#911 ff

You were never enough — not for the parents who raised you, not for the version of success they carved out long before you had a say.

They wanted you in a white coat or behind a desk in a pristine office with your name etched in gold on the door.

Doctor. CEO.

Something to brag about at parties, something that didn’t involve dirt-stained boots or adrenaline-fueled sirens screaming through the city.

But that was never you.

You were the one who ran headfirst into chaos, hands steady, heart louder than logic.

You were the paramedic on the front lines — saving people, stitching lives back together in the middle of a street, on the floor of someone’s living room, beneath flickering streetlamps at 3AM. You were the kind of woman who found herself in the mess, not behind a polished title.

And when you weren’t holding someone’s pulse in your palm, you were sketching out the day on the back of call sheets, painting the quiet between shifts, listening to music the way some people listened for meaning.

Your mother never liked that either.

“You’re hiding behind your hobbies,” she used to say. “You could be someone if you just tried harder. You look like someone.”

She always said that like it was a curse — like beauty meant you owed the world something performative. Like being seen was more important than being whole.

But you had built yourself up — brick by stubborn brick — from the ache of being overlooked. And in the firehouse, with the roar of engines and the quiet camaraderie of those who understood, you had finally found peace.

Especially in him.

Buck wasn’t just a fellow firefighter.

He was your calm in the storm. He was the one who didn’t flinch when you unraveled, the one who saw past the version of you shaped by pressure and criticism. He never tried to change you — only reminded you of who you already were.

The girl your parents tried to remake… she didn’t survive the shift.

But the woman standing in her place? She carried trauma, yes — but she also carried purpose. Family. The kind that came with turnout coats, inside jokes, and a seat saved at the station table.

And most days, that was more than enough.

Until they came back.

The sun hadn’t fully broken over Los Angeles yet, but the city was already humming — slow and sleepy in some corners, chaotic in others.

Buck had his usual iced coffee in one hand, his keys in the other, and your favorite breakfast sandwich tucked into a brown bag he pretended not to make a big deal about.

You teased him for it every time, but the way he shrugged and smiled like it was second nature made it harder and harder not to fall for him again each morning.

“You still deny I’m your favorite,” he grinned, handing you the bag as you slid into the passenger seat of his truck.

“You’re not my favorite,” you said, already biting into the sandwich. “You just bring good food.”

Buck smirked. “That’s basically the same thing.”

It had been a slow, quiet thing between the two of you. Not the blazing, dramatic romance people wrote songs about — but something softer.

Healed.

It came after the long nights, after the therapy sessions, after the breakdowns and the breakthrough that came after.

You weren’t looking to be rescued anymore. Neither was he.

Instead, you’d built something steady — like muscle memory, like breath.

You woke up, met him outside of your apartment, showed up to work, made fun of each other in the locker room, rolled your eyes when Hen caught you smiling too wide.

It was comfort. It was ease.

And lately, it felt like the kind of thing you could build a life around.

At the station, the team had already claimed their seats in the kitchen — Hen nursing her coffee like a lifeline, Chim flipping through a magazine he probably had no intention of reading, Eddie snorting at something Ravi said under his breath, and Buck sliding into the seat beside you.

“You gonna eat both of those pieces or are you feeling generous today?”

“Generous, with you? Never,” you shot back, pushing your half-finished plate toward him anyway. He beamed like you’d just handed him gold.

Bobby walked in mid-laugh, muttering something about the last shift’s messy truck logs, before giving you both a nod.

You felt a flicker of gratitude settle under your ribs — like maybe this was your real beginning. Like the ghosts from your childhood didn’t have a place at this table anymore.

Then your phone buzzed.

It was a simple vibration at first. One you ignored.

Then another.

Then a third.

You reached into your hoodie pocket without thinking, glancing at the screen as Buck leaned over to grab the creamer behind you.

Mom.

Dad.

No message. Just the names lighting up your screen in tandem, like they were waiting to be let in again.

You froze for a second too long.

“You okay?” Buck asked, catching the shift in your posture.

You nodded quickly, sliding the phone screen-down onto the table. “Yeah. Just spam.”

“Spam with your last name?” Hen raised a brow, sipping her coffee. You shot her a subtle glare that only made her grin.

Buck didn't press, but his eyes lingered a second longer than usual, quietly clocking the change in your mood.

You forced yourself to laugh along with the team as Chim started mocking something Ravi said, but your head was miles away.

You hadn’t seen your parents in a little over a year and a half. Not since the last screaming match that ended in a slammed door and a one way plane ticket back to LA without looking back.

They’d always wanted you to be someone else — and for a long time, you thought if you just tried hard enough, you'd become that person. But you had come a long way since then.

You weren’t a project anymore. You weren’t unfinished.

You were someone now.

And yet, all it took was one notification to make your stomach twist like you were seventeen and living under their roof again.

Buck gently nudged your knee under the table.

“You sure you’re good?”

You looked at him — really looked — and for a moment, you wanted to tell him everything.

How scared you were to open that message. How tired you were of being molded into someone else’s dream. How the life you had now felt fragile suddenly, like it could be taken away the second you let the past back in.

But the moment passed.

“Yeah,” you lied, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”

Buck watched you carefully, like he didn’t believe you — but also didn’t want to push you before you were ready. Instead, he smiled softly and handed you the last bite of your sandwich.

“Well, wake up. You’ve got another twelve hours with my charming self.”

You laughed — because it was easier than crying — and took the food from his hand.

“Lucky me.”

But in the back of your mind, the messages waited.

And you knew it was only a matter of time before you’d have to decide whether to open the door… or finally close it for good.

The call wasn’t heavy, not in the way that stuck to your skin for days. A minor traffic collision, a few broken bones, a scared kid who wouldn’t stop clinging to Chimney until his mom arrived.

It was the kind of run that made your heart squeeze in a different way — the kind that reminded you of everything fragile about the world.

You were quiet on the way back. Buck noticed.

You knew he did because his eyes found you in the rearview mirror more than once, flickering between the road and the crease between your brows.

Back at the firehouse, everyone scattered.

Hen went to check inventory in the rig, her clipboard in hand and a pencil tucked behind her ear. Eddie was helping Ravi clean out the squad, their laughter drifting faintly through the open bay doors.

Bobby had vanished into his office, probably knee-deep in the usual mountain of paperwork. Chim was in the kitchen, half-singing under his breath as he prepped dinner for the shift.

And Buck?

Buck waited.

He always waited — not in a way that hovered, but in a way that reminded you he’d be there when you were ready.

“Wanna go up?” he asked gently, nudging your elbow.

You didn’t need to ask what he meant.

The rooftop had become your shared place. A quiet, liminal space above the chaos — where the world slowed down just long enough for you both to breathe.

You nodded.

