But then again, you haven’t been laid in months. Maybe longer. You’ve stopped counting because it’s gotten embarrassing—this long, dry stretch of nothing but cold showers and the kind of dreams that leave you waking up flushed and frustrated.

It’s not like you haven’t tried.

You’ve swiped, chatted, even gone out a couple of times, but nothing clicks. No one sticks. It’s hard to get close to anyone when your schedule’s a mess of overnights, 24-hour shifts, and the kind of emotional toll that makes you want to curl up and sleep for a week, not try to impress someone over drinks.

Firefighting doesn’t leave a lot of space for a personal life. And lately, it feels like it’s squeezing the air out of everything else too.

So yeah, maybe you’re frustrated.

Okay—really frustrated.

And maybe Buck’s right there, with his stupidly warm smile and stupidly kind eyes and the kind of body that makes you clench your jaw when he peels off his turnout gear after a call. He’s always been touchy, affectionate. And you’ve always let him. But now… now you’re starting to notice it in a way you didn’t let yourself before.

The way his fingers brush your arm when he passes you something. The way he throws his arm over your shoulders on the couch like it’s nothing. Like you’re his. The way he watches you when he thinks you’re not looking.

You start to push back. Not obviously. Just… testing things.

You lean into him a little longer than you should when you’re sitting next to each other. Let your hand rest on his thigh during movie night at his place. Make jokes that toe the line between teasing and flirting. And every time, Buck meets you right there, just as bold, just as easy.

And still, neither of you says anything.

Because it’s safer not to.

Because if you call it what it is, you might have to do something about it. And doing something about it? That could ruin everything.

But that doesn’t stop you from looking.

It doesn’t stop the ache that curls low in your stomach when he stretches in the morning, shirt riding up to reveal the sharp lines of his abdomen.

It doesn’t stop your imagination from filling in the gaps every time he leans over you, close enough to kiss.

It doesn’t stop the nights you spend alone, needy, sweating, pretending the hand you slide into your pants isn’t yours but his.

One night, after a brutal double shift—fire, accident, fire again—you both crash on his couch, too exhausted to move. You're sore in places you didn't know could be sore. Everything hurts. Your brain is a haze of adrenaline and fatigue, and all you want is to feel good for once. Just for a little while.

The apartment is quiet. It smells like laundry and cheap takeout. Buck’s beside you, half asleep, chest rising and falling slow and steady. You watch him for a minute, and something inside you just… breaks.

“I'm so tired of feeling like this,” you mutter.

Buck shifts, head turning toward you. “Like what?”

“I don’t know empty?” You exhale. “Frustrated. Lonely. Like I can’t remember the last time someone touched me and meant it,”

His brow furrows, sleepy and soft. “You’re not alone. You’ve got me,”

You sigh. “That’s not what I meant, Buck,”

The silence stretches between you, heavy and tense.

Then Buck says, quietly, “I know what you meant,”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

He sits up a little, eyes meeting yours in the dim light. “If you just want to feel good for a while… I’m right here,”

You laugh, but it sounds more like a gasp. “Buck—”

“What?” he says. “It doesn’t have to mean anything,”

You want to say no. You want to say this is a terrible idea. You want to be the responsible one. But your body is screaming yes, and your heart is a knot of feelings you don’t even know how to begin unraveling.

So instead, you lean forward and kiss him.

And he kisses you back like he’s been waiting forever.

It’s not tentative, not soft. It’s hungry. Desperate. Like he needs you as badly as you need him. His hands find your waist, your back, your face. You pull him closer, drag him down on top of you, and when he groans into your mouth, you nearly lose your mind.

Clothes come off in a blur. Skin on skin, finally. You touch and gasp and ache and cling. It’s not perfect—nothing about this ever is—but it’s real, and it’s hot, and it’s him. And that’s enough.

More than enough.

You ride the high together, breathless and sweaty and tangled in his sheets, until you’re both shaking, laughing softly, limbs entwined.

Afterward, you lie there, heart still thudding, trying to catch your breath. Buck’s arm is around you, holding you like you’re something precious, like this is more than what you said it was.

“One night,” you murmur.

“Right,” he echoes.

But neither of you moves.

—

The next morning, you both pretend like nothing’s changed.

You get dressed. You joke about your hair. You make coffee. You leave. He lets you.

But something has changed. It’s in the way he looks at you now. In the way your hand hovers at his arm like you’re afraid to touch him again. In the silence between your words.

You don’t talk about it.

You both try to keep things normal. You work your shifts, eat your meals, shoot the shit in the truck like always. But every time he looks at you, you remember the way he touched you. Every time he laughs, you remember how he sounded when he came.

It doesn’t go away.

And the thing is—it wasn’t just one night.

It wasn’t meaningless.

Because it happens again. And again. Always under the same pretense: stress relief, release, just two friends helping each other out. A favour. A habit.

But each time, it’s harder to pretend you don’t care. That you don’t feel safe in his arms. That your heart doesn’t leap when he pulls you close afterward and murmurs your name like it means something.

You don’t know when the lie stopped being a lie. Maybe it never was. Maybe you were both just too scared to admit what you wanted.

One night, after the third time in two weeks, you’re lying together in that familiar hush, his arm over your chest, your fingers brushing his.

“Does this feel like just sex to you?” you ask quietly.

Buck doesn’t answer right away. Then, softly, “No.”

You turn your head. “Then why are we pretending it is?”

He exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling. “Because if it’s not… then, its something else,”

You nod. You understand that better than anyone.

But still.

“I don’t want to keep pretending,”

He looks at you then. His eyes are soft and full of something you’ve tried not to name.

“I think I’ve been in love with you for a while,” he says.

Your heart stumbles. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“Can you blame a guy for not wanting to risk it?”

You laugh—light, disbelieving. “You idiot,”

His grin is sheepish. “Yeah. Kinda,”

You reach for him, and this time, it’s not about sex. It’s not about frustration or loneliness or stress. It’s about him. About you. About everything you’ve both been too scared to say.

You kiss him like you mean it.

Buck strides in through the automatic doors like he always does, his movements easy despite the long months of healing. It’s become routine now: he pushes through the entrance, shakes the cold out of his limbs, and heads straight to your desk.

And, like always, he smiles when he sees you.

