can i say yes now?

The envelope is still unopened, but he knows what’s inside: the settlement from Chase Mackey.

The city had blinked first. Talked settlement. Millions or a pathway back to active duty, conditional but real.

Mackey had sounded pleased when he relayed it.

Buck had listened. Had let him finish.

“I’m done,” he’d said. “Renegotiate the settlement for my back pay and what I owe you and not a penny more. Let the LAFD know that I won’t be returning to active duty.”

There had been a silence on the other end of the line. “You don’t want reinstatement?” Mackey had asked. “I thought that was the entire point of this.”

Buck had looked at the MRI images open on his laptop. White grainy cross-sections of bone and shadow. The notes beneath them clinical and detached.

Persistent osteomyelitis. Hardware failure likely. Surgical intervention recommended.

He’d flexed his ankle and felt the answering grind deep in the joint.

He couldn’t explain that you can’t sue your way back into a body that won’t cooperate.

“I’ve suffered a setback last week,” he’d said instead. “Firefighting is no longer in the cards for me.”

“That doesn’t mean your case against the department doesn’t still stand,” Mackey had pressed. “You could walk away with millions.”

“I never wanted the money,” Buck had replied. “I just wanted my job back. Bobby was right. I’m not fit for duty.”

“You’re walking away from a lot of money,” Mackey had tried once more.

“I know.”

He’d ended the call. He'd cover what he owed. Clear the attorney’s fee. Keep him afloat a little longer.

He hates it.

The desk. The paperwork. The reports. The way no one looks at him like a firefighter anymore.

He misses the sirens. The adrenaline. The way the firehouse smelled like stale coffee and drying hose line. The way Hen would roll her eyes at his dumb jokes, the way Bobby would sigh and pretend he wasn't hiding a smile.

He misses knowing exactly what to do with his hands.

He misses his Jeep he had lost to the sea. He misses the freedom it gave him. If he tried to replace it now, he'd be laughed right out of the dealership. But it had been his, the same as the job.

Now? Now he's moving from building to building, clipboard in hand, checking sprinklers and extinguishers and trying not to let the ache in his leg slow him down too much.

He’s twenty-six and he feels like his whole goddamn life already happened.

Buck pushes himself upright with a groan and grabs his phone. Unlocks it. Scrolls. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for.

Reddit. Instagram. Craigslist. Reddit again.

Anything not to look at the lawyer’s card on the table.

The ad appears between listings for used mattresses and dog-walking gigs. Clean font. Bold type.

Find your match. No expectations. Just generosity.

He snorts, but his thumb hovers over the link.

The app downloads faster than it should. Half the profiles are garbage. Hearts-and-dollar-sign usernames, gym selfies, greasy bathroom mirrors. He tells himself he’s just looking. Curiosity.

He doesn’t take new pictures.

Instead, he scrolls through his camera roll, thumb pausing over three.

The first is a mirror selfie, black tank top, a hint of a smirk, his arm folded across his chest like he’s pretending not to care how the light hits his jaw. He remembers taking it out of boredom one afternoon, the reflection clean, the muscle unintentional. He looks confident. Or close enough.

The second is grainier. Darker. He’s just stepped out of the shower, towel low on his hips, skin still damp. The flash flares across the glass, catching him mid-blink. It’s sexy but not posed. A snapshot from a life he doesn’t live anymore.

The third he almost doesn’t upload.

He’s behind the glass, caught in silhouette, steam crawling down the shower door. You can’t see his face, but it’s unmistakably him, broad shoulders, bowed head, fingers resting on the wall like he’s bracing himself.

Ali had taken it.

A week before the bombing.

Back when things between them had felt almost like love.

Before she left.

He uploads it anyway.

Username:

He stares at the blank field for a long time, thumb twitching over the keyboard. Then, with a flat little breath that might’ve once been a laugh, he types:

Firehose

It feels like an old joke. A bad one.

Bio: What the fuck am I doing? This is a bad idea, right?

He hits submit.

Then he leaves the room, because if he sits there and watches the inbox, he might actually lose his mind. This wasn’t supposed to be him.

But Buck 2.0 didn’t exist anymore. The rent really did need paid, and the sex addict in him was a little thrilled, even as his stomach coiled, bracing for the heartache that was sure to come.

Two days later, Buck opens the inbox.

He’s not proud of it.

He tells himself he’s just curious. Just checking. He’s not actually doing anything.

But really, he’s broke and tired. Bone-deep, soul-weary tired.

And he’s lonely.

Maybe, maybe he really should've just accepted the millions.

His leg has been aching since noon. The stairs at the downtown inspection site were endless. The elevator had been out of service.

The microwave dinner from earlier is sitting in his gut like a block of cement. He’s still in the same shirt he wore to work. Still smells faintly of smoke from a faulty kitchen hood he red-tagged that morning.

He should be asleep. Or icing his leg. Or filling out the backlog of reports on his kitchen table.

Instead, he opens the app.

Sixty-eight messages.

He scrolls through the first dozen with a dull sort of resignation. Most are exactly what he expected.

Crude. Creepy.

One guy leads with do you like it rough?

Another opens with a full-body mirror selfie and a dick pic, complete with a winking emoji.

Some are slick corporate types offering luxury hotels and dinners, “just for conversation.” Those make his skin crawl more than the blunt ones.

A few treat him like a service. Giving him flat rates per night or weekends. No repeats. No strings.

One offers a car.

A handful read like personal essays. Too honest, too messy. Desperate in a way that makes Buck feel like he’d have to give more than he has to spare.

He should swipe out of the app.

Hi. This probably isn’t what you expected. It wasn’t what I expected either.

The username is plain: T.S.

No emojis. No flashy headline. Just the message.