The city stretched around you, a sea of lights blinking to life against the late afternoon haze. Traffic buzzed below like static, and the sky was turning the soft kind of orange that only LA could pull off.

You sat beside Buck, your shoulders brushing, your knees tucked to your chest. For a while, neither of you spoke.

You just leaned into his side, and he draped an arm around you with practiced ease, his hand rubbing small, absent-minded circles into your back.

“I promised,” you finally murmured.

Buck tilted his head, watching you from the corner of his eye.

“Promised what?”

“No secrets. That I’d talk to you.” You swallowed thickly, staring at your fingers. “They texted again. My parents.”

His hand stilled on your back.

You didn’t look at him yet. You weren’t ready for the weight of that gaze.

“They… they’re here. In LA.”

Buck stayed quiet, which somehow gave you the space to keep going.

“I thought they were just passing through. I didn’t want to make it a big deal. I told myself I’d just ignore it. But then they sent this message and said they wanted to talk. That they’d been thinking about me. About everything.”

You laughed — a short, bitter sound.

“And part of me wants to believe it. That maybe people really can change. I mean… look at you. Look at Maddie. Even your parents. They’re trying. The Hans too. And it made me think — if they can change, why can’t mine?”

Buck’s arm pulled you a little closer, his voice quiet.

“Because yours hurt you. Not just once. Not just in passing. But over and over again.”

You turned your face into his chest, the soft fabric of his hoodie muffling your thoughts.

“They hated who I was,” you said.

“Not just what I did — not being a paramedic, not choosing a job where I get to help people every day — but who I was. I liked art. I liked movement. I liked not needing their permission to be myself. And they said it made me selfish. Undisciplined. Unlovable.”

Buck’s hand cradled the back of your head, his thumb brushing gently at your temple.

“You’re not any of those things,” he whispered.

“You’re strong. You’re brave. You’re the best partner I’ve ever had. And the most real person I know.”

You breathed in, grounding yourself in his scent — laundry detergent and smoke and something unshakably him.

“But it still hurts,” you admitted.

“Even after all this time. Even when I tell myself I’ve built a life. That I’m good. That I’m okay now. All it took was one message and suddenly I feel like I’m fifteen again and nothing I do will ever be enough.”

Buck exhaled slowly, resting his cheek against the top of your head.

“You’ve come too far to let them take that from you.”

“But what if they really mean it this time?” you whispered.

“What if they want to make amends? What if I don’t even give them the chance?”

Buck didn’t answer right away. He waited, thoughtful, like he was measuring his words carefully.

“I used to think that too,” he said.

“When I went back to my parents’ house that time… I wanted so badly for it to be different. I wanted them to see me. The version of me I worked so damn hard to become. But the thing is — it’s not about them. It never was.”

You looked up at him slowly, heart pounding in your chest.

“It’s about what you need to feel safe. To feel whole,” he continued. “And you already built that. You don’t need to let them back in to prove you’re healed.”

He brushed your hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your jaw.

“But if you do let them back in… do it for you. Not because they suddenly remembered how to be parents.”

That cracked something open in you.

For the first time in hours, you let the tears fall — quiet, cathartic, and honest. Buck didn’t flinch. He just held you tighter, kissed your forehead, and waited with you on that rooftop like he always did.

And in that moment, you knew something with perfect clarity:

You weren’t a teenager anymore.

You weren’t trying to earn love from people who only ever saw you as a reflection of their own regrets.

You had a home now — not in a place, but in people.

In Buck. In Hen. In Bobby. In Chim. In Ravi. In Eddie. In the family you chose at the 118.

And maybe — just maybe — that was more than enough.

At first, it was fine. Or at least, it looked fine.

The meeting with your parents was held in a neutral place — some polished brunch spot on the West Side with cold-pressed juices and overpriced eggs.

They hugged you like they meant it. They said they missed you. They even asked about your job, your friends, your life.

You let yourself hope. Just a little.

But it didn’t take long for the cracks to show.

“You look tired,” your mom said, peering across the table. “Are you still not using concealer?”

A laugh followed, as if she’d just made a joke. You forced a smile.

Later, your dad — swirling his coffee absentmindedly — asked, “So… are you really planning to stay a paramedic forever?”

Your heart dropped like a stone.

“Not that we don’t respect what you do,” he added quickly, as if softening the blow.

“It’s just… there’s more out there. You’re smart. You could still go back to school. Do something that really stretches you.”

You gripped your fork too tight.

“I like what I do,” you answered, steady and restrained. “I help people. Every single day.”

They didn’t argue. But their silence screamed louder than words.

That was the beginning.

The comments didn’t stop. They just evolved — small, needling remarks that made you second-guess the things you’d worked so hard to reclaim.

“You know, if you just dressed a little differently, you'd look even more put together.”

“This haircut is cute, but the last one made your face look slimmer.”

“I still think you’d do well in PR — you’ve always had a nice smile.”

They cloaked it all in faux concern, under the guise of caring. But what they were really doing was trying to remake you into something they could understand.

Someone more acceptable. More palatable. Less you.

You thought you could handle it.

You thought — after everything you’d survived, after years of therapy, after finding love and home in the 118 — that you were immune to their power.

But you weren’t.

Not entirely.

You didn’t tell anyone. Not even Buck.

You kept coming into work with a smile on your face, your uniform pressed, your voice steady. You carried your gear like it weighed nothing, even when your shoulders ached from the stress you weren’t admitting.

But the little things gave you away.

You started zoning out during debriefs — just for a second or two — like your mind had floated somewhere else.

Somewhere darker.

You’d stopped lingering at mirrors in the locker room, dressing quickly, avoiding the impulse to check your reflection.

Even compliments from Hen or Chim started to land wrong — twisting into something warped by the things your parents had said.

And worst of all: you skipped breakfast. Sometimes lunch, too.

You didn’t mean to. You just weren’t hungry. Or maybe you just didn’t want to hear that quiet voice in your head — your mother’s — telling you to be careful about portion sizes.

Buck noticed.

Of course he did.

He noticed how your uniform hung differently. How your laugh didn’t reach your eyes. How you hadn’t touched your smoothie after a call and shrugged it off with “I’m just tired.”

He watched you push food around your plate at dinner. Watched you duck out of team photos when Bobby tried to snap one for the wall. Watched you smile through gritted teeth like your jaw was wired shut.

And Buck — for all his light and warmth — knew darkness when he saw it.

One night, after a long shift, he waited until everyone had gone. You were packing your things in the locker room when he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, face unreadable.

“You ever gonna tell me what’s really going on?”

You froze.

“Because I know you,” he continued softly. “And you’re slipping.”

You turned around slowly, blinking too fast.

“I’m fine, Buck.”

“No, you’re not,” he said, moving toward you.