“Hey, you,” Buck greets, his voice warm, familiar. “Here to check in for my thrilling, edge-of-your-seat appointment about blood thinners and mobility. Try not to get jealous,”

You huff a quiet laugh, already reaching for the clipboard with his paperwork. “Jealous? Please. I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat. Nothing sounds more exciting than a late-night consult about circulation,”

Buck grins, leaning on the counter just slightly, enough to close the distance between you. “Careful, if you keep talking like that, I might have to switch careers and become a receptionist just so we can keep having these riveting conversations,”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. It’s always like this. A little teasing, a little flirting, nothing serious, nothing you let yourself dwell on for too long. He’s a patient, after all, and you’re just the receptionist who happens to be here when his appointments are scheduled.

Still, that doesn’t stop the familiar flicker of warmth in your chest every time he walks in.

“Full name?” you ask, as if you don’t already know it.

“Buck,” he says easily. Then, after a beat, “Evan Buckley. But I feel like we’ve moved past formalities at this point,”

You give him a knowing look, pen poised over the paper. “Date of birth?”

“Uh, still the same as last time,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching. “But, you know, if you just wanted an excuse to keep me here longer, you could’ve said so,”

You shake your head, suppressing a laugh, and fill in the necessary information. It’s ridiculous, really, the way these moments with him have become the highlight of your shift.

How even in the middle of the night, in a job that often feels thankless and exhausting, Buck makes it feel like something else—like something you might actually look forward to.

“Alright, you’re checked in,” you say, setting the clipboard aside. “Your doc should be ready for you soon,”

“Mm-hmm,” Buck doesn’t move. Instead, he rests his forearms against the counter, tilting his head. “You working the whole night?”

You nod. “Lucky me,”

“Yeah, lucky me too,” he says, and you don’t miss the softness in his voice.

Something about the moment lingers, stretches just a little too long. You should break it, should tell him to take a seat, should move on like you do with every other patient who walks in. But Buck isn’t like every other patient.

He’s the one who always stays a little longer, the one who makes the minutes pass faster, the one who makes you wish you weren’t just the receptionist and he wasn’t just a name on a chart.

Still, you clear your throat and gesture toward the chairs. “Go sit before you get me in trouble, Buckley,”

He grins like he’s won something. “See you in a bit, then?”

You shake your head, but you don’t say no.

—

Time moves differently when Buck is in the waiting room.

Most patients keep to themselves, absorbed in their phones, their paperwork, their own exhaustion. But Buck? Buck talks. To you, to the nurses passing through, to the janitor refilling the sanitiser dispensers.

He makes it feel less like a hospital and more like some casual gathering spot where he just happens to be waiting for medical clearance.

Tonight, though, the waiting room is mostly empty, and that means his attention is solely on you.

“So, be honest,” he says, drumming his fingers against the plastic chair beneath him. “How miserable is this job?”

You raise a brow. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, come on,” he says, gesturing around. “Night shifts at a hospital? I’m guessing it’s not exactly your dream gig,”

You exhale a small laugh. “It’s… not the worst. Some nights are busier than others. And there’s good people here,”

Buck nods, considering. “And what would be the dream gig?”

You hesitate. It’s been a long time since someone asked you that, and even longer since you thought about it seriously.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Something a little less… predictable, maybe. Something where I don’t feel like I live at this desk,”

“Ah, see, that’s where I have you beat,” Buck says, tapping the counter. “My job’s never predictable. One day I’m pulling cats out of trees, the next I’m getting crushed by a fire truck,”

Your stomach twists at that, at the way he says it so casually. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, that he’s not just this charming guy who walks in every couple of days to make your shift more interesting. He’s a firefighter—someone who runs into danger when everyone else is running away. Someone who almost didn’t make it out.

Your expression must shift, because his teasing demeanour softens. “Hey,” he says, quieter. “Sorry. That was a bad joke,”

You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s—“ You hesitate, then sigh. “It’s just… I can’t imagine what that was like. Going through all of that,”

Buck exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. It was… a lot. But I got lucky. I had my team, and Maddie, and…” He glances at you, something unreadable in his expression. “And, well, I had these late-night check-ins to look forward to,”

Your breath catches, but before you can respond, the nurse at the station calls his name.

Buck pushes off the counter, flashing you one last smile. “Guess I’m up. Don’t go anywhere, alright?”

“As if I have a choice,” you say, but there’s no bite to it.

As Buck walks away, you find yourself staring after him longer than you should.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. That it can’t.

But the way your heart is still racing says otherwise.

—

It starts to feel like clockwork.

Once a week, Buck strolls into the hospital, flashing that familiar smile, dropping himself onto the counter like he belongs there. And every time, you tell yourself you won’t indulge him for long. That you’ll check him in, maybe exchange a few pleasantries, and send him off like you do with every other patient.

But that’s not how it goes.

Because Buck lingers. He always lingers.

“You look exhausted,” he says one night, tipping his head toward you as he rests his arms against the counter.

You let out a soft, tired laugh, reaching for his paperwork. “Gee, thanks. That’s exactly what every overworked hospital employee wants to hear,”

“I just mean you deserve, like, a solid twelve-hour nap,” he says, unbothered by your sarcasm. “Preferably somewhere that isn't under these awful fluorescent lights,”

“You offering me PTO, Buckley?”

“Better. I’m offering a fully catered dream vacation,” he says, grinning. “All-inclusive, five-star resort, sandy beaches, tiny umbrellas in drinks. Only catch is, I can’t actually pay for any of it, so we’d have to get really creative with financing,”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “How generous of you,”

“Well, I like to give back,” He nudges a wrapped granola bar across the counter toward you. “Speaking of, thought you might need this. You’re always here so late, I figure they don’t exactly give you a five-course meal break,”

You blink down at the granola bar, something warm settling in your chest. It’s such a small thing, a nothing thing, but still—you’re not used to patients bringing you snacks.

You should tell him it’s unnecessary. That you can’t accept gifts from patients. That this is just a professional relationship, nothing more.

Instead, you pick up the granola bar, turning it over in your fingers. “Are you bribing me,”

“Would it work?”

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Go sit down before you start trying to convince me to split a timeshare,”

He holds his hands up in surrender, but as he walks away, you catch him glancing over his shoulder, like he’s reluctant to step too far.