Your bio made me laugh. Not at you. It felt honest. I’d like to buy you dinner, if you’re willing. No strings unless you want them. We can talk, or not. Up to you. ~ T

Buck blinks. Reads it again.

It doesn’t pitch anything. Doesn’t ask for more photos. Doesn’t even mention sex.

He scrolls up to the profile.

There’s only one picture.

A cockpit. Helicopter controls blurred slightly by motion. And in the foreground, two hands on the yoke. One resting gently over the other.

The first is large. Knuckles slightly scuffed. Forearm corded with muscle. There’s a faint tan line at the base of the ring finger.

The second hand is cleaner, more deliberate in its grip.

Not posed. Not polished. Just a moment. Two people mid-motion.

Something about it makes his breath catch.

There’s a second message beneath the first.

He’s underselling it. But he always does. Dinner still stands. We’ll cover the bill. ~ S

No emoji. No tagline. Just confidence. Just we’ll cover the bill.

Buck exhales.

It’s probably a mistake.

They’re probably weird. Or too intense. Or married, for all he knows.

But still, he doesn’t close the tab. His finger hovers over the reply button.

Tommy snorted. “You’re still a prick. Good to know some things don’t change.”

They clinked glasses. The first swallow burned just right. Dangerous in the way old habits always were.

For a few minutes they stayed in the shallow end. Work stories. Helicopter bullshit. The kind of talk that didn’t require looking too close at anything. Tommy complained about rookie pilots who treated his bird like a toy. Sal complained about being saddled with temporary captain duties.

“You always hated paperwork,” Tommy said.

“Still do.”

Tommy watched him over the rim of his glass. Sal noticed it, filed it away, ignored it.

Silence stretched.

The kind that came from knowing too much history to pretend there wasn’t more underneath.

Tommy broke it first. “So. B or C shift? Can't believe they finally put you in charge.”

Sal shrugged. “Just fuckin' temporary and C.”

“Everything with you is temporary.”

That dug into the rotten, mean side of him. He tossed Tommy a cold glance.

Sal’s phone buzzed on the table. He didn’t turn it over, his thumb brushing the edge of the case. He took another sip instead, slower this time.

Tommy clocked it.

They talked about the old days then. Gerrard’s reign of terror. The way the 118 used to chew people up and spit them out if they weren’t careful. Tommy laughed at a story Sal half remembered telling him years ago, back when exhaustion and adrenaline blurred together into something almost survivable.

“You ever miss it?” Tommy asked.

Sal didn’t answer right away. He stared into his glass like the amber liquid had the answers. Because he knew what Tommy was really asking.

Not about the station, nor the calls or the noise or the way the job got under your skin and stayed there. Tommy meant the late nights that bled into mornings. The unspoken understanding. The way they used to fit together in the quiet between shifts. The years they spent circling each other.

Do you miss us.

Sal felt it stir his chest, that old pull, that old deep love.

He couldn’t.

Not again. Not right now.

There were lines he couldn't cross anymore. This was a door he / they weren't ready to open. He had learned the hard way what happened when he let himself want something from a man who wasn't ready to be known.

Sal rolled the glass between his fingers and Tommy’s smile flickered.

Another buzz. Sal picked up his phone and checked the message, smiled softly and placed it back on the bar, face down.

Tommy leaned back, studying him openly now. “You’re different.”

Sal snorted. “Yeah? That’s what aging does.”

“No,” Tommy shook his head.

“You got somethin’ to say, Kinard? Spit it out. Don’t just sit there lookin’ at me like you’re readin’ my goddamn mail.”

Tommy took a breath, choosing his next words carefully. He gestured with his glass as he shook his head. “Oh, come on, Tory. You check your phone and you smile. Since when do you smile at a text?”

The nickname cut through the bar noise. Tory.

Sal’s thumb rubbed against the damp side of his glass. Since a probie with too-bright eyes and a death wish learned how to follow an order. Since he started sending pictures of goddamn eggs. The thought was too big, too tender to voice in this place that smelled of stale beer and fries.

And for a dizzying second, Sal’s mind did something treacherous. It didn’t bristle with new anger and old love. Instead, a fierce want flashed through him: the image of Buck’s mouth, smiling against his skin, forming that same syllable. Tory. Whispered like a gift from his boy. A surrender. A secret name for the man he belonged to, whispered in the dark of their bed. It was a thought so private, so profoundly theirs, that hearing it in Tommy’s voice here felt like a violation.

He couldn’t wait for Evan to use it.

That realization, more than Tommy’s probing, is what sharpened his voice to a blade. “Got responsibilities,” Sal snapped. “Ain’t your business.” The words come out gruff, a wall thrown up between the past and the future.

“Responsibilities,” Tommy echoed, the word flat. He took a slow drink, his eyes never leaving Sal’s face. The easy grin was gone, replaced by something a little too knowing. “That’s what you're gonna call it?” Tommy asked, a deliberate casualness in his tone that didn’t reach his eyes. “The probie. Hen says he’s practically your shadow now. That you’ve got him on a short leash.”

Sal felt a familiar, defensive heat rise in his gut. “He’s my partner. I look after my partner.”

“You look after him,” Tommy repeated, and this time it wasn’t an observation, it was a challenge, edged with a bitterness that surprised Sal. “And we both know it’s more than just ‘looking after.’ I know that look, Sal. I used to try to put it there.”

He leaned forward, his voice dropping into old comradery full of secrets that had kept them alive in darker times. “Just be careful, alright? He’s what, twenty-four? Twenty-five? Still a kid. Don’t be a goddamn fool and torch your career over a reckless probie who’s still figuring out which way is up."

Sal stared at him, the old arguments rising up the back of his throat. He could bring up Tommy’s own recklessness, his own closed-off heart. But that fight felt hollow now and pointless.