“You haven’t been fine for weeks. You barely eat, you’re constantly somewhere else in your head, and you flinch when anyone compliments you. That’s not you. That’s not the you I know.”

You swallowed hard, looking at the floor.

“I didn’t want to make it real,” you admitted. “I thought… if I didn’t talk about it, it wouldn’t stick.”

Buck’s hands found your shoulders, gentle and grounding.

“Talk to me. Please.”

And that was when the dam broke.

You told him everything — about the comments, the small jabs, the way your parents had managed to reopen wounds you thought were healed.

You told him about the fear creeping in, how you’d started second-guessing the body you’d learned to love, the career you were proud of, the face you saw in the mirror.

“I fought so hard to feel okay again,” you whispered. “And now I feel like I’m back at square one.”

Buck shook his head and pulled you into his arms, cradling your head against his chest like he could shield you from it all.

“You’re not back at square one,” he said.

“You’re not that person anymore. You’re stronger now. But even strong people break a little when the right people push the wrong buttons.”

You let yourself sink into him, into the warmth, into the truth of his words.

“They don’t get to take this from you,” Buck said, voice low.

“Not your peace. Not your joy. Not the life you built for yourself. Because you built it with your own hands. You didn’t wait for anyone’s permission — not theirs, not mine, not anyone’s.”

You nodded into his chest, your tears soaking the fabric.

And he held you, quietly and completely, until the shaking stopped.

From up here, at the firehouse rooftop, the hum of L.A. traffic was just white noise — distant, forgettable.

You were wrapped in Buck’s arms, your head resting against his chest, his hoodie warm against your cheek.

The call earlier had shaken you a bit — not because of the trauma or the chaos, but because you'd caught your own reflection in the fire truck window, and for a second, all you saw was her.

Your mother’s voice echoing in your ears: you’d look so much prettier if you just fixed your posture.

You thought maybe saying it out loud would break the spell. So you did.

And Buck just… listened.

Now, he shifted, his hand gently stroking your back, voice low and steady.

“You know,” he began, “I spent a long time trying to be what my parents needed.”

You blinked up at him, and he was staring out at the skyline — not avoiding you, just thinking. Peeling open old scars.

“I was the ‘fix-it’ kid. If something was wrong, I’d jump in. Be the distraction, the helper, the good one.” He let out a short, mirthless laugh.

“Didn’t matter how much I gave. It was never enough.”

You watched him carefully, feeling your chest ache for the boy he once was.

“They didn’t see me, not really. Not until Maddie left, and even then… it was like I only existed through what I could do for them. Not who I actually was.”

His voice softened, eyes flicking back to yours.

“You’re not alone in this.”

Tears threatened again, but you bit them back.

“I thought they changed,” you whispered. “I thought maybe… maybe if I let them in, they’d see me now — the real me. Not the one they wanted me to be.”

Buck nodded.

“That hope? I know it too well. But Y/N… healing isn’t about letting the people who broke you walk back in just because they might be better now.”

He took your hand, threading his fingers through yours.

“You don’t owe them another piece of yourself. Not after everything you’ve done to become you.”

You looked at him, really looked — and saw not just the man who loved you, but the one who had clawed his way out of the same kind of shadow.

“The 118 — Hen, Chim, Bobby, Eddie… they see you,” he continued. “They respect you. They love you. Hell, I love you.”

You let out a shaky breath, and Buck cupped your cheek with his free hand.

“You built a life from the ground up. You stood in fire and didn’t flinch. If your parents can’t see that? That’s not on you.”

Silence settled around you again, the kind that didn’t need filling.

And for the first time in weeks, your shoulders relaxed.

Because Buck was right.

Your family wasn’t something you were born into. It was something you chose.

And the 118 — this loud, messy, brave, wonderful crew — had chosen you back.

Every single time.

It was their last night in L.A.

You sat across the dinner table from your parents in a sleek West Hollywood restaurant — the kind they would’ve approved of, with overpriced salads and polished silverware.

You’d even worn something nice, soft makeup, hair tucked back just the way your mother always said looked “less messy.”

And yet, nothing you did ever seemed to be enough.

They were smiling — that brittle, curated smile they wore in public. They made small talk about your “little job” and asked again if you'd considered going back to school, becoming a doctor like you “originally said you would” when you were fifteen.

You tried to laugh it off, to steer the conversation away.

But then came the line.

Your mother, wine glass in hand, leaned across the table with a too-sweet smile and said,

“You’re too beautiful to hide behind that uniform forever, sweetheart. You could be something more — if you just tried.”

That was the final crack.

Your chest tightened, your fingers clenched around your water glass, and all the work — all the healing, the therapy, the hours at Station 118 saving lives and rebuilding your confidence — it all teetered on a ledge.

“Do you even hear yourselves?” you said, quietly at first.

Your father looked up, startled. Your mother blinked, taken aback.

“I’ve been doing everything I can to build a life — my life — and all you see is who I’m not.”

Your voice wavered, but you didn’t stop.

“You wanted me to be a doctor. Or a businesswoman. You hated that I loved art, that I found purpose in helping people. You hated the way I looked, dressed, existed. And now, you come to L.A. for three days and want to shape me all over again?”

Silence fell over the table.

“I’m not going to dinner with you again,” you said.

“This… is the last one.”

Your mother’s mouth opened to object, but you were already rising to your feet, grabbing your coat.

“I have a family. A real one. One that sees me. I’m not throwing that away just to be palatable to you.”

And then you called an Uber, knowing your parents would take your car anyway because that’s how much they disrespected you.

You didn’t cry until you reached Buck’s apartment.

He didn’t ask any questions. He just opened the door, took one look at your face, and pulled you into his arms.

You sobbed into his hoodie, fists clinging to the fabric, your knees nearly buckling with the weight of years of resentment and grief. He held you through it — no words, no pressure.

Just presence. Just Buck. Your Buck.

Eventually, you ended up outside — sitting in the back of his jeep at the beach, wrapped in one of his flannel shirts, your head leaning on his shoulder as the night breeze swept around you.

Your voice was hoarse when you finally spoke.

“I’ve spent so long trying to be who they wanted. I didn’t realize I’ve already become someone I’m proud of.”

Buck turned his head toward you, his fingers lacing with yours.

“I’ve always been proud of you,” he said, with that soft kind of certainty only Buck had when it really mattered.

“Even when you didn’t see it. Even when you were still hiding parts of yourself.”

You sniffled, leaning into him more.

“They were supposed to love me unconditionally.”

“They didn’t,” Buck said gently. “But we do.”

The next morning at the firehouse, you told Bobby everything.

You expected a lecture, maybe a reminder to show grace — but instead, Bobby reached out and placed a steady hand on your shoulder.

“Family doesn’t come with conditions. You’re one of us. And we’re not going anywhere.”