And you tell yourself not to think about what that might mean.

—

The problem with Buck—other than the fact that he’s a patient, other than the fact that you absolutely should not be entertaining any kind of feelings for him—is that he makes it so damn easy to like him.

It’s not just the flirting, the easy confidence, the way he somehow makes hospital visits seem like casual drop-ins at a coffee shop. It’s the way he remembers things. The way he listens.

One night, it’s slow—so slow that you’ve resorted to scrolling mindlessly through your phone when Buck walks in. He stops in front of your desk, crossing his arms.

“So?” he says expectantly.

You glance up. “So… what?”

“Bartender school,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Did you ever look into it?”

It takes you a second, your brain trying to catch up. Then you remember—a few check-ins ago, in some offhanded late-night conversation, you’d mentioned that you once considered becoming a bartender instead of working hospital reception. That it seemed fun, social, maybe a little unpredictable in the right ways.

You’d barely thought about it since. But Buck had.

You blink at him. “You remembered that?”

“Yeah?” His brows pull together, like it’s obvious. “You sounded like you actually wanted to do it. Figured I’d check in. Y’know, since I’m a regular here and all,”

You stare at him for a second longer than you should, heart stuttering in your chest. Because no one else would’ve remembered something like that—not your coworkers, not the patients who barely glance at you while they sign their paperwork. But Buck does.

And it’s unfair, really, how easily he gets under your skin.

“I haven’t looked into it,” you admit, shaking your head as you turn your attention back to the check-in process. “But if I ever need a backup career, I’ll keep it in mind,”

Buck hums. “I can see it. You, behind the bar, serving up fancy cocktails, listening to people vent about their problems,”

“That’s not too different from this job,” you joke.

“Except way better tips,” he points out, grinning.

You huff a quiet laugh. “True. Maybe I should quit while I’m ahead,”

His smile falters just slightly, like the idea of you not being here, not being the person sitting behind the counter when he walks in, doesn’t sit right with him.

But then he clears his throat, straightening. “Well, before you go quitting, at least make sure I’m fully cleared for duty again. I’d hate to come back and not see you here,”

Your stomach flips, and you have to force yourself to keep your expression neutral.

It’s nothing.

It has to be nothing.

Still, as you watch him walk toward the waiting area, you can’t help but wish, just for a second, that things were different.

—

The almosts start piling up.

The almost-touch when he slides his paperwork across the counter, his fingers brushing yours.

The almost-invitation when he jokes about needing a celebratory drink once his check-ups are over.

The almost-confession when he hesitates at the door some nights, like he wants to say something, like he’s working up the courage to cross a line neither of you have acknowledged.

But nothing ever happens. Because he’s a patient, and you’re a receptionist, and it wouldn’t be professional.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

—

It starts like any other night.

The waiting room is quiet, the clock ticking steadily toward another late shift, and you’re at your usual spot behind the reception desk, organizing paperwork that doesn’t really need organizing.

And then Buck walks in.

Only this time, he’s not alone.

The automatic doors slide open to reveal a whole group of people trailing in behind him—his team, you realize in an instant. The 118.

You recognise a few of them from the times they’ve come in for minor injuries. There’s Hen, steady and amused, arms crossed as she surveys the room. Chimney, who looks like he’s already in the middle of cracking a joke. Eddie, standing close to Buck, watching him with a knowing smirk. And Maddie—Buck’s sister, who you’ve seen in passing and who has the exact same warm, bright-eyed energy as her brother.

The quiet of the waiting room is shattered immediately.

“Damn, Buck, you weren’t lying,” Chimney says, elbowing him in the ribs as his eyes land on you. “She is cute,”

Your stomach flips, your fingers tightening around the clipboard in your hands. You barely have a second to react before Buck lets out a strangled sound and shoves Chimney away, his ears turning bright red.

“Jesus, Chim, could you not—”

“What? It’s a compliment!” Chimney grins at you, completely unbothered. “You know, Buck talks about you all the time,”

Buck groans. “Oh my god.”

Hen raises an eyebrow, glancing between you and Buck. “Yeah, we’ve been hearing about the ‘cute receptionist’ for months,”

Your cheeks heat instantly.

You risk a glance at Buck, who looks both horrified and like he’s actively considering sprinting out of the hospital.

Eddie, standing beside him, just smirks. “You gonna pretend you don’t have a thing for her, or—”

“I—” Buck splutters, then turns to you, looking like he might actually melt into the floor. “I swear, they’re not usually like this,”

You press your lips together, trying—and failing—to hide your smile. “Somehow, I doubt that,”

The team erupts into laughter, and Buck groans, rubbing a hand down his face.

Maddie, standing at his other side, just tilts her head knowingly. “So, are you gonna ask for her number?”

Your stomach flips again.

The room goes still, the teasing energy of the team turning into something heavier, something expectant.

Your eyes meet Buck’s, and for the first time, there’s no playful flirting, no easy banter. Just him, looking at you like he’s on the edge of something, like he’s been waiting for the right moment.

Buck swallows hard, suddenly looking flustered in a way you’ve never seen before. He rubs the back of his neck, shifting his weight. “Uh, so…” He lets out a breath, glancing down before meeting your eyes again. “I guess this means I won’t be seeing you around anymore,”

You try not to think about the sudden weight in your chest. About how, for months, his visits have been a constant in your routine—something you’ve looked forward to.

You nod, forcing a small smile. “Guess not,”

He hesitates. The team is watching, waiting.

Then, all at once, he blurts out, “Unless… you wanted to exchange numbers?”

The room erupts.

Hen whistles. Chimney claps Buck on the back so hard he almost stumbles forward. Maddie just grins, looking both exasperated and victorious.

Your heart stutters.

You should say no.

You should remind yourself—again—that he’s a patient, that this is unprofessional, that you’ve spent weeks convincing yourself nothing could happen.

But none of those thoughts stop you from picking up a pen, from scribbling your number onto the edge of a notepad, from tearing the paper off and holding it out to him, before promptly pulling it back to your chest when he attempts to take it.

“You can have it when you’re not a patient here anymore,” you say lightly.

Buck stares at the paper like you’ve just handed him the key to something priceless.

Then, slowly, a grin spreads across his face, bright and wide, and he nods steadily. “Is the doctor free now? I can be in and out in five,”

You laugh.