Tommy was looking at the surface, only seeing the risk.

He had no idea of the foundation he'd spent the last few months laying. So, Sal did something he’d never done with Tommy before. He gave him the blueprint and spoke to him as an equal.

“I’m not burning anything down,” Sal grunted, his voice low and utterly calm. “In a few months, when Rocco retires at the 122, I’m taking over his house. A clean crew. A fresh start. Somewhere we can…” He trailed off, the ‘we’ hangs in the air as he shakes his head.

Tommy’s eyes widened slightly.

Sal leaned in willing Tommy to understand. “The kid… he needs t’be owned. To know, in his bones, that he won’t be left in an empty house ever again.”

He picked off a piece of the label of the bottle. He wouldn’t look at Tommy. “Is he a reckless little shit with ADHD that could power a small city? Yeah. But he’s also brilliant. He’s funny as hell. And he loves… Christ, Tommy, he loves with his whole fucking soul. It’s terrifying.” He said it the way you only did with someone who’d already seen you at your worst.

“You’d think he was the most goddamn adorable thing you’d ever seen.” Sal’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “And if you weren’t such a cowahd, you’d understand exactly why I’m willing to burn it all down for him.”

Tommy’s face went through a series of shifts. Shock. Disbelief. Old pain. Then, slow comprehension. He leaned back slowly, the fight draining out of him. He picked up his beer, took a long swallow, and set it down with a sigh that seemed to come from his bones. “The 122, huh?” he finally said, his voice devoid of its earlier edge.

“Yeah,” Sal said, picking up his phone again. The screen lit up with another message. This time, he didn’t even try to hide his smile as he stood, dropping cash on the bar. “I gotta go.”

Sal clapped a hand on Tommy’s shoulder and gave it a hard squeeze that held a lifetime of thank yous and a simple see you later.

The night air was cool, he took a minute to pull in a deep breath as he pulled out his phone.

Can’t sleep. Thinking. Miss you.

Sal’s chest tightened, that sweet, possessive ache of his own heart. He typed back as he slid into the truck.

Twenty minutes baby. Shower, prep, tea. See you soon.

But before he pulled out, he pulled his phone from his pocket again, the glow soft in the dark cab. A new messages waited, sent just after his.

Tea's steeping. Water's hot. 🟢

A smile touched Sal’s lips. No questions. No ‘how was your night?’ No fishing for what he was doing or who he was it. The kid was learning, he was speaking their language without being prompted, offering the green dot like a gift.

Sal’s thumbs moved over the screen.

Good boy.

He sent it before merging into the late-night traffic. The city lights streaked past, he made good time. Twenty minutes became eighteen.

He let himself into the condo, the only light came from the bathroom, the door slightly ajar, steam curling out into the hall. The air smelled like the new soap Sal had made Buck buy a month ago. Aloe and shea butter.

Shampoo that smelled like pine. Soaps that didn’t leave his skin raw or itchy, didn’t sting his old scars or sensitive skin. No more cheap dollar store crap that stripped him dry and left him scratching.

Good, Sal thought, the satisfaction a quiet hum in his chest. He deserves the good stuff. He toed off his boots, hung his keys, and shrugged out of his jacket. He paused at the counter, pouring two cups of tea from the kettle Buck had readied.

He turned on the lamp by the bedside before he pushed the bathroom door open.

Buck was in the shower behind the fogged glass. He must have heard the door because his head turned and his hand wiped over the glass.

“Out,” Sal grunted.

Buck reaches for his rag. "Two more minutes..."

Sal lifted a brow. “I said out.”

Buck wiped water from his face, chin up. “I heard you. But I’m sore from last night, back’s tight. Two minutes lets me finish stretching under the hot water.”

Sal crossed his arms, studying him. “You’re negotiating shower time now?”

“Yeah.” Buck’s grunts as he tips his head back. “If it’s still a hard no, I’m out. But I’m telling you what I need instead of just taking it.”

Sal’s mouth twitched, almost a smile as his eyes warmed fondly. “Take as much time as you need, love.”

Buck blinked, a quiet inhale catching in his chest as a small smile bloomed across his face. He stepped back under the spray, turning so the water hit his back.

The water shut off a few minutes later, the shower door slid open, and Buck stepped out. He didn’t reach for a towel. He just stood there, dripping on the bathmat, his skin flushed pink from the heat, his blue eyes fixed on Sal.

He was breathtaking.

Sal’s gaze traveled over him in possessive inventory. He reached past him, grabbed the towel from the warmer, and held it open. “C’mere.”

Buck stepped into it, and Sal wrapped him up, rubbing the thick cotton over his back, his arms, his chest.

When Buck was mostly dry, Sal tossed the towel aside and took his face in both hands. He looked into those eyes, seeing the lingering tiredness, the trust, the eager hunger just beneath the surface.

“Color,” Sal murmured, his thumbs stroking over Buck’s cheekbones.

“Green,” Buck breathed instantly, his lips parting.

Sal leaned in and kissed him. It wasn't the bruising, desperate clash from the storage room days. It was deep, slow, almost lazy in it's tenderness. He could feel the fine tremor that ran through Buck, the way his hands came up to clutch at Sal’s shirt.

He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Buck’s. “Tea,” he said, his voice rough.

He guided Buck out of the bathroom, a hand on the small of his back. In the bedroom, the bedside lamp was on, casting a soft glow over the rumpled sheets. The mug of tea sat steaming on the nightstand.

Sal nudged him toward the bed. “Get in.”

Buck climbed in, the sheets cool against his skin. He pulled the covers up to his waist and took the mug Sal handed him, cradling it in both hands. He took a sip, his eyes closing for a second in what looked like pure relief.

Sal sat on the edge of the bed, watching him drink. He reached out and brushed a damp curl back from Buck’s forehead. “Talk to me, mook. What’s in that head?”

