“I wanted to,” you replied, eyes still on your hands as you sealed another container shut. “Didn’t feel like going home yet.”

He nodded, understanding. You always understood each other quietly like this.

After a beat, Buck cleared his throat. “So… remember how Tommy dumped me.”

You looked up, surprised by the sudden admission. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he breathed out, laughing without humor.

“Said he didn’t see forever with me after I asked him to move in. Said he wasn’t feeling like I wasn’t all in and that it would end in heartbreak.” He leaned back against the sink, eyes on the floor. “I really thought he’d be the last one.”

You didn’t mean to — but you let out a soft, bitter laugh.

“Yeah,” you muttered, pushing your hair behind your ear. “Me too. About Eddie, I mean.”

Buck looked at you then. “I’m sorry.”

“I am too,” you whispered. “It just… hurts, you know? Because I thought he saw me. I thought he knew what we were building.”

Buck put the towel down and stepped closer, his voice gentler now.

“You did everything right,” he said. “You didn’t deserve that.”

You looked at him, truly looked at him. And it struck you then — how many nights like this you’d had. How many times he’d been the one showing up, even when he was unraveling himself. How many times you’d felt safe here — not because of the place, but because of him.

“I was thinking,” you said slowly, “you and I… we’ve been the only real constants in each other’s lives. For years. Through chaos, breakups, breakdowns…”

He raised an eyebrow, cautious but open. “Yeah?”

“So maybe,” you continued, “we just try. And if it works, it works. And if it doesn’t…” you trailed off, letting the thought hang.

Buck stepped even closer, his eyes searching yours now, not with pressure, but with something tender — reverent even.

“We don’t let it ruin us,” he said, finishing your thought.

“Because you’re already home.”

Your breath hitched.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Because I already lost something I thought I’d have forever. I’m not losing my best friend too.”

And just like that, something shifted — not loud, not dramatic. Just quiet understanding. An old kind of love that had always been there, only now beginning to take shape.

Buck reached for your hand, his fingers warm over yours.

“We’ll take it slow,” he said. “No pressure. Just… honesty.”

“Okay,” you said, squeezing his hand. “Honesty.”

And in the soft light of the kitchen, surrounded by leftovers and a lullaby hum from the dishwasher, something new — and deeply familiar — quietly bloomed.

Eddie’s house was quieter than usual, stripped of almost everything that made it feel like him.

The walls were bare, the kitchen echoing, boxes stacked by the door.

You and Buck stood near the living room, watching as Eddie sealed the last box with a long strip of tape, his shoulders tensing slightly with the sound.

“Guess that’s it,” he said, trying not to meet your eyes.

You nodded, arms folded as Buck carried the last few bags outside to the truck. For a second, it was just the two of you again — the silence heavy with everything left unsaid.

“Thanks,” Eddie said, his voice low. “For coming. For helping.”

“You didn’t have to thank us,” you replied, your voice soft, but firm. “We were always going to help you. No matter how much it hurt.”

He finally looked at you then — like he was memorizing your face one last time. “I didn’t want it to end like this. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know,” you said. “But you did.”

He swallowed hard, and you stepped closer, not in anger, not even in pain — just in peace. Acceptance.

“I respect why you’re doing this,” you added, “Christopher deserves to have you close. But the life I’ve built here… the people I love, the career I’ve made, my roots — they’re here. You knew I couldn’t follow.”

Eddie nodded slowly, regret flickering in his eyes like a shadow.

“I thought I could let go of everything to start over. But watching you and Buck… I realized maybe I let go of the wrong thing too soon.”

You gave him a sad smile. “Maybe. Or maybe you just weren’t meant to hold on to us forever. Chris needs you, Eddie.”

Buck walked back in, wiping his hands on his jeans and sensing the finality in the air.

“You ready?” he asked Eddie.

Eddie gave one last glance around the home that no longer felt like his, then back at you — eyes lingering a moment too long.

“Yeah.”

You all walked out together, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the driveway. Buck loaded the last box into the truck, while you stood off to the side, the wind tugging gently at your jacket.

Eddie turned to face you one last time. “Be happy,” he said, voice cracking just slightly. “You deserve that.”

“I will,” you replied. “I hope you find peace in El Paso.”

He gave Buck a brief nod and a hug before climbing into the truck, and as the engine started, a weight settled over your chest — not grief, not longing… just closure.

Buck stepped beside you quietly, his hand brushing yours, and you leaned into him ever so slightly.

Eddie pulled away from the curb with a final wave, and just like that, he was gone.

But as Buck wrapped an arm gently around your shoulders and the cold wind from the rain lingered, you knew you were exactly where you needed to be.

Not chasing what was lost — but holding on to what stayed.

Epilogue:

Eddie Diaz wasn’t used to quiet.

El Paso was filled with it — the stillness of empty rooms, the hush of his broken air conditioning, the long silences between strained conversations.

There were moments the house didn’t feel like a home anymore, just a halfway point between what he wanted to fix and what he feared he’d already lost.

The move was supposed to be about healing. About Christopher. About starting over. But nothing had been as easy as he’d imagined.

He sat on the worn couch one late Friday night, still dressed in his usual hoodie and jeans, the soft hum of the TV in the background doing little to distract him. The iPad — the same one that once held his secret plans to leave L.A. — pinged with a FaceTime notification.

Buck (incoming call)

A small, tired smile crossed Eddie’s face as he accepted.

Buck’s grinning face appeared instantly. “Hey, man.”

“Hey,” Eddie replied, voice rough with fatigue. “Late night?”