—

As Buck walks out of the hospital, still beaming, Chimney slaps him hard on the back. “Took you long enough,”

Buck lets out a laugh, shaking his head. “Jesus, are you guys ever gonna let this go?”

“Nope,” Hen says, grinning as she falls into step beside him. “Not a chance,”

Maddie just shakes her head, a knowing smile on her face. “Honestly, I’m just relieved. I was starting to think you were actually gonna let this slip away,”

“I wasn’t—” Buck starts, then sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, fine. Maybe I needed a little push,”

Eddie smirks. “A little?”

Buck groans, but he’s still smiling, still feeling the piece of paper in his pocket like a reassurance. Like proof that this isn’t just some passing thing, that it’s the start of something real.

And inside the hospital, behind the reception desk you’ve occupied for so many late nights, you watch him go, heart still beating faster than it should.

And then you got the call. The one you’d been waiting for.

The 118 had an opening, and they wanted you.

You worked your ass off to get here. The training, the certifications, the grueling hours. You deserved this. You earned it. And nothing—not even your little side gig—was going to get in the way.

Or so you thought.

Day one at the 118 is nerve-wracking, but you keep your cool. You walk in with confidence, shaking hands, introducing yourself to the team. They all seem great—kind, welcoming, like the family you hoped to find here. Bobby Nash, the Captain, offers you a warm smile. Eddie, all serious but friendly enough. Chimney, cracking a joke within seconds of meeting you.

And then there’s Evan Buckley.

Buck, as he introduces himself, is standing a few feet away, his eyes scanning you like he’s trying to place you. You extend a hand. “Hey, nice to meet you,”

The moment you speak, his entire body goes rigid. His blue eyes widen, his mouth opens, then closes, then opens again like he’s trying to find words but they’ve all escaped him. And then, like a switch has been flipped, his face goes bright red.

Like, rivalling the fire-engines red.

Buck is a man who likes to enjoy himself—who can blame him? He works a dangerous job, sees things most people would rather pretend don't exist. So when he gets home, when he's alone in his bed, he indulges.

And god, has he indulged in you.

Or at least, the version of you he's seen on a screen. The one who teases and whispers, who lets out soft, breathy moans that have gotten him through more nights than he’d like to admit.

But none of that prepared him for this. For you standing in front of him in broad daylight, in full gear, looking so much better than his imagination ever managed.

You pause, confused. His grip on your hand is firm, almost too tight, and when you glance down, you can see his knuckles turning white.

“Buck, you good?” Chimney nudges him with an elbow, snapping him out of it.

Buck blinks rapidly, clearing his throat as he drops your hand like it burned him. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m good. Great. Fine,” His voice cracks on the last word, and you swear you see Chimney smirk.

“You sure? You’re looking a little…” Eddie gestures vaguely to Buck’s entire existence right now.

“I’m fine,” Buck insists, before turning his attention back to you. “So, uh. You’re the new recruit?”

“That’s me,” you say, still smiling. “Looking forward to working with you, Buck,”

He makes a sound. It’s almost a word, but mostly just a strangled noise.

“Cool. Cool, yeah. Same,”

Bobby starts introductions, and Buck tries—really tries—to focus. But every time you speak, his eyes flick to your lips, then away just as fast.

He is so screwed.

You arch a brow but don’t press. Maybe he’s just awkward. Maybe he’s nervous about new recruits. You don’t know him well enough to tell, so you move on, shaking Eddie’s hand next, then the others.

But even as the introductions wrap up, you can feel Buck’s eyes on you, burning into your skin like he’s just had a revelation of biblical proportions.

It doesn’t hit you until later.

Not until you’re in the locker room, shoving your gear into your assigned space, when you remember something—a very specific string of comments on one of your recent videos.

God, you sound so good.

Your voice is insane.

Do you take requests?

And the username attached to it?

BucksWild89.

Your stomach drops.

Oh. Oh no.

You spin around, catching a glimpse of Buck through the open doorway. He’s standing in the kitchen, gripping a bottle of water so tightly you think it might shatter in his hands. His eyes dart to you, and when he sees you looking, he immediately looks away, ears still red.

Shit.

He knows.

The realisation settles over you like a weighted blanket, suffocating and oddly exhilarating at the same time. You should be mortified. You are mortified. But there’s also a tiny, traitorous part of you that finds this hilarious.

Evan Buckley, firefighter, hero, and apparently one of your most devoted subscribers, is currently having an existential crisis in the middle of the firehouse because he just put two and two together.

And now you have to work with him.

—

For the next few weeks, Buck does his absolute best to avoid you.

It does not work.

Not when you’re both part of the same team, constantly thrown together in high-stress situations. Not when you’re running drills side by side, when you're jammed into the firetruck together, when you’re passing each other in the kitchen at the station.

And definitely not when you start leaning into it.

Nothing obvious—nothing anyone else would notice. Just little things. A brush of fingers when you hand him something. A knowing look when you catch him staring. Lowering your voice just a little when you talk to him, just enough to remind him exactly where he’s heard it before.

It’s driving him insane.

He tells himself to just act normal. To pretend he doesn’t know what you sound like when you’re gasping out his name (well, not his name, but a name). To not think about the way your body looked stretched out in those videos.

It does not go well.

Especially not tonight.

He’s in the locker room, leaning against the metal doors, taking slow, deep breaths. Trying to will away the flush on his face.

“Hey, Buck,”

He groans. “Oh, come on.”

You laugh, stepping inside and letting the door shut behind you. “What? Something wrong?”

He gives you a look. “You know what’s wrong,”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do I?”

“You—” He cuts himself off, rubbing a hand down his face. “You have to stop messing with me,”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

He drops his hand, looking at you like you’re the single most frustrating person he’s ever met. Which, fair.

“Because every time you talk, I hear it,” he mutters, voice strained.

You step closer. “Hear what?”

His jaw clenches. His eyes flick to your lips. “You know what.”

Your smile curves slow and wicked. “Oh Buck,” you murmur, voice dropping into that soft, breathy tone he knows too well, leaning in just enough that he can feel the heat of you. “Am I distracting you?”

He makes another one of those strangled noises. You love it.

“I hate you,” he mutters.