Buck swallowed another mouthful of tea, his gaze fixed on the steam curling from the mug. “I…umm, uh,” he started, his voice soft. “But… No," he shakes his head, trying to pull his thoughts together to answer. He let out a huff, "Been thinking about the next few weeks.”

Sal’s thumb stroked across Buck’s birthmark. “Our shift schedule’s are on the fridge. We’ll cross over Tuesday.”

“I know.” Buck’s grumbled as he took another sip, buying time, the ceramic clicking softly against his teeth. “It’s just… two, nearly three whole weeks where I don’t… come home to you. Don’t report in person. It’s all texts and phone calls and…” He trailed off, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He ducked his head. “Makes me feel a little… yellow. Stupid, I know.”

Yellow.

Sal studied him. He saw the tension in the line of Buck’s shoulders, the way he was curling in. It wasn’t panic. It was… dread. A childlike resistance to a change in routine, mixed with a deep anxiety Sal recognized: the fear of being out of sight, and therefore out of mind.

Sal’s hand smoothed down Buck’s arm. “It’s not stupid,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “You’re used to our structure.” He tilted Buck’s chin up, making him meet his eyes. “But this is a good test, mook. We won’t be working the same truck forever, especially not once I’m at the 122. I need to know you can hold the line, follow the rules, even when I’m not right there."

Buck’s eyes widened, a flash of panic that had nothing to do with shift rotations. “That’s different,” he muttered into his tea, a petulant edge creeping into his tone. “When you’re at the 122, we’ll still be on the same shift. So when I’m working, you’re working, and when I’m not, you’re not. We’ll still go home together. This… this is just… missing you. For no good reason. It feels like… like a step back.”

Ah. There it was.

He took the empty mug from Buck’s hands and set it aside. Then he rolled, pinning Buck gently to the mattress, hovering over him, caging him in with his arms. He looked down into those vulnerable blue eyes.

“You’ll miss me,” Sal stated, a fact, not a question.

Buck nodded, a quick, jerky movement. “Yeah.”

“And you’ll follow the rules.”

Another nod. “Yeah.”

“And you’ll use your color if that yellow gets any darker.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sal leaned down and captured his mouth in a searing kiss. It was all heat and promise, a brand. When he pulled back, Buck’s lips were swollen, his breath coming fast.

He shifted his weight, one thick thigh sliding between Buck’s legs, pressing just enough to remind him who he belonged to. His hand found Buck’s throat, thumb resting over the pulse that jumped under stubble.

“You’ll be fine,” Sal murmured again, voice like gravel against Buck’s ear. “But you listen close, mook.”

He dragged his mouth along Buck’s jaw, his teeth grazing the spot where neck met shoulder. Buck’s breath hitched.

“Every time you reach for your phone…” Sal’s fingers flexed lightly, “remember the rules are there to keep you safe... but it isn't the end of the world if you break one."

Buck’s eyes flickered open at that last part, surprise cutting through the haze.

Sal held his gaze, thumb brushing his pulse point. “Yeah. You heard me. You slip and forget to text, push bedtime, whatever, I may call you on it. We talk. We fix it.”

Buck searched his face, his smile growing wide, "you really mean that."

"Every fuckin' word," Sal promised, "You get to mess up and still be mine, kid." Sal’s free hand slid down, palmed Buck through the thin sheet, slowly stroking him.

Buck whined hips shifting.

“But… that being said…" Sal drawled, his tone dropping deep and playful. "You don’t touch what’s mine without permission. Not even when you’re aching and alone and missing me so bad it hurts.” His thumb circled the head of his cock as he laid out his threat lazily. “You wait. You text me the color. You wait for my word.”

Buck’s eyes fluttered shut. “Yes, sir.”

Sal pressed harder with his palm, just enough to make Buck arch. “That’s right. You wait like a good boy. Because when I get home…” his voice dropped to a rough whisper, “I’m gonna take every second of that wait out on you.”

Buck’s fingers curled into Sal’s shirt.

Sal kissed him again, harder this time, tongue feasting on every sound Buck tried to swallow. When he finally pulled back, Buck was pupils blown, lips red and wet.

Buck arched, whining softly. “Sal… please. Inside. Need you.”

Sal shook his head, thumb circling the head again, teasing. “No, sweetheart, your back’s fucked from last night. Not tonight.”

Buck’s eyes fluttered, “But…” his whine dying on a gasp as Sal’s grip tightened.

“Shh.” Sal dropped lower, kissing down Buck’s chest, then tugged the sheet aside. He took Buck into his mouth in one swift bob of his head.

Buck’s hips jerked. “Fuck…”

Sal pinned him with one forearm, sucking deep, tongue working the underside. Buck came fast, shuddering, spilling down Sal’s throat with a broken moan.

Sal swallowed as he crawled back up. He pulled Buck against his chest, hand rubbing slow circles over the sore muscles of his lower back. "We are gonna be just fine kid,” Sal murmured, tucking Buck’s head under his chin. "Now sleep. That's a fuckin' order." He said as his lips brushed over his wet curls.

Buck shuddered, a full-body release of tension, and finally went boneless against him. "Night, Sal,” he whispered, voice thick with sleep.

It took every ounce of Buck’s self-control to not blurt out Evan’s deadname as he felt the pieces fall into place. That laugh, those eyes, and that goddamn blunt canine – hell, Buck even knew that the left tooth wasn’t as sharp because of an accident with a basketball, which had been the root of Buck’s hatred for the sport.