“Jeeyun’s out like a light. Maddie and Chim left her with us again since the baby is coming soon,” Buck said, shifting the camera slightly. “But— someone wants to say hi.”

Eddie’s breath caught as you leaned into frame, cheeks flushed, hair slightly messy from what looked like a cozy night in.

You were wearing one of Buck’s oversized shirts — probably borrowed, maybe not. And then, with a bark and a blur of golden fur, a puppy popped into view, scrambling into your lap.

“Meet Rocket!” You laughed, trying to hold the squirming pup steady.

Buck chuckled offscreen. “She named him after Groot’s buddy.”

Eddie let out a short laugh, despite the weight in his chest. “Of course she did.”

You smiled warmly, not quite the same smile you used to give Eddie — this one was lighter, freer, filled with a kind of peace he hadn’t seen in you in weeks, maybe months.

“I keep meaning to send you a photo,” you said softly. “He’s got Buck wrapped around his little paw.”

Buck groaned. “I’m a softie, sue me.”

Eddie nodded, eyes fixed on the way your shoulder brushed Buck’s, how easily you fit together now, the domesticity of it all like a snapshot from the life he once thought he could have with you.

“He’s cute,” Eddie said, his voice quieter now. “You look happy.”

There was a beat of silence. You met his eyes through the screen.

“I am,” you said. “It took a while, but… yeah. We’re good now.”

Eddie swallowed hard. “That’s good. I’m—” He paused, unsure if he had the right to say it. “I’m glad you have him.”

Buck shifted the camera to focus more on the dog, giving you a moment. You stayed on screen, gaze soft but steady.

“I hope you’re okay, too,” you said gently.

Eddie let his head fall back against the couch.

“Some days are better than others. Chris… he’s still angry. Or maybe just hurt. And I get it, I do. I just wish I’d done it all differently.”

“You’re trying,” you said. “That counts for something.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just watched the way Buck laughed as Rocket barked at something in the kitchen, your hand resting comfortably on Buck’s knee, the kind of small affection that said everything words couldn’t.

You were his once. But the version of you on the screen now? That wasn’t the same person who had stood in his kitchen heartbroken weeks ago.

This was someone who had rebuilt. Reclaimed. Moved on.

“I keep wondering,” Eddie said finally, “if things would’ve been different. If I had just… stayed. Talked to you first. Let you in on the plan instead of shutting you out.”

You smiled, but it was tinged with something softer, sadder.

“Maybe,” you said. “But if you had… I might’ve never found this version of myself. And you? You might’ve never had the space to fix things with your son.”

Eddie nodded slowly, his throat thick. “I just… I miss you.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I miss you too, sometimes. But it’s not the same kind of missing anymore.”

He understood. It wasn’t a wound — it was a scar. Something healed, but not forgotten.

“I hope you find someone who makes you feel like you belong again,” you added, your voice kind.

And Eddie, ever the soldier, nodded once more. “I hope so too.”

As the screen dimmed after the call ended, Eddie sat in the silence again. But this time, it didn’t feel as hollow.

You were happy. Buck was there for you. And though the sting still lingered, he had peace knowing he hadn’t ruined you — only rerouted you to something real.

He glanced over at the half-packed box of Christopher’s old toys — things he was finally allowed to bring back into the main room again.

It wasn’t perfect. But maybe one day, it could be.

Meanwhile, the thing about losing people, Buck had learned, was that it didn’t always look like slammed doors or shouting matches.

Sometimes, it looked like letting go before you were ready — like watching someone drive away with the last piece of your heart and having to accept that they weren’t yours to keep.

That used to be the story of his life.

First his parents. Then Daniel. Then Abby. Then Tommy, and now, Eddie.

But not you.

You came into his life like you’d always been meant to be there — like you fit right between the cracks he thought no one could fill. It started quiet.

A knock on his door in the middle of the night. An “I can’t be alone right now” without needing to say it out loud. A slice of cake shared over talks about your messy shifts, the kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled.

He didn’t mean to fall in love with you. He really didn’t.

But maybe it happened when you stole his favorite hoodie and never gave it back. Maybe it was the way you remembered his favorite cereal and kept buying it. Or maybe it was the way you said his name when the weight of the world was too much for him to carry alone.

The night you told him you’d ended things with Eddie, he didn’t expect you to look so… steady. Sad, yes. Hurt, yes. But grounded.

And it made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he could finally stop running from the idea that he didn’t deserve something lasting.

“I thought Tommy would be the one,” Buck had confessed that night, drying a plate while you put away leftovers. “He said I was too much. Didn’t know what I wanted. Said I might break his heart in the end.”

You leaned against the counter, turning to face him. “I thought Eddie was my last.”

“And now?”

You smiled softly. “Now I think… maybe it’s not about finding your last. Maybe it’s about choosing someone who never makes you feel like you’re too much.”

That sentence lodged in his chest like a cornerstone. You hadn’t just offered him a place in your life — you offered him the kind of love that stayed.

That’s when everything changed.

You stayed. Even when he had a bad day. Even when he overthought. Even when he accidentally set the toaster on fire (again). You stayed.

And when Eddie left for El Paso, you held Buck’s hand the whole time. Helped him tape up boxes. Laughed when Eddie grumbled about Buck’s ridiculous name on the rental application.

Buck never said it out loud — not to Eddie, not even to himself — but part of him felt guilty. Like he was standing in the space someone else had built. But then you kissed him for the first time, quietly, slowly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And he knew then that this wasn’t stolen.

It was something new.