You grin. “No, you don’t,”

He swallows hard. “You can’t tell anyone,”

You place a hand on his chest, right over his racing heart. “I won’t,”

His hand catches yours before you can pull away.

There’s a beat of silence. A shift.

The teasing fades, just a little. Enough for something else to slip in.

Something that makes the air go thick between you.

“…What now?” Buck asks, voice rough.

You look at him. Really look at him.

“Depends,” you say softly.

“On?”

You let your fingers trail up, just a little. Over his collarbone. To the side of his neck. You feel the way he shivers.

“How committed you are,” you murmur.

His hand tightens around yours.

And oh.

You're not sure when it started. Maybe the moment you first met him, all smug grin and reckless arrogance, like the universe had birthed him just to piss you off.

Or maybe it was that time on a call when he pulled you away from a collapsing structure before you even realised the danger, holding onto you like you were something fragile—like you needed saving.

You don’t.

But he treats you like you do.

And you treat him like he’s nothing but an impulsive idiot with more bravado than brains.

“Try to keep up, Buckley,” you sneer as you race toward the firetruck, both of you scrambling into your gear as the alarm blares through the station.

“Funny,” he shoots back, tugging on his jacket. “I was just about to say the same to you,”

It’s always like this. Always sharp edges, always bruises beneath your words.

And yet, somehow, neither of you step away.

—

The call is brutal. An apartment fire, flames licking the sky, smoke thick in the air. You push forward with your hose, moving fast, clearing rooms, ensuring no one’s trapped. The heat is suffocating, sweat slicking your skin beneath your gear.

“We’ve got movement in the next room!” Buck's voice crackles through the radio.

You move without hesitation, kicking down the door just as he does the same from the opposite end. There’s a child in the corner, coughing, barely conscious.

“I’ve got her,” you say, but Buck is already moving.

“No, I’ve got her.”

You glare at him, but there’s no time for an argument. Instead, you both work together, lifting the child carefully, guiding her out. The moment you’re clear, the ceiling gives way behind you, flames swallowing the space where you stood.

For a brief second, you both just breathe.

Then you round on him. “I told you I had her.”

Buck steps closer, too close. His face is still streaked with soot, blue eyes burning. “And what if the ceiling had collapsed sooner? You ever think about that, or are you too busy trying to prove something?”

Your hands clench into fists. “I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

His lips curl into something infuriating. “Could’ve fooled me,”

Before you can stop yourself, you shove him. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to release some of the fire in your veins. But Buck? He just laughs.

That only makes it worse.

“God, you are such an asshole.”

“And yet, you keep coming back for more,” he taunts, voice low.

You don’t realize how close you are until you feel his breath against your skin, heat radiating between you that has nothing to do with the fire. For a second, neither of you move. Neither of you look away.

Then Bobby calls your names, and the moment shatters like glass.

You step back. So does he.

Nothing happened.

Nothing except everything.

—

Days pass, and the tension only builds. Every interaction is sharper, every touch—accidental or not—lingers just a second too long. You know it’s dangerous, this thing between you, whatever it is.

But that doesn’t stop you from provoking him.

And it sure as hell doesn’t stop him from pushing right back.

The breaking point comes on a night shift. The station is quiet, the others asleep. You should be, too, but instead, you’re standing in the dimly lit kitchen, nursing a bottle of water like it’s something stronger.

Then Buck walks in.

You don’t look at him, but you feel him.

“You ever get tired of pretending?” His voice is rough, although softer than usual.

Your grip tightens around the bottle. “Pretending what?”

“That you don’t feel it,”

The words steal your breath.

Because of course you feel it. You feel it every damn second.

Still, you scoff. “You’re delusional,”

He exhales sharply, stepping closer, close enough that your arms brush. “Am I?”

Your pulse pounds. You should walk away. You should.

Instead, you turn to face him, eyes locking onto his. “Yeah,” you whisper. “You are,”

And then you shove him.

Hard.

He stumbles back, but the smirk on his lips only grows. “You really wanna do this?”

“Do what?” you taunt, stepping forward again. “Kick your ass? Always,”

His laughter is low, dangerous. “Sure that’s all you wanna do?”

Before you can answer—before you can even think—he reaches for you. Not rough, but firm, gripping your wrist and tugging you flush against him. You gasp, more in shock than anything else.

“Let me go,” you grit out, though you make no move to pull away.

“Make me,”

Your heart slams against your ribs.

There’s a moment of pure, charged silence.

Then you do something reckless.

You surge forward and kiss him.

It’s not sweet. It’s not slow. It’s a collision—teeth and heat and hands grasping at fabric. His grip tightens on your wrist before sliding to your waist, pulling you even closer. You fist your hands in his shirt, tugging, biting at his lip just to make him groan.

And god, that sound.

You barely register when he pushes you back against the counter, when his hands roam, when yours do the same. It’s fire and fury, the same way you fight, the same way you’ve always been.

It’s addicting.

Then, as suddenly as it started, you both break apart, gasping.

You stare at each other, chests rising and falling in sync.

“That was—“ Buck starts, but you cut him off.

“Shut up.”

And then you pull him in again.

Because, really, this was inevitable.

You’ve spent so long fighting each other.

“Finally home,” he murmurs, his voice rough from hours of shouting over sirens and inhaling ash.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you let your gear bag drop from your shoulder with a heavy thump, wincing as your stiff muscles protest the sudden movement.

Lifting your arms to stretch, you feel the pull in your shoulders and the deep-seated tension in your lower back.

Buck watches you with quiet amusement, his eyes soft despite the exhaustion weighing him down. Then, as if drawn to you by some invisible force, he steps forward and wraps his arms around your waist from behind.

His embrace is warm, grounding, the heat of his body radiating through the fabric of your sweat-dampened shirt.

He presses a kiss to the curve of your neck, the scratch of his stubble sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. “You okay?” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

You exhale, leaning into him. “Yeah. Just—long day,”

“I know,” he says, tightening his hold on you for a moment before loosening it just enough to guide you forward. “Come on. Let’s wash this day off,”

You let him take your hand and lead you down the dimly lit hallway, past the framed photos on the walls, past the warmth of the living room where the couch seems to beckon you to collapse into it. But the shower is calling louder.