Hen brought you coffee. Chim cracked a terrible joke that made you laugh through your puffy eyes. Eddie gave you that silent nod of solidarity he only reserved for moments that mattered. Ravi slipped you a cookie from the pantry with a wink.

And Buck?

Buck just stood beside you, hand in yours.

No longer your anchor.

Now your entire world.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t romantic. Not officially.

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone else saw it too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The shift.

The tiny changes.

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

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

He was home.

And that terrified you.

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

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

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

But nothing was ever said.

Not out loud.

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

But something was building between you.

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

And honestly? You were starting to wish he would.

It starts small.

A missed call here. A shorter reply there.

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

But then it starts to happen more.

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

Friendly. Polite. Detached.

And it hurts. It hurts like hell.

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

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

Not like this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A lot on my mind.”

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

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

But he doesn’t invite you in.

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

At the station, it becomes harder to ignore.

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

It becomes unbearable.

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

“Why are you pushing me away?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches.

“Eddie…”

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

You step closer, heart hammering in your chest.

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

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

The words hit like a slap. You actually flinch.

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

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

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

But he doesn’t.

So you nod, jaw trembling, and back away.

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

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

He doesn’t follow you.

Yet, a part of him wants to.

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

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

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

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

But he doesn’t.

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

And the truth?

The truth is you mean too much.

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

You’re woven into the little things:

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

How you looked at him like he was safe.

And now? Now it’s too much.

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

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

Not even for you.

But God, he wants to.

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

But the fear is louder.

The fear says: What if it all falls apart?

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

What if Christopher gets attached and you walk away too?

Eddie Diaz has survived fire, gunfire, and grief.

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

So he lets you go.

At least for now.

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

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

“I love you.”

You’re still there.

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

But it has shattered.

And everyone can feel it.

Especially him.

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

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

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

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

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

Buck is the first one who notices the real damage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At the station, things feel colder.

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

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

But Eddie? Eddie’s unraveling.

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t want to break her heart.”

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

The words land like a gut punch. Someone else.

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

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

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

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

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

Chris asked about you the other night.

“Why doesn’t she come around anymore?”

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

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

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

That silence haunted Eddie more than anything.

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

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

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

“To everyone but you, apparently.”

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

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

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

Karen’s expression softens.

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

“I know,” he admits, voice raw.

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

“And now?” Hen asks.

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

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

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

“You ready to stop punishing yourself?”

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

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

Eddie leans against the counter, voice barely audible.

“I think she was my joy.”

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

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

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

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

He’s done running.

It’s raining when he knocks.

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

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

You almost don’t open the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He flinches.

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

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

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

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

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

He swallows thickly, shaking his head.

“You scared me more than anyone ever has.”

That stings.

You let it.

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

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

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

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

You glance away, jaw clenched.

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

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

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

“I know,” he breathes, voice wrecked.

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

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

Eventually, you step aside.

“Come inside before you catch a cold.”

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

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

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

You don’t answer right away.

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

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

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

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

“I’m still angry,” you warn.

“You have every right to be.”

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

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

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

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

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

But it’s real.

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

It was just supposed to be brave.

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

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

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

Like it was always supposed to be this way.

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

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

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

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

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

You shrug. “But yours are warmer.”

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

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

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

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

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

On another note, Christopher loves having you around again.

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

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

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

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

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

The teasing from the team is merciless—but warm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like a man no longer holding his breath.

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

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

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

You look up at him. “Me too.”

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

You lean into him, heart swelling.

“That’s all I ever wanted to do.”

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

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

Loving you didn’t ruin him.

It saved him.

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

But not anymore.

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

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

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

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

At first, it was just a maybe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You good?”

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

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

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

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

Eddie stiffened, reaching for the device—too slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart sank.

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not like that—” he tried.

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

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

Eddie put the glasses down. His voice was low.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kitchen’s open,” he said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You laughed for the first time that day.

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone stilled.

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

“What?”

Buck’s hands tightened around Blaze’s ball.

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart pounded in your ears.

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

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

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

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

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

You didn’t give it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You really hurt her, man.”

Eddie swallowed. “I know.”

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

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

For Eddie, everything had dulled into a strange limbo.

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

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

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

And God, that smile.

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

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

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

That image stuck with him longer than it should have.

But maybe, deep down, he knew.

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

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

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

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

Eddie didn’t blame you. Not really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just real.

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

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

And you were. For a while.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A knock came at the door.

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

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

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

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

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

Buck froze mid-step, a bit stunned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh my God,” Eddie muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” Eddie said softly.

You nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

You exhaled, folding your arms tightly.

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

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

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

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

Eddie stepped forward a little, heart in his throat.

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

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

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

Eddie nodded, something bittersweet in his expression.

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

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Friends.”

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

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

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

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

He was leaving you behind too.

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

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

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

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

There was a rhythm there. A familiarity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’d made peace with leaving.

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

They were staying here.

In this house.

With you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Buck looked at you then. “I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because you’re already home.”

Your breath hitched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” you said. “But you did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You ready?” he asked Eddie.

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Epilogue:

Eddie Diaz wasn’t used to quiet.

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

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

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

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

Buck (incoming call)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Buck groaned. “I’m a softie, sue me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eddie let his head fall back against the couch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That used to be the story of his life.

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

But not you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And now?”

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

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

That’s when everything changed.

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

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

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

And he knew then that this wasn’t stolen.

It was something new.

The sweltering Los Angeles summer heat had nothing on the firehouse kitchen when the crew of Station 118 rolled in after a long call.

The air was thick with post-adrenaline energy, gear clunking to the ground, laughter echoing off the walls, and the scent of someone burning microwave popcorn — again.

You stood near the coffee machine, peeling off your gloves, when Buck nudged your side.

“Bet you five bucks Hen blames me for that popcorn smell in five minutes,” he said, grinning.

You didn’t even look up. “It was you.”

Buck feigned offense. “Allegedly.”

“You literally said you’d try that TikTok trick where you pour milk in the bag to make it creamier.”

“Okay, that sounds made up—”

“You said it. In front of everyone.”

Hen walked in right on cue. “Jesus, Buck! Did you try the milk thing again? I told you it’s just online nonsense—”

You tossed a knowing look his way, biting back a smirk.

“Unbelievable,” Buck muttered under his breath, defeated.

This was the rhythm of you and Buck — light banter, teasing, but underneath it all: something quieter, deeper. You’d known each other before 118. The kind of bond forged in chaos and grief, a friendship built like a fireproof wall.

There were people in the world who made you feel seen. Buck made you feel known. And that should’ve been enough.

It was enough.

Until he walked in.

You remember the day Eddie Diaz arrived with perfect clarity — how calm he looked stepping out of Bobby’s car, uniform immaculate, boots polished, expression unreadable.