He’d been fourteen when he’d met Evan and had awkwardly asked him out to the movies. They’d been fifteen when they’d skipped school to celebrate their one-year anniversary by having sex for the first time, and sixteen when Buck experienced his first heartbreak when Mister Wright took a job in Denver, effectively breaking up their relationship. Initially, Buck and Evan had emailed each other daily, but that had died down by the third month. Buck moved on, started dating Sarah Zhang, and hadn’t thought of Evan until he’d tried to find him on MySpace years later, but had no luck. Buck realised in that moment that it was probably because he was looking for someone with the wrong name.

“Holy fuck. The last time I saw you, you were boarding a plane to Colorado.”

There was a quick gasp from Maddie, an ‘oh my God’ followed.

Buck noticed that Chim ducked his head in for her to whisper to him what she knew. That whisper was then passed on to Hen, then Karen, then Ravi and Eddie, because the one-eighteen was the best gossip mill outside of the trashy tabloids that still managed to exist in 2026.

They weren’t subtle about it.

“How’d you end up here? You’re a long way away from Hershey,” Evan asked, not at all bothered by the whispering.

“Well, I got out when I was nineteen, travelled a little. Actually made my way down to Peru for a bit. Came back up to become a firefighter here.”

There was an appreciative, almost hungry, way to how he sized up Buck. It made Buck preen a little.

“Explains why you’re bigger than an ox.” He looked around the table. “And your friends here all look a little beefy, too.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Buck cleared his throat. “This is my family at the one-eighteen.” He went around the table introducing everyone. “You’ve got Eddie and Ravi, Karen and her wife, Hen.”

Evan interrupted. “Of course, the prettiest woman in the bar would be a married lesbian,” he sighed, and Buck grinned while Hen played along. He was so charismatic – which was different to how Buck remembered him. Perhaps it was him being able to be who he was that made the difference.

“Lastly, we have Chim and Maddie.”

He gasped. “The Maddie?”

Buck laughed. “Yup, the Maddie. Maddie, guys, this is, well, Evan. My first, uh, first partner?”

“Oh my God,” Maddie said again and shuffled her way to the other side of Buck to give Evan a crushing hug. “I can’t believe I get to meet you! You were all Buck could talk about for like two years. How did you end up in LA?”

Evan shrugged. “Oh, the usual: lonely trans boy fell in love with his online Californian sugar daddy, who paid for all the surgeries, shows up to his home uninvited only to find out he already has a husband and a dog. I fear I’m deathly allergic to both.”

“Jesus.”

Before Buck could say anything else, Evan motioned towards his empty beer glass. “Can I buy you a drink? Maybe we can catch up?”

“You know what? I’d love that.”

Buck definitely caught Evan checking him out. Buck had seen that look plenty of times before – ten years ago, it would have resulted in Buck going home with a woman who looked at him like that.

Thank goodness he’d expanded that to men, too.

“The world is so small,” Buck said when they made it to the bar. “I can’t believe we’ve run into each other like this.”

“Right? I do see Mrs. Buckley pop up as a suggested friend on Facebook every now and then, but actually bumping into you in person? Fucking crazy.”

“You look good. Sorry it took me so long to put it together.”

Evan laughed and squeezed Buck’s bicep as they got to the bar. “You’ve tripled in size, I almost thought there was another guy with the same birthmark.” There was another squeeze. “Goddamn, Evan. How much do you lift?”

“I, uh, got by ‘Buck’ now. And not too much, just enough to keep me strong enough to lift unconscious people out of fires.” That got a scoff out of Evan so he flexed a little. “You know, they’re not for the aesthetic. I work out to save lives.”

“Does that line actually work, Buck?”

“All the time.”

At least it used to, back when he was all about picking up at bars and clubs.

“I’m not the only one who’s changed a lot, though.”

“You’re taking this better than I thought anyone would,” Evan admitted. “You do realise that all those times you went down on me, you were sucking my dick, right?”

Buck huffed out a laugh. “And here I was thinking Tommy’s dick was the first I’d sucked.”

“Sorry?”

“Not to mention all the straps before that.”

“Wait, what?”

Buck leant forward on his elbows with a grin. “What, you think you’re the only queer guy here?” He managed to finally grab the bartender’s attention, but Evan beat him to it.

“Two tequila shots, please.” He shot Buck a flirty look while the bartender turned to grab the bottle. “I’d say I never would have pegged you for queer, but it sounds like I really could peg you.”

“Oh my God.”

It was probably the deepest, fullest laugh Buck had enjoyed in over a year.

“Not that I’d have to. I had a brilliant surgeon.”

“I’m happy for you.”

The tequila, salt shaker, and lime slices were placed in front of them. “We'll need another round,” Evan said quickly before completing the salt-tequila-lime ritual faster than Buck had ever seen anyone accomplish it, and he’d seen it a lot from his time behind a bar (and as a patron).

“Wow.”

“Keep up, Buckley.”

Buck did as he was told. They’d given them the cheap stuff, the bottom shelf Blanco he would give out back during his bartending days to save the bar a buck or two. It made his throat burn and his teeth tingle for a moment before the lime left him wincing.

Goddamn, he was almost too old for tequila shots.

The second round appeared as quickly as the first. It disappeared in record time with Buck keeping pace with Evan.

“So what you’re saying is that I have a chance,” Evan said, handing his credit card over to the bartender to open a tab.

And if that was where it was going, Buck was certainly going to flirt back.

“A chance at what?”

He knew he was giving Evan that smile, the one where his tongue peeked out of the corner of his mouth for a moment to pull attention to his completely kissable lips.

“A chance to be your first and maybe next boyfriend.”

It was like he hit him with the water cannon.

Fuck.

Evan must’ve seen the change because he leant back a little.

“Did I come on too hard? Are you just after something casual?”

“No, no, it’s not…”

Fuck it, why did his feelings for Tommy have to ruin it? If he hadn’t loved him as much, hadn’t pushed for more, he might’ve still been with him.