Buck steps into the bathroom first, reaching out to turn on the shower. The pipes groan in protest before the water sputters to life, quickly filling the small space with a comforting warmth.

The steam rises, curling around the edges of the glass door, and you already feel lighter just knowing that soon the grime and stress of the day will be washed away.

You move sluggishly, exhaustion making your limbs heavy as you pull your sweat-sticky shirt over your head. It clings stubbornly to your skin, and you grunt in frustration.

Buck turns at the sound, his gaze dropping to your struggle. Without a word, he steps forward, gently grasping the hem of your shirt and peeling it off for you.

His touch is careful, his fingers brushing against your ribs as he lifts the fabric over your head. When you’re free of it, he tosses it aside, his hands lingering at your waist. His thumbs skim over your skin in slow, absentminded strokes, his eyes scanning your face.

“You look dead on your feet,” he murmurs.

“Feel like it, too,” you admit, giving him a tired smile.

He huffs out a soft chuckle before dropping to his knees to help you out of your pants. The gesture is intimate but not rushed, just another part of your shared routine after grueling shifts.

He tugs your pants down with gentle hands, his fingertips grazing the sensitive skin of your thighs as he guides them down. You step out of them, and as he rises back up, he presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

When both of you are stripped bare, he laces his fingers through yours and pulls you into the shower.

The first touch of hot water against your skin makes you sigh in relief, your body instinctively relaxing as the warmth seeps into your muscles.

Buck moves behind you, his large hands settling on your hips before sliding up to your shoulders, kneading gently. “You’re so tense,” he murmurs, thumbs working circles into the knots in your muscles.

You hum in agreement, letting your head drop forward slightly, allowing him better access. His touch is firm yet soothing, his fingers finding each tight spot and easing the tension away with practiced precision.

Then, without a word, he reaches for the shampoo.

“Turn around,” he says softly, and you obey, facing him as he lathers the shampoo between his hands. The scent of eucalyptus fills the air as his fingers weave into your hair, massaging your scalp with slow, deliberate movements.

Your eyes flutter shut at the sensation, a contented sigh escaping your lips. “That feels amazing,”

“Good,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the steady stream of water. “You deserve it,”

He takes his time, his fingers working through the strands of your hair, making sure to wash away every trace of sweat, soot, and fatigue. When he tilts your head back under the spray to rinse out the suds, his hands cradle the back of your neck, holding you steady as the warm water cascades down your skin.

You return the favor, lathering body wash between your palms before running your hands over his broad shoulders, across his chest, down his arms. His muscles are taut beneath your fingertips, his body familiar in a way that makes your heart ache with love.

By the time you’re both fully rinsed, the water has started to cool. Buck turns it off before stepping out first, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around you before drying himself off. He doesn’t rush—everything about tonight is slow, intentional, meant to be savored.

The two of you move seamlessly through the next part of your routine, making your way to the sink where your collection of skincare products waits.

Buck had never been into skincare before meeting you. At first, he’d only joined in for fun, teasingly smearing cleanser onto his face while making exaggerated expressions in the mirror.

But over time, he’d grown to enjoy it, relishing in the small, grounding ritual of taking care of himself after the chaos of the job.

You hand him his designated cleanser, watching as he carefully dispenses the right amount onto his palm before rubbing it into his skin. His expression is comically serious as he stares at his reflection, making sure to get every inch.

You stifle a laugh. “You always look like you’re solving a mystery when you do this,”

“This is serious business,” he replies, rinsing off the cleanser with methodical precision. “Gotta keep my skin as flawless as yours,”

Shaking your head fondly, you finish your own routine before turning to him with a small dollop of moisturizer on your fingertips. “Here, let me,”

He leans in without hesitation, letting you smooth the cream over his face. Your fingers trace the curve of his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, the line of his jaw.

His skin is warm, soft beneath your touch, and when you finish, he doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice laced with affection.

“Anytime,”

Once the final touches of your routine are complete, you both make your way to bed, the exhaustion settling in fully now that the weight of the day has been washed away.

The mattress is cool and inviting as you slip beneath the covers, and the moment you do, Buck pulls you close, his arms wrapping securely around you.

His body is warm against yours, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek as you rest your head against his chest.

“Long day,” he mutters sleepily, his lips pressing a drowsy kiss to your forehead.

You hum in agreement, nuzzling closer. “But at least we’re home now,”

Albert, Buck’s charmingly oblivious roommate, who seems to have an uncanny knack for being everywhere at once. If you’d known Buck had offered his couch to Albert after he’d hit a rough patch, maybe you would’ve suggested finding a different arrangement. But you didn’t. And now Albert is inescapable.

You’re not proud of it, but you’ve started to dread the sight of Albert’s car in the driveway when you pull up to Buck’s place. Because where Albert is, privacy isn’t.

The first week isn’t too bad. You still manage to find your moments—brief, stolen ones that usually end with you shoving a hand over Buck’s mouth to muffle his laughter. He thinks it’s hilarious, sneaking around his own house like you’re in some kind of spy movie.

“Albert’s not your parole officer,” he whispers once, trailing kisses down your neck. You’re both pressed against the door of his laundry room, listening intently for any sign of movement outside.

“Tell that to him,” you hiss back. “I swear, the guy’s got a sixth sense. He always shows up at the worst possible time,”

As if on cue, you hear Albert’s voice from somewhere down the hall. “Hey, Buck! You seen my phone charger?”

You barely have time to scramble apart before the door creaks open. Albert’s head pokes through, his eyes narrowing in confusion at the sight of you both standing there like guilty teenagers.

“What are you guys doing?” he asks, his gaze bouncing between you and Buck.

“Laundry,” you blurt out.

Buck nods vigorously. “Yup. Laundry,”

Albert frowns, but thankfully doesn’t ask any follow-up questions. Buck points him in the direction of his charger and Albert leaves, muttering something under his breath about “weird energy.”

You let out a sigh of relief the second he’s gone. Buck, of course, just laughs.

—

By week two, you’re starting to feel the strain. Albert, for all his good intentions, doesn’t seem to understand the concept of personal space.

He’s always around—plopping onto the couch during movie nights, barging into Buck’s room without knocking, or “accidentally” eating the snacks you brought over.

“Does he ever leave?” you whisper one night as you and Buck huddle in the tiny bathroom, desperate for some alone time.