His eyes scanned the station like he was evaluating threats, but not in a hostile way. Just… trained. Controlled. Measured.

“Everyone, this is Eddie Diaz,” Bobby had announced.

“He’s transferring in from Texas. Served in the Army, graduated top of his class this week, and has a bunch of medical experience that could aid us during calls. He’ll be riding with us starting today.”

Your eyes locked with his across the room.

He nodded once. “Hey.”

You said “hey” back, but it came out breathier than you meant it to — like your lungs hadn’t caught up with the rest of your body.

There was nothing flirtatious in his greeting. It was a single word. A glance.

So why did it linger?

In the weeks that followed, Eddie proved himself quickly. He was sharp on calls, steady under pressure, the kind of firefighter who didn’t flinch even when everything went to hell. And yet, despite his precision and quiet nature, he never came off as cold.

He listened. He noticed things.

Like the way your hands trembled slightly after high-stakes rescues — and how he’d subtly pass you a water bottle before you even realized you needed one. Or how he always volunteered to cover your spot on late shifts when you looked run-down, without asking questions.

You told yourself it was professionalism. Just one teammate helping another.

But when you’d hear him laugh — that low, soft laugh he reserved for moments where his walls dropped — you started to forget why you’d drawn the line in the first place.

The infamous “no dating in the firehouse” rule had always been more about protection than principle. You saw what happened when lines blurred. You saw the mess it left behind when it fell apart.

And Buck… Buck was always the exception you refused to let yourself entertain.

He was too close. Too familiar. Too safe.

You knew how he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. You knew the way his hand lingered half a second longer when he passed you your helmet, or the way he always positioned himself between you and danger — instinctively, like muscle memory.

But you also knew how fragile your friendship was. If you opened that door, there was no going back. And you didn’t want to lose him.

Eddie, on the other hand… Eddie was new. Untangled. Unknown.

Tempting.

“Okay,” Hen said one night, sitting across from you in the loft after a call, “I gotta ask.”

You glanced at her over the rim of your mug. “Ask what?”

“The Diaz situation.”

“There is no ‘Diaz situation,’” you said calmly, biting back a smile.

“Girl, please. You turned down dinner with us to ‘go over reports with Eddie.’ At his place.”

“We were organizing notes from last week’s apartment fire.”

Hen raised a brow. “And you couldn’t have done that here?”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then sighed. “You’re reading into things.”

“Oh, honey,” she said, “everyone’s reading into things. Chimney started a betting pool. Bobby is pretending not to notice. And Buck—” she paused.

“Buck’s trying real hard not to care, but he does.”

Your chest tightened.

You’d noticed the shift in Buck. He was still Buck — still your partner on calls, still quick to joke, still watching your six like always. But the light in his eyes had dulled a little.

The jokes didn’t come as easy. Sometimes you’d catch him watching you and Eddie talking in the corner of the station, and he’d look away before your eyes could meet.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what it looked like from the outside.

Hell, even from the inside, it scared you.

Because Eddie made you feel like someone had finally met you at your level — calm, careful, steady. And you couldn’t pretend you didn’t crave that stability.

But with every step you took closer to Eddie, something inside you whispered that you were walking further and further away from something else.

From someone else.

Later that night, as the station settled and the lights dimmed, you found Buck in the garage, fiddling with his turnout gear. Everyone else had gone to sleep, but he was wide awake, pretending to be busy.

“You good?” you asked gently.

He didn’t look at you at first. “Yeah. Just… cleaning up.”

You stood beside him in silence for a beat before saying, “I’m not trying to hurt anyone.”

Buck nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. “I know.”

The words hung heavy between you, unsaid but understood.

You weren’t breaking a rule. But something was breaking — maybe slowly, maybe just in Buck’s heart. You didn’t know how to fix it without undoing the thing that had finally made you feel seen in a new way.

And as Buck finally looked at you, eyes soft but distant, you wondered if maybe some lines weren’t meant to be crossed — only redrawn.

The call came in midafternoon.

Cardiac arrest. Male, mid-60s. Possible overdose on blood thinners.

You and Eddie loaded into the rig without missing a beat — a rhythm that had started forming between you, quiet and natural.

Hen had swapped rotations with Chim earlier, and Buck was partnered with Ravi that day, left behind at the station when you rolled out with Diaz.

That’s what made it worse.

Buck couldn’t do anything but watch from the bay doors as the rig pulled away, your laughter echoing faintly just before the doors slammed shut.

He’d never heard you laugh like that for anyone on shift before.

Meanwhile, the scene was chaos. The man’s daughter was sobbing on the front porch, screaming at the 9-1-1 dispatcher still on speakerphone.

Eddie cleared a path through the entryway while you knelt beside the patient, fingers flying over his pulse points.

“Unresponsive, no pulse,” you called. “Starting compressions.”

Eddie dropped beside you, AED already powered on. You didn’t have to speak much — he mirrored your movements like he already knew how you liked to work. And that was new.

You had a rhythm with Buck, sure, but with Eddie it felt instinctive. A kind of quiet understanding you hadn’t even noticed forming until it was already there.

“One milligram epi, IV push,” you said quickly. “Charging at 200.”

Eddie handed you the syringe, voice calm. “Done.”

The daughter sobbed louder behind you. “Please save him,” she begged.

You didn’t blink. “We’re doing everything we can.”

Eddie moved in to relieve your compressions, sweat glistening along his brow, but his hands never faltered. He was strong, steady — and when you met his eyes across the man’s chest, you felt a strange heat crawl beneath your ribs.

Focus.

But you saw it then. That flicker of something in his gaze. Not admiration. Not just trust. It was quieter than that. A kind of silent awe.

After two shocks and almost eight minutes of CPR, the man’s pulse came back.

The daughter fell to her knees. “Oh my God.”

Eddie exhaled deeply, sitting back on his heels, eyes finding yours again.

You grinned, exhausted but satisfied. “Nice work, Diaz.”

“You too,” he said. But he was still looking at you.

And that heat returned — low and persistent, curling at the base of your spine.

Back at the rig, you leaned against the open doors while Eddie finished writing his report. You were quiet for a beat, letting the adrenaline wear off. The day was warm, sun angling across the metal, casting a golden glow on his skin.

You watched him — the way he furrowed his brow when he focused, the faint scar on his jaw you hadn’t noticed before, the way he chewed lightly on the inside of his cheek.

“What?” he asked without looking up.

“Hm?”

“You’re staring.”

You smirked. “Maybe I just like the view.”

Eddie’s pen stilled. He looked at you — really looked — and for a moment the air felt charged.

“That was the most unprofessional thing I’ve heard you say in uniform,” he said. You lifted a brow.

“Don’t act like you didn’t like it.”

His mouth twitched. “I didn’t say that.”