Buck sighed. “I am so sorry, I’m not as over my ex as I thought I was. I, uh, was ready for him to be my first and last boyfriend, you know?”

Evan’s hand was warm and soothing along his spine. “Yeah, I know.”

“You deserve someone better than a guy who can’t move on.”

“Mm. Sounds to me like we both deserve more tequila.”

The next round tasted like bad decisions that hadn’t yet been made.

Which was crazy, because hopping into a Lyft after the bar had closed to tell Tommy that they could get back together because he wasn’t Buck’s first boyfriend seemed like the best decision ever.

Hindsight sure was 20/20.

Hindsight’s vision was far superior to Buck’s as he sat in the back of that Mazda, watching the lights of the street pass him on the way to Tommy’s home. They blurred in a way that was both pretty and made Buck dizzy.

He must have said something about it, because his driver barked at him about not throwing up in his car.

That had Buck scoffing, because he wasn’t so drunk that he’d vomit.

He had much better things to do, like reuniting with his ex-boyfriend, who would certainly take him back after hearing his bulletproof reason.

Buck felt a sense of vindication when they pulled into Tommy’s driveway without barfing. He might have stumbled slightly as he got out, but he did not vomit, not even a little bit.

The porch light switched on before Buck got to the door, which felt amazing, like Tommy was welcoming him home. He knocked on the door all of two raps before it swung open.

“Evan?”

He looked so good. Sleep-ruffled and comfortable. Buck missed seeing him like that.

“You’re not the first guy I dated,” Buck announced but had to slap his palms against the doorframe to keep himself upright.

It would be a hell of a lot easier to feel like he wasn’t going to fall over if Tommy’s house would stop fucking spinning.

“You’re not even the first guy I had sex with.”

Really, that was a shockingly difficult sentence to get out, though Buck wasn’t sure why.

“Evan…”

“That’s who was! Evan. Evan was the first.”

Tommy sighed. It was his judgemental sigh. “Masturbation doesn’t count.”

“What? No. Wrong Evan. Though, masturbation is great.”

“And I commend you for saying that so easily when you are so, so drunk.”

“Evan likes tequila.”

“Third person. That must have been a lot of tequila.” There was that sigh again. It kind of pissed Buck off that Tommy was sighing like that around him. “You’re not making it home tonight, and even if you did, I’d be scared to leave you on your own.”

“Why did Evan have to like tequila?” Buck mumbled, and then, oh God, the absolutely worst thing that could have happened fucking happened.

The tequila made a reappearance all over Tommy’s chest.

The damned Lyft driver was right. Fuck.

Buck wanted to die.

“Oh my God, Tommy, I am so…”

He at least turned his head and aimed for the garden bed that time, vomiting what was probably beer and the burger he’d eaten before Evan had re-entered his life.

“Okay, let’s get you into the bathroom,” he heard Tommy groan before his big, warm hands steered him through the house.

The rest of the night disappeared in a blur of shame.

-

The morning began with a healthy dose of mortification and hangover.

Buck woke to a splitting headache sometime much later than he usually woke in what, he was most embarrassed to realise, was Tommy’s spare bedroom.

There was a bucket by the bed, a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol on the bedside table, and what appeared to be clothes Buck had left but had never picked up following the break up.

“Fuck.”

He almost didn’t take the painkillers because he deserved the hangover for vomiting on Tommy after waking him up at whatever stupidly hour in the morning.

A massive part of Buck strongly considered sneaking out but Tommy must’ve considered that because Buck’s keys and phone were missing, so Buck took two pills, drained the glass of water, and flopped onto his back in the middle of the bed to fall back asleep until the meds kicked in.

When he woke up the second time, his head wasn’t pounding as bad as it had, and the house smelled of Tommy’s breakfast specials.

God, Buck loved him so much.

He also knew that Tommy deserved an explanation and the greatest apology a man could muster, so Buck forced himself up out of the bed and into the fresh new clothes before he stumbled out into the kitchen, where Tommy was clearly waiting for him.

His phone and keys sat in the middle of the kitchen table, placed there so Buck would have to talk to Tommy before he could leave.

“That’s cruel.”

“You threw up on me.”

“...point.”

Tommy pulled out a chair and motioned for Buck to sit down. He surprised Buck by then placing in front of him a large takeaway coffee Buck hadn’t noticed. The sweet scent of a caramel mocha made the cruelty worth it.

Buck had to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying something incredibly stupid, like he loved Tommy.

“How much of last night do you remember?” Tommy asked as he dished out breakfast.

Buck groaned miserably despite how good his coffee tasted. “All of it.”

A plate full of eggs and bacon and hash browns and toast landed in front of him, then Tommy sank into his own chair.

In another world, that could have been Tommy preparing breakfast for Buck as his partner, not some ex who’d bashed on his door at some stupid hour in the morning, drunk on booze and nostalgia.

That was devastating.

“Including the part where you implied that you jerking off meant I wasn’t your first?”

“I, uh, actually ran into my real first boyfriend last night. Lost my virginity to him when I was fifteen.”

Tommy had very expressive eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Great guy. Loves tequila. Transitioned when he turned eighteen and chose my name as his.” He paused for another sip of his coffee. “He, uh, made a joke about him being my first and next boyfriend, which reminded me of you…”

“After, I’m assuming, a lot of tequila?”

“I feel the correct measurement was a fuck-tonne of tequila, but yeah.”

“Hence you showing up at me door extremely drunk and throwing up on my daphne bush.”

“I am so sorry about that. The vomiting part. And the middle of the night part. But…but I’m not sorry that we’re here.”

Tommy made that hm sound he made to encourage Buck to continue.

And Buck decided he wasn’t going to hold back. He couldn’t, not if he wanted to get Tommy back in his life in any kind of capacity.