“He works,” Buck says defensively, though even he doesn’t sound convinced.

“Does he, though?” You gesture vaguely. “Because I’m starting to think he’s just here to ruin my sex life,”

Buck snorts, pulling you closer. “C’mon. He’s not that bad,”

You raise an eyebrow. “This from the guy who almost got caught making out with me in the kitchen last night?”

He grins, unrepentant. “What can I say? The thrill keeps it interesting,”

—

The next evening, you found yourself back at Buck’s apartment. Albert had miraculously not been home when you arrived, and it seemed like this time, you’d finally have the place to yourselves. You and Buck had been scheming all week about tonight—how you could finally get some uninterrupted time together.

Buck had just opened a bottle of wine, pouring it into glasses, when you heard the telltale sound of Albert’s bike coming up the street. You both froze. You glanced at the door, then at Buck. His face was a mixture of dread and exasperation.

“Are you kidding me?” you whispered, dropping your shoulders in defeat.

Buck held up his hands in an exaggerated gesture. “I don’t know, man! I really don’t know!”

The door swung open, and Albert entered, this time carrying a strange plant that you had never seen before.

“Hey, I bought this,” Albert said, grinning from ear to ear. “You guys like plants, right?”

You stared at him, slack-jawed for a second, before replying, “Uh, sure, Albert. Looks… interesting?”

“I think it’s called a ‘cat’s whisker’ or something,” Albert said, holding it up for your inspection. “Do you think it needs direct sunlight?”

Buck, looking completely defeated, gestured to the couch. “Just put it on the coffee table or something, Albert,”

Albert set the plant down and then promptly flopped onto the couch. “You guys gonna watch something? I’m kinda in the mood for a movie night,”

You and Buck exchanged an alarmed glance. This was not how you had envisioned the evening. You tried to subtly steer the conversation in a direction that would get Albert to leave, but he was relentless.

“I was thinking of watching something weird,” Albert continued, oblivious to the awkwardness in the room. “I have this documentary about deep-sea fish. You guys into that?”

You and Buck both stiffened. You could feel the heat between you two, the unspoken desire still lingering, but Albert was firmly planted between you and any chance of satisfaction.

Buck cleared his throat, attempting to put an end to the conversation. “Yeah, Albert, that sounds great, but we kinda—uh—have plans?”

Albert’s face dropped. “Oh… okay. Well, I guess I’ll just go back to my room then,”

As Albert shuffled off, you turned to Buck, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “How do you put up with this?”

Buck groaned. “I have no idea, but it’s like trying to have a date night with a permanent third wheel,”

—

Next time, you think you’re in the clear. It’s late, and Albert is supposedly working an overnight shift. Buck has you pressed against the kitchen counter, his lips trailing along your neck.

“This is better,” you whisper, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his jeans.

He grins against your skin. “Told you we’d get our alone time,”

It’s perfect—until the kitchen light flicks on.

“Forgot my keys!”

You both freeze, like two teenagers caught sneaking out after curfew. Albert stands in the doorway, blinking at you, his face rapidly shifting from confusion to dawning realization.

“Oh,” he says. “Ohhh.”

Nobody moves.

“Don’t mind me,” Albert says, grabbing his keys off the counter and backing out of the room. “Carry on!”

The door slams shut behind him, and you groan, burying your face in your hands, moment officially ruined.

“I’m starting to think he’s cursed,” Buck says, half-laughing.

You tug at his wrist, pulling him towards the front door. “Come on,”

“Where are we going?”

“Your car,” You stop only to pull on your shoes before pulling the door open.

“My car?” Buck laughs. “Why?”

𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝐤𝟐𝟒 ᯓ ★

You told yourself it didn’t matter. You weren’t dating him, after all. You were friends. Best friends, even. Sure, you spent more time with him than anyone else, and yes, sometimes your heart skipped when he looked at you like you were the only person in the room, but that was just Buck. He had this way of making people feel special. It wasn’t about you.

Or so you told yourself.

The first time you heard the rumour, you’d just come back from a call. Your hands were still smudged with soot, your body aching from the adrenaline crash, when Hen sidled up next to you with a smirk.

“So,” she began, drawing out the word like she already knew the answer to the question she hadn’t asked yet, “you and Buck, huh?”

You froze, your brain scrambling to process what she was saying.

“Me and Buck what?” you asked, hoping your voice sounded casual, though the flush creeping up your neck probably gave you away.

Hen raised an eyebrow. “Oh, come on. You two have been practically glued at the hip lately. People are starting to talk,”

“People?” you repeated. “What people?”

Hen just shrugged, her smirk widening. “Everyone. Chim. Cap. Probably the neighbors across the street. You two aren’t exactly subtle,”

You opened your mouth to argue, but Hen was already walking away, leaving you standing there, your heart pounding for reasons you didn’t want to examine too closely.

The thing is, you don’t deny it. Not really.

You tell yourself it’s because the rumors are harmless. No one really thinks you and Evan are together—it’s just a bit of firehouse gossip, something to laugh about in between shifts. And anyway, Buck doesn’t seem bothered by it.

When Chimney teases him about “his partner” or Eddie smirks and asks if the two of you need some alone time, he just rolls his eyes and laughs it off. You follow his lead, brushing off the comments with a shrug and a smile, even as your chest tightens every time someone mentions it.

Because the truth is, you don’t mind the rumours as much as you probably should.

And that’s dangerous.

—

The night it comes to a head, you’re at Buck’s apartment.

It’s a regular thing now, these nights at his place. Sometimes it’s movie marathons or ordering takeout and falling into fits of laughter over the ridiculous stuff Chimney posts in the group chat. Other times, it’s quieter—Evan showing you a new recipe he found, the two of you talking about everything and nothing until you lose track of time.

Tonight, it’s pizza and a game of Mario Kart. Buck is predictably terrible at it, and you’re halfway through a victory lap when he nudges your arm, sending your controller flying out of your hands.

“Cheater!” you exclaim, shoving him back, but he just grins, his eyes crinkling in that way that always makes your stomach flip.

“Don’t hate the player,” he says, his voice teasing.

You roll your eyes, reaching for your controller, but before you can grab it, Buck’s phone buzzes on the coffee table. He glances at the screen, and you catch the way his expression shifts—just slightly, but enough to make you pause.