You were about to push it further — tease him the way you had a few nights ago during a late-night coffee run — but your phone buzzed. Buck.

BUCKLEY: Call went okay?

You stared at the message for a moment. Then typed back.

YOU: Yeah. Patient survived. All good.

You didn’t mention the moment. You didn’t tell him how Eddie’s hand had brushed yours when you passed the IV kit, or how your heart skipped a beat when he smiled at you afterward like you were the only person in the world.

You didn’t mention how easy it felt.

Because that wasn’t the kind of thing you could explain over text.

Later that evening, when you and Eddie walked back into the station, laughing about something Christopher had said the other day — Buck noticed.

He’d been waiting. Watching the clock. Pretending to sort equipment in the gear room when really, he was just trying not to let the jealousy eat him alive.

But then he saw you.

Not just the way you walked beside Eddie — close enough to brush shoulders — but the way you looked up at him, lit from within.

Buck had known you for years. Through heartbreaks, broken bones, birthdays, and breakdowns. He’d been there when your dad had passed. When your first real relationship after him had crumbled. When you’d failed your lieutenant’s exam and then aced it six months later.

He had seen you cry. He had seen you fight.

But he’d never seen you smile like that.

Not for him.

“You ever think about switching partners?” Buck asked casually, later that night, lounging in the kitchen.

You were pulling a water bottle from the fridge. “What, like musical chairs but with defibs?”

He shrugged. “I just meant, you and me used to ride out together more. Kinda miss it.”

You turned, leaning against the counter.

“It’s not like I asked to switch. Just how the schedule landed.”

“But you like it better with Eddie?”

There it was.

You hesitated. “Eddie’s easy to work with.”

Buck nodded, but his jaw tightened. “Right.”

You studied him. “Is this… weird for you?”

Buck looked up, and for the first time, there was no teasing in his eyes. Just honesty.

“A little.”

The air stretched between you. You didn’t answer.

Didn’t know how to.

Hen pulled you aside the next day as soon as you came in for your shift. “He’s not handling it well,” she said gently.

You sighed. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“I know. But Buck’s always had a blind spot when it comes to you. Maybe he never thought you’d actually fall for someone else.”

You rubbed a hand over your face. “I haven’t fallen for anyone.”

Hen gave you a look. “Girl, please. I saw the way you looked at Eddie after that call. Like he invented CPR.”

You groaned. “That obvious?”

“Only to everyone with eyes.”

You didn’t know what this thing with Eddie was yet — just that it was starting to take up more space in your chest than you wanted to admit.

It was in the way he walked beside you to the rig every morning.

The way he remembered how you took your coffee — sweet, no cream — and brought you one on tough days without being asked.

The way he saw you — not as a rule or a boundary or a decision you made once to protect yourself, but as someone worth knowing anyway.

You hadn’t crossed any lines yet. Not officially.

But the pull was undeniable now.

And the line was starting to blur.

It had been months since that first call with Eddie. Months since that quiet moment by the rig, where the air between you shifted and never quite returned to neutral.

And now?

Now it was breakfast at the same diner after shift, every Tuesday without fail — him always getting black coffee, you ordering the same banana pancakes you swore you’d try to switch up one day.

Now it was shared glances across the truck when Captain gave new assignments. Subtle, silent nods that said I’ve got you louder than words ever could.

Now it was you and Eddie waiting in line for coffee with Chim, bickering over who gets to use the punch card next.

It was laughing until you wheezed because Hen made a crack about how Eddie’s flirting sounded more like reading Miranda rights.

Now it was Christopher.

Meeting him hadn’t been planned — not really. Eddie had invited you along to the adaptive soccer game he helped coach, casual, no-pressure. You said yes because you wanted to support him.

But then you saw the way his son looked at him. Like he hung the moon.

And then you saw the way Eddie looked at you when you knelt beside Christopher after the game to tie his shoelace, laughing at something he said about wanting to be taller than his dad one day.

You weren’t a stranger to kids — you had nieces and nephews, the occasional firehouse tour where little ones clung to your leg. But with Christopher, it was different. You weren’t trying.

You just fit.

And Eddie saw that.

That scared you more than anything.

Back at the station, Buck noticed.

It wasn’t just the way you and Eddie gravitated toward each other — it was the little things. The way Eddie always saved you a seat. The way you reached for his arm when you laughed. The way you spoke in half-sentences he somehow always understood.

He noticed the way Carla had started asking you if you’d be around next weekend when she planned something for Christopher.

The way you already knew where Eddie kept his protein bars in his locker — because he liked the peanut butter ones, not the chocolate.

It wasn’t subtle.

It wasn’t nothing.

And Buck? Buck was unraveling by the day.

Because he wasn’t just watching the man he considered a brother fall for someone. He was watching you — the person he’d quietly loved, the one he always protected, always hoped would someday look back and see him — fall for someone else.

And worse?

You didn’t seem like you were falling at all.

You looked like you already had.

The revelation came without warning.

You and Eddie had just come back from a routine call — a standard ride-along with a heart patient, nothing intense. You were sitting on the back bumper of the rig, sipping a bottle of water, talking about some beach you wanted to visit in the summer. Eddie was unusually quiet.

“You okay?” you asked.

He nodded. Then hesitated. “I need to tell you something.”

The knot in your stomach formed instantly.

“It’s about my wife,” he said. Your heart stumbled.

“Your… wife?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Shannon.”

You said nothing. The world spun.

“We’re… married, technically. Separated. Long story,” he added quickly, seeing your face drop. “We’ve been off and on for years. We tried again after I left the army, for Christopher. But it didn’t… stick.”

You blinked. “So she’s not… in the picture?”

“She was. Until a few months ago. She’s been back in L.A. Trying to figure things out. With Chris. With me.”

Your stomach turned. “And you didn’t think to mention this sooner?”

Eddie looked pained. “I didn’t know how. It’s not like we were—”

“Not like we were what?” you asked, voice sharp. “Not like we were seeing each other? Sharing breakfast every Tuesday? Like I haven’t met your son?”

His jaw clenched. “I didn’t mean to lie to you.”

“You just left out your marriage?”

The silence stretched.

You stood up, every bone in your body aching like you’d just taken a fall from three stories up.

“Was this a game to you?” you asked, quieter now.

“No. Never,” he said instantly. “It’s complicated.”

You scoffed. “You think I don’t know complicated?”

But the words felt hollow.

You didn’t wait for a response. You walked away.

And for weeks after that, you barely spoke.

Buck found you in the garage one evening, elbow-deep in engine checks.

“You alright?” he asked.

You didn’t look up. “Fine.”

“I heard about… you and Eddie.”

You paused. “There is no me and Eddie.”

Buck watched you for a moment, saw how your hands moved slower than usual. How your eyes stayed trained on the wrench like it held all the answers.