“So…look. I don’t get it. Yes, you are the first man I’ve dated, but it’s not like I’ve never been in a relationship before. Yes, having sex with a man, being in love with a man, was all new to me, but being in a relationship was not. You wouldn’t have been the first partner I lived with. You were, however, the first one I saw a real future with.”

The drunker version of him had imagined a much different outcome, but the ‘hey, you’re not my first boyfriend, let’s get back together’ plan wouldn’t have worked in the long run anyway. They needed to talk it out and get to the bottom of their concerns.

“And you know what? I still want it. I still want you. I have dated and fucked and been single and learnt how to be alone again and I still want you. I still want to be with you.”

Buck let out a shuddering breath.

“But I get it. I messed up that morning. You said you wanted to try again and I blew it by saying whatever it was that I said…”

“That you didn’t need to have feelings for me to sleep with me,” Tommy paraphrased.

“Right. Fuck.” It hadn’t been Buck’s greatest moment. “That’s not what I meant, though. I meant, like, what I said before. I’ve done that, casual sex and one-night-stands, because I’m not new to this. To dating. I’ve done that and I don’t want to do it anymore. I want to be with you. Even after all this time, I want to be with you.”

And there it was, his cards all out on the table. Nothing but the truth.

The time it took for Tommy to say anything made Buck ill. Sure, part of it was the hangover, but the wait was just…

“I’m sorry.”

Oh.

Buck was scared he was going to throw up again. He wasn’t sure there was anything in his stomach except for the few sips of his caramel mocha, but the fear was definitely there.

“No, I mean…” Tommy reached out and grabbed Buck’s hand.

It reminded him of their first coffee date, the one where Buck had bought him the worst coffee in the world, but Tommy had been so interested that he’d agreed to be his date for Maddie’s wedding.

The hope also made him feel unwell.

“I’m so…scared of what you could do to me. I don’t think you realise how easy it is to fall in love with you, and how hard it is to get over you, Evan.” When Buck opened his mouth to argue the obvious, Tommy raised his free hand to motion for him to stop. “Please. I know what you’re going to say and you’re wrong, and I hate that you think that way because you are an amazing person and I am tired of knowing that and loving you and not being with you, especially since we have seen how easily everything can be taken away from us.”

Oh.

“So, while I am a little upset about the midnight vomiting, I am glad that you ran into your first boyfriend.”

Oh.

“I want to try again. I want to do what I can to try to be your last.”

-

Evan had been Buck’s first boyfriend.

It would be idiotic to sit around and wait for Evan to contact him.

But Evan was enthusiastic and persistent, so it would be weird if he didn't.

The first week, Tommy kept his phone fully charged at all times, with the ringer turned all the way up. After that, he got tired of pissing himself everytime his phone rang, so he lowered the volume, but kept it charged.

As he approached week three, he was starting to feel a bit pathetic, and worried he wasn't processing things. Waiting around wasn't exactly the same as moving forward.

His captain had already pulled him aside – twice – suggesting maybe it was PTO time. His days off were killing him as it was. He'd been taking on as many extra hours as he possibly could, but his colleagues were running out of dance recitals and doctor's appointments. Plus the legal limit for overtime, which his captain had also pulled him aside for.

”Go home, Kinard.”

”Do I have to? Don't make that face, I'm joking. I'm joking!”

”We both know you're not.”

*

Tommy hated grocery stores more than he hated most things. Nothing good had ever happened at a grocery store. They triggered his anxiety, his PTSD, his vertigo, his body dysmorphia, his everything. But he wasn't about to pay to get his shit delivered. He was a first responder and an adult, he could get his own damn groceries.

His hands shook the entire time, no matter how hard he gripped the cart. He spent ten minutes in the freezer section, staring at everything and nothing.

At home, he unpacked his groceries and checked them against what he'd written on his list. He checked off the items, and put everything away. Afterwards, he got out a notepad, and transferred the items he'd missed to a new list, plus the two items he remembered on the drive home.

There was a cup of yoghurt at the back of his fridge, that was probably out of date. Tommy didn't like yoghurt, but Evan did.

He could toss the yoghurt tomorrow.

*

Tommy cleared the call log on his phone, to get Evan's name off the screen. Looking at his text messages, thumb hovering over the menu, he hesitated. He wanted his name gone, but he didn't want to lose the messages. It had been a month, but Evan's name was still near the top. He didn't text enough people to get it so far down, he'd have to scroll. He'd kept a couple of marketing texts, to knock him down a few spots, but it wasn't enough.

He couldn't do it.

*

The contents of the box grew. He'd pulled on a pair of boxerbriefs, only to discover they weren't his. They went in the box. On a chilly morning, he pulled on his favourite hoodie, only to remember stealing it from Evan, some five months ago. He had to lie down for that one.

As he lay there, staring at the ceiling, willing the tears to stay in his tear ducts, he thought about whether he had left something behind at Evan's place. It would make sense if he had, but he couldn't remember anything specific. Evan had about a thousand chargers, so he never brought one.

Fuck, there was probably a charger in his car as well.

He never brought more than he needed. He was practical like that. Evan would bring an overnight bag, but Tommy usually just put a pair of clean underwear and a toothbrush in his pocket.

The hoodie went in the box.

*

As he entered month two, Tommy took the time to empty out his phone. When it came to file management, Tommy was not good. He had several years worth of photos on his phone, even though he kept telling himself he would do it more frequently. And take less photos.

He emptied out his entire gallery. Everything from the year 2024 went into its own folder, on his external storage. He wanted to mark it ”Evan”, so his future self would know what it was, but he didn't want his name there. It would only deter him from transferring photos more often. Maybe his future self would have the guts to go through them and remove Evan, one by one. Current Tommy couldn't do it.