“Everything okay?” you ask.

He hesitates, then shrugs. “Yeah, it’s just…Taylor.”

Your stomach tightens. Taylor Kelly. You’d almost forgotten she was back in town.

“What does she want?” you ask, trying to sound casual, though you’re not sure you succeed.

“She’s asking if I want to grab a drink tomorrow night,” Evan says, his tone light, like it’s not a big deal. Like your heart isn’t currently trying to claw its way out of your chest.

“Oh,” you say, because you don’t know what else to say.

Evan looks at you, his expression unreadable. “So, you wouldn’t mind if went out with her, right?”

Your breath catches.

“No, I would,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Evan blinks, clearly surprised. “...Why?”

You open your mouth, but no words come out. What are you supposed to say? That the thought of him with someone else makes you want to scream? That you’ve been lying to yourself for months, pretending you didn’t feel something for him because you were too afraid of what it might mean?

“The next race is starting,”

Evan’s gaze lingers on you for a moment, and you think you see something flicker in his eyes—something soft and tentative and terrifying. But then he looks away, and the moment passes.

—

You don’t talk about it after that.

Buck doesn’t bring up Taylor again, and you don’t ask. Things go back to normal—or as close to normal as they can be when you’re still reeling from the weight of what you didn’t say.

But then the rumours start up again. And they’re not about you this time.

It’s small things at first—Hen mentioning that someone from another station spotted Buck and Taylor at a bar downtown, Chimney muttering something about how fast news travels in the firefighter community.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. Buck is allowed to see whoever he wants. It’s not like you’re together.

But when Eddie makes an offhand comment during a call—something about Taylor being “good for Buck” as the two of you pack up the rig—you can’t stop the flare of anger that surges in your chest. You force a smile, focusing on the task at hand, but your mind is miles away.

By the time you’re back at the firehouse, the ache in your chest has settled into something sharper, something harder to ignore.

—

That evening, you’re in the locker room when Hen walks in, a knowing look on her face.

“You okay?” she asks, leaning against the lockers.

You glance at her, debating how much to say. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Hen raises an eyebrow. “Come on. You’ve been quiet all day, and I know you heard the same thing I did about Buck and Taylor,”

You freeze, your grip on your locker door tightening. “So what if I did? It’s none of my business.”

Hen studies you for a moment, her expression softening. “You’re right. It’s not. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t bother you,”

You swallow hard, looking away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,”

“Sure, you don’t,” Hen says, her voice dry. “Listen, I’m not trying to push, but maybe it’s time you ask yourself why this is getting under your skin. Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like jealousy,”

The word hits you like a slap, even though you know she’s right.

“I’m not jealous,” you say weakly, but Hen just gives you a pointed look before walking away, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

—

You manage to avoid Buck for most of the next day, throwing yourself into work and keeping your interactions with him strictly professional. But it’s not easy. Every time he laughs at something Chimney says or flashes that grin of his, you feel your resolve weaken.

During the next shift, when the team is gathered in the kitchen. Buck is sitting at the table, scrolling through his phone, while the others chat around him.

“Did you see that post Taylor made?” Chim asks, his tone teasing.

Buck looks up, confused. “What post?”

Chim grins, pulling out his own phone. “This one,”

He holds up the screen, and you catch a glimpse of a photo: Buck and Taylor, sitting close together at what looks like a bar. Or you presume so anyway considering his face isn’t actually in the photo. She’s leaning into him, her smile wide and bright.

“Wow,” Eddie says, smirking. “That’s pretty cozy,”

Buck chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not a big deal. We’re just catching up,”

“Sure,” Hen says, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

You force yourself to smile, even as your chest tightens. “Well, I’m glad you’re having fun,” you say, keeping your voice light.

Buck glances at you, his smile faltering. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The conversation shifts, but you barely hear it. All you can think about is that photo, the way Taylor was looking at him, the way he didn’t seem to mind.

—

That night, you’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, when your phone buzzes. It’s a text from Buck.

Hey, you okay? You’ve been quiet lately.

You stare at the message, your heart pounding. Part of you wants to ignore it, to pretend everything is fine. But another part of you—the part that’s tired of pretending—knows you can’t keep this up.

Can we talk?

His response is immediate.

Of course. My place?

—

When you arrive at Buck’s apartment, he’s waiting for you at the door, his expression concerned.

“Hey,” he says softly. “What’s going on?”

You step inside, your stomach churning with nerves. “I just…I need to get something off my chest,”

Buck closes the door, his gaze steady. “Okay. I’m listening,”

You take a deep breath, trying to gather your thoughts. “I know this is going to sound crazy, but…I’ve been feeling weird lately. About you. About Taylor,”

Buck frowns, his brow furrowing. “Weird how?”

You look down at your hands, your voice barely above a whisper. “I think I’m jealous,”

The silence that follows is deafening. When you finally look up, Buck is staring at you, his expression unreadable.

“Jealous?” he repeats, like he’s testing the word.

You nod, your cheeks burning. “Yeah. I mean, I know you’re not mine to be jealous over, but I can’t help it. Every time I see you with her, it feels like…” You trail off, struggling to find the right words.

“It feels like what?” Buck asks, his voice quiet.

“Like I’m losing you,” you admit, your throat tight. “And I know I don’t have any right to feel that way, but I do. I can’t help it.”

Buck takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I didn’t know how,” you say, your voice breaking. “And because I was scared. Scared that if I told you how I feel, it would ruin everything.”

Buck’s expression softens, and before you can say anything else, he’s pulling you into a hug.

“You’re not losing me,” he murmurs, his voice firm. “You couldn’t lose me if you tried.”

You close your eyes, letting his words wash over you.

When he pulls back, his hands linger on your arms, his gaze steady. “For the record,” he says, his voice soft, “I wasn’t serious about Taylor. It was never anything more than catching up with an old friend,”

Relief floods through you, and you let out a shaky laugh. “Good. Because I think I’d lose my mind if it was,”

Buck grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “So…what does this mean? For us?”

You meet his gaze, your heart pounding. “I don’t know,”

Buck’s smile widens, and for the first time in weeks, the tension in your chest eases. Because whatever happens next, you know one thing for sure: you’re done pretending.

And so is he.