“I just want you to know,” he said, softer now, “you didn’t deserve that.”

You finally looked at him. “Thanks.”

There was a beat.

Then he added, “He should’ve told you from the start.”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

But even as you said it, something twisted in your chest — because part of you knew he hadn’t meant to hurt you. Part of you remembered the way he looked at you during those quiet in-between moments.

The part of you that hadn’t stopped feeling warm whenever Christopher mentioned you in passing, like you already lived in their orbit.

It wasn’t that you stopped caring.

It was that you stopped trusting.

Eddie didn’t push. Not at first.

He let you have your silence, your distance. He knew he’d earned it. He didn’t make excuses.

But he waited.

He sent you coffee on the days he wasn’t at your side. Asked Hen to check in. Made sure you were still partnered on the rotation board. Never once overstepped.

Just… waited. Quietly. Steadily.

It wasn’t until Shannon’s accident that everything changed.

You weren’t there for it. You only heard about it through quiet whispers and late-night conversations at the firehouse during your shift.

A car crash. Christopher had been in the vehicle too. A drunk driver ran a red light.

Shannon died.

Instantly, it seemed — at least that’s what they told Eddie.

He’d later tell you about the last real conversation they ever had. Not at the accident. Before it.

It was in a hospital waiting room, after another tense day of figuring out how to co-parent. She told him she was thinking of leaving again — for good this time.

That being a mom full-time, being part of Eddie and Christopher’s world again… it just wasn’t what she wanted anymore.

She didn’t say it to be cruel. She said it like someone already halfway out the door.

And then she was gone.

No chance to work it out. No goodbye to Christopher. No final decision made. Just… gone.

Eddie never got to confess the truth to her — that he wasn’t angry anymore, just tired. That he had found peace somewhere outside of what they once had. That he’d started to look at someone else — you — and feel like the future didn’t have to hurt.

So he sat with that guilt.

Not because he still loved her.

But because she was Christopher’s mother. Because they never got closure. Because part of him still blamed himself for not trying harder to keep her safe, even though he knew it wasn’t his fault.

And when he told you all of this — standing outside the station one evening, his voice low and quiet like it was breaking all over again — you didn’t say anything right away.

You just looked at him. At the pain he wore so openly. At the strength it took to admit that grief wasn’t always linear.

Then you took a step closer. And another.

Until your hand was in his, and neither of you said a word. Because some wounds don’t need fixing.

They just need someone willing to stay.

The distance between you soon narrowed. Slowly, but surely. You started saying good morning again. Let yourself smile at his jokes. Started asking about Christopher.

And then one night — after a long shift, when the sun was rising over the station — Eddie sat beside you on the roof and told you:

“I never wanted to hurt you. But the truth is… you’re the first thing that’s made me feel real in a long time.”

You didn’t say anything.

You just leaned your head on his shoulder.

And for the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel like falling.

It felt like staying.

The quiet between you and Eddie hadn’t been as sharp lately, but it was still there — soft around the edges, cautious. Like stepping on floorboards you weren’t sure were stable anymore.

You were civil. Friendly, even. But the spark, the comfort, the trust — that was still something you kept just out of reach. He knew it too.

Which is why he pulled you aside after shift, asking if you had a moment — his voice low, unsure. You could see the worry in his eyes, the tension in the way he stood, like he was waiting for the ground to split beneath him.

You nodded.

He led you outside, away from the bustle of the station, to where the sun was just beginning to set behind the trees. His hands were shoved in his pockets, jaw tight, like every word was a landmine.

“I owe you another truth,” he said finally.

You stayed quiet. Waiting.

“I saw someone else,” he confessed. “Back when you and I weren’t speaking.”

You froze, your breath catching. “Who?”

He swallowed. “Christopher’s teacher. Ana Flores.”

You tried not to let it show — the way your stomach twisted. You tried to remind yourself you weren’t together. That he had every right. But logic didn’t numb betrayal.

“Right,” you said, quietly. “That’s… understandable.”

“No, it’s not,” he replied quickly. “Not really. Not when I was still carrying you around like a shadow.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

“It wasn’t serious,” he added. “But I think… I think I was trying to prove something to myself. That I could move on clean. That I could pick someone safe, someone easy. Someone who didn’t know all the messy parts of me.”

Your throat felt tight. “Did Christopher like her?”

Eddie looked down at the ground and let out a half-laugh. “He tolerated her. Until he didn’t.”

You furrowed your brows. “What do you mean?”

He looked back at you then, more vulnerable than you’d seen him in weeks.

“One day he just… called me out for dating his teacher. Said I was being weird. Said I smiled more around you than I ever did around Ana. And then he asked me if I was gonna stop pretending you didn’t make our lives better.”

You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath.

“He told me,” Eddie went on, “that if I liked Ana, that was fine. But if I loved you, then I needed to stop wasting everyone’s time and admit it. Because in his words, ‘It’s not fun having dinner with someone who isn’t her.’”

You blinked. “Christopher said that?”

Eddie nodded. “He’s smarter than me. Always has been.”

There was a beat.

Then he said, softer now, “He was right. About everything. I kept thinking I needed something easy. But you—” He stopped, took a breath.

“You’re not just someone I like having around. You’re the person who saw all of me and stayed. Until I made you think you shouldn’t.”

Your voice wavered. “You broke my heart.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know,” he repeated, his voice raw now.

You swallowed hard. “Did Carla say anything?”

Eddie actually winced.

“Yeah. She wasn’t subtle.” That made you raise an eyebrow.

“She told me I was a damn fool,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Said you were one of the kindest people she’d seen around Christopher — and me — and that if I was going to waste that on old guilt and bad timing, then I didn’t deserve either of you.”

You smiled at that, just faintly. “She’s good with words.”

“She’s terrifying when she’s mad.”

That pulled a laugh out of you, soft and surprised.

But then Eddie stepped closer, tentative. Not assuming. Just… hoping.

“I’m not asking you to jump back into something that hurt,” he said gently.

“I just want you to know I’m not running from the hard parts anymore. I don’t want easy. I want real. And real has always been you.”

Your eyes met his.

You didn’t answer right away. But for the first time in a long time, the part of you that had been holding back started to ease.

Because people can change when they’re brave enough to face themselves.

And Eddie Diaz had finally stopped running.

The air in the firehouse was thick with unspoken tension — not from smoke or sirens, but from you and Eddie.

There wasn’t a dramatic announcement, no hand-holding or grand gestures. But the shift was unmistakable.

You laughed with him again, ribbed him during lunch, casually adjusted the collar of his uniform before a call like it was the most natural thing in the world. Eddie had that soft-eyed look around you, the one that said everything even when he said nothing.

Everyone noticed.

Especially Buck.