Current Tommy wasn't moving on. Current Tommy was spending every waking moment regretting what he'd done.

Six months with Evan was enough to forget just how boring and uneventful his life was. How unhappy he was before.

*

Month three was on the horizon and Tommy couldn't breathe. Nothing was happening. Nothing was fucking happening. Evan left behind a sucking void and nothing was coming to fill it. Tommy was going to die alone and miserable.

The box in the hall was full. His phone was empty and silent. The yoghurt cup was still in the back of the fridge. He hadn't killed Lucy or himself.

He was still working as much as he could.

*

He parked in the least convenient spot, furthest away from the entrance. His feet wouldn't move. His brain was screaming at him, telling him how crazy he was being. Stalking his ex at his fucking job.

He took a couple of steps, then took a break to breathe. He couldn't fucking breathe.

”Tommy?”

Hen was across the lot, with what was probably lunch in her hand. ”Hey,” he said.

”What're you doing here?”

”Is Evan in?”

Hen looked at the door, then back to Tommy. ”Yeah, he's in.”

”Could you tell him I'm here? I don't think I can go in.”

He couldn't tell what her face was doing at this distance, but she nodded. ”I'll tell him.”

His hands were shaking again. It felt entirely too fast, when Evan came around the corner, coming from the bay, not the side door.

”Tommy?”

His throat closed up, so he waved instead.

Evan's long legs ate up the pavement, and then he was there. ”Wh-what's up?”

”I'm sorry.”

Evan frowned. ”What for? Are you OK? You don't look … great.”

Tommy laughed, making his nausea kick up a few notches. ”I'm good.”

They just looked at each other for a moment. Evan was wearing the hell out of that uniform. The thigh of his pants looked kind of white. It was lunch time, so maybe he'd been doing something with flour.

”Maybe this was a bad idea,” he muttered.

”What is?” Evan asked.

”Showing up here.”

Evan looked at the firehouse, then back. ”Depends on why you're here.”

”I'm not sure.” Tommy tried to take a deep breath, but his lungs rattled in his chest. Evan just looked at him. Which was fair enough, it was fucking weird showing up, without a plan or a speech or anything. ”I have– I have a box of your stuff.” Evan looked over Tommy's shoulder. ”Not with me, it's at my house. You left some stuff at my place.”

”Oh,” Evan rubbed his neck. ”Probably a charger, right?”

”Four, actually. And some other stuff. Do you want it? Your stuff.”

”Do I want my stuff?” He took a step closer. ”Tommy, I don't … I don't understand.”

Tommy's heart was slowly clawing its way up the back of his throat. He rubbed his face, but it only made everything worse. The tears he was trying to fight, the nausea, the fear, the sweat. He was sweating through his shirt. He wanted to run. He wanted to get in his car and drive, until he hit an ocean.

”What's happening?” Evan asked, voice so gentle Tommy wanted to scream.

He could feel his face smile, like it always fucking did, at the worst possible time. ”I don't know what I'm doing.”

”OK,” Evan nodded, eager to understand. ”Right now, or in a more general sense?”

”I can't fucking breathe with how much I miss you.”

Evan's eyes went a little wide. ”You miss me?”

”I don't know what the fuck I did with my time, before I met you.”

The hope in Evan's eyes dimmed a little, which Tommy couldn't blame him for. He was smiling like a maniac, and made it sound like he enjoyed having a busy schedule, which had nothing to do with Evan.

He felt a tear run down his cheek. He tried to catch it and take a step back at the same time, but Evan grabbed his forearm, making both things impossible.

He didn't know what to do, didn't know what to say, didn't know how to fix things.

Evan's arms closed around him, pulling him tightly to his body, and time stopped.

”I miss you, too,” Evan whispered.

Tommy hugged him like he'd never hugged him before. He didn't think he was ever going to touch Evan again. Maybe a polite hand off, when they exchanged boxes, but not this. Evan's arms tightened in response.

”I got scared. You were so far ahead of me and I didn't know what to do.”

Evan's voice was wet and a little choked, ”I do that. I always go fast.”

”I like that about you.”

Evan turned his face into the crook of Tommy's neck, laughing a little. ”No, you don't.”

”I have, but it's you.” He panted for a moment. ”It's you.”

Tommy had no idea what was happening, and he couldn't see Evan's face. Carefully, he moved back, pulling out.

”No! No, no, where're you going?”

Tommy tapped his thigh, ”Turn over.” Evan turned over with such force, the bed shook with it. Tommy took himself in hand and pushed back inside Evan's body. It was instant. Evan relaxed again.

Now that he had the freedom to do so, he wrapped his long legs around Tommy's waist. Tommy leaned over him, pressing their lower bodies to each other. Braced on his arm, Tommy said, ”Talk to me.”

Evan's eyes went a little glassy. ”You're in me.”

Tommy wiggled his hips to demonstrate. ”Yeah.”

Evan wrapped his arms around Tommy's shoulders, pulling him the rest of the way down. He kissed him with open eyes. ”You're inside of me,” he said with wonder.

It didn't clear anything up. Tommy had no idea what was happening in Evan's head. It seemed to have very little to do with what they were actually, physically doing.

”Can you go deeper?”

The answer was no, Tommy only had so much dick to work with, but he gave it a try. He grabbed Evan's thighs, pushing them up and back. It wouldn't do anything in terms of depth, but it felt different.

Evan sighed, hands finding his own abdomen again. ”Fuck.” He licked his lips. ”We need to do this all the time.”

There was a whole conga line of teasing jokes in Tommy's head, but he didn't want to cheapen what Evan was experiencing. Whatever it was, it wasn't an experience Tommy had had himself. He placed his hand on top of both of Evan's, pushing down lightly. ”How's it feel?”