He didn’t say anything the first few days. Just watched.

Watched you pass each other notes across the table. Watched you wait for Eddie to catch up before grabbing coffee on runs. Watched Eddie find excuses to stay by your side, even when the rotation didn’t require it.

And eventually, it all came to a head.

The call was a simple one — a heat exhaustion case during a community clean-up event. Nothing too intense. You and Eddie worked the scene like a well-oiled machine.

No friction, no hesitation. Just you and him, falling back into rhythm like the months of silence and pain hadn’t existed.

When you returned to the station, Buck pulled Eddie aside without warning. Right there in the apparatus bay.

“Hey. We need to talk.” Eddie blinked, pausing mid-step.

“Yeah? What’s up?”

Buck crossed his arms. “You and Y/N. What’s going on?”

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

Buck stepped forward. “She’s my friend too, Ed.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” Buck’s voice rose slightly, not angry — not yet — but close. “Because you hurt her. I saw it. I picked up the pieces while you played house with someone else.”

Eddie’s eyes darkened. “It wasn’t like that.”

“No?” Buck challenged. “Because from where I stood, you disappeared when she needed you most. Then suddenly you’re back like nothing happened?”

Eddie was quiet for a moment.

Then: “I’m not pretending nothing happened. I’ve done nothing but deal with what happened.”

Buck scoffed. “Does she know about Ana?”

“She knows everything.”

“And she still forgave you?” Buck said, incredulous. “After all that?”

Eddie nodded slowly. “She did. Because she’s… her.”

That stopped Buck for a beat. He looked away, jaw tight.

“I never wanted to be in the middle of this,” Buck said, quieter now. “But I’ve known her longer than you. I know what she looks like when she gets her heart broken. And you broke her, man.”

“I know,” Eddie said again, firm now. “And I hate myself for it.”

Buck looked at him, really looked at him. “Then why now? Why come back into her life like this if you’re not absolutely sure?”

“I am sure,” Eddie said, no hesitation this time.

“Christopher’s sure. Carla’s sure. And most days, I think she is too. I’m still earning that. But I don’t want temporary. I want… all of it. Her.”

Buck blinked, caught off guard by the honesty.

“I didn’t plan it,” Eddie continued.

“But she fits into our lives like she was always meant to be there. And I almost lost that because I was scared. Because I didn’t think I deserved to move on.”

The silence stretched. Just the hum of the garage.

Then Buck sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. “Christopher likes her?”

“He loves her,” Eddie said. “Told me he was tired of me being stupid about it.”

A quiet laugh broke through Buck’s frustration, against his will.

He looked down for a second. Then back at Eddie.

“You gonna mess it up again?”

“No.”

“Because if you do,” Buck warned, softer now, “you’re not just breaking her heart this time. You’re breaking his too.”

“I know.”

“And mine,” Buck added, after a beat. “Because I trust you. And I love her, so much. So if she’s yours… protect her.”

Eddie’s voice was steady. “I will.”

The tension didn’t disappear, not completely. But something shifted. A silent understanding.

Because Buck didn’t need to win.

He just needed to know you’d be okay.

And now, maybe — just maybe — you finally would be.

The Diaz house was quiet except for the hum of the ceiling fan and the soft bubbling of something simmering on the stove.

You were barefoot in the kitchen, stirring a pan with one hand, swaying lightly to the music playing from Eddie’s speaker.

Eddie was leaned against the counter, watching you with that lazy grin he didn’t use around anyone else — not even at the station.

His gaze lingered on the way your nose scrunched when you tasted the sauce, the way you swatted him playfully when he tried to sneak a bite.

It was domestic. Soft. Easy.

And Buck saw it all from the doorway.

He had come over to drop off a charger Christopher had left in his duffel at the station. He hadn’t expected… this.

The house smelling like garlic and warmth, Christopher at the table drawing something you’d clearly helped him outline. The laughter. The kind of peace Buck hadn’t seen in Eddie’s home since before the storm of the past year.

He didn’t knock.

Eddie spotted him first. “Buck?”

You turned around, eyes widening with surprise, then softening with warmth.

“Hey. Everything okay?”

Buck lifted the charger, a sheepish smile playing at his lips. “Thought Chris might need this back.”

“Uncle Buck!” Christopher perked up from his drawing, grinning. “Come in! We’re having spaghetti. And she made garlic bread but didn’t let Dad near it.”

You laughed. “He almost burned the first batch.”

Buck stepped further in, the scent of dinner wrapping around him like a memory. “You guys always have it this nice?”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Define nice.”

“I mean—” Buck paused. “—quiet. Normal. Feels like… I don’t know, a real home.”

You and Eddie exchanged a glance. That unspoken tether between you sparking to life again. But instead of brushing it off, Eddie invited Buck to stay.

“Grab a plate,” he said. “We always make too much.”

Buck hesitated, but Christopher’s enthusiasm — and the way you smiled like you wanted him there — made it easier to cross the floor and take a seat.

Dinner was filled with soft chatter and bursts of laughter. Christopher went on about his latest school project, something involving dragons and ancient civilizations.

You asked questions like you meant them, nodding along and gently correcting his pronunciation when he stumbled on a word. Eddie chimed in occasionally, but mostly watched — a silent kind of contentment in his eyes.

Buck ate in silence for the first few minutes. Not because he felt left out. But because he was watching it all unfold like a scene in a movie he used to wish he’d starred in.

You made Christopher feel seen. Valued. Eddie seemed lighter. Happier. The old shadows still lingered — Buck wasn’t blind — but they weren’t as loud as they used to be.

And that twist in Buck’s gut?

It wasn’t bitterness.

It was grief — for what he’d imagined once, maybe. For the possibility that you might’ve chosen him, if things had unfolded differently. But mostly, it was just change.

The ache that comes with watching people you love move forward without you in the center anymore.

After dinner, you and Eddie cleared the table while Christopher pulled Buck over to the couch to show off his drawing. It was a three-headed dragon with fire in its teeth — and all three heads were labeled: You, Dad, and Y/N.

“She helps me name stuff better,” Chris said proudly.

Buck smiled, swallowing the knot in his throat. “You’re lucky to have her.”

Christopher didn’t look up. “Dad is, too.”

Buck sat back as Eddie joined them, handing you a glass of water as he took his spot beside his son. You tucked yourself beside them like you belonged — and maybe, finally, you did.

And that’s when Buck realized something else.

This wasn’t the end of anything.

It was just a different beginning.

And maybe, for the first time, he didn’t have to be the one fixing everything. Maybe he just had to let people be happy.

Even if it wasn’t his happy.

As the night stretched on, Buck caught Eddie’s eye once. No words were exchanged — just a nod. One that said: I see it. I get it. Just take care of them.

And Eddie, steady as ever, nodded back.

